I will be calm and zen about this. Which means, that I will not bawl my lungs out in banshee fashion whenever I accost a mirror, and I will not jump and stomp my feet on the ground everytime I realise that it really is waistline gone to wasteline and not PMS bloat. I will be zen, I will be calm, I will be zen, I will be calm…..UGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH
Okay. Having got that out of the way, you might just see me sashaying down the road in cellulite displaying culottes, a tankini, bleached blond hair and a toy boy as the perfect accessory to this desperate grasping of youth moment of crisis. After you have composed yourself, and mopped up the retching, you will see many mes floating all around. I live in perpetual horror of being one of the above described specimens of forgotten youth. See them sashaying rather teetering like ships with full sails unfurled, on miniscule pencil thin stilettoes which leave deep imprints on the pavement thanks to the unholy weight they are expected to bear without protest. Heavens, even bearing the national debt might be an easier proposition. The face, a motley map of lines, wrinkles and other such character inducing studies, will be encrusted with layers of foundation and powder, which has settled into the fine lines like so many rivulets spreading towards an estuary of spiderwebs below the eyes. And there is the question of lipstick. Bright red mind you. with the colour slowing creeping into the fine lines that edge the lips like eyelashes. Barbara Cartland anyone? You get my drift. The clothes will be lycra and tight. And in colours and prints so bright they can trigger off a migraine with a glimpse. And I shiver in horror knowing that it could be me. It could be me trying desperately to hold onto a forgotten visage of what it was like to be young and effortlessly beautiful. And with no multiple chins and stomachs. When the trousers buttoned without a sucking in and waist wriggle and snake dance to get in. When the cheeks were rounded with youth, and not hollow with age. When the body moved with you, and not to a beat all its own.
What triggered this off? The sad realisation that I have only black, white and brown clothes in my wardrobe. And in the furious effort to add some colour, have picked up a bright orange Tshirt. Which, in my defence, I bought wearing sunglasses that did good things to mute the shade, and therefore was misled enough to pay hard cash for it, and emerge triumphant in the belief that had snagged a fashion statement. On looking at it, in the cold flourescent light of reason have consigned it to the depths of the wardrobe to be brought out only in case of emergencies, such as being packed for a Hawaiin holiday or to be used in lieu of a distress flag if ever marooned at sea. Am now back to my trusty browns and blacks and whites. But I refuse to give up the powder, the lipstick and the lycra. Let the crisis creep up on me. I have the rest of my life left to be the clown in pastiche.