I felt guilty for forgetting the exact date of David’s birthday, so I sent him this: “Would you like to come to the vicarage? I’ve got Sky Glass! We could drink champagne, watch the England game, and I can go and get a takeaway from Barnard Castle while you sit with the puppies.”
I thought it was a kind gesture. He never suggests anything. So I sent a text, intended for Nic, about the Octopus engineer who was repairing my smart meter: “Missing man.” It got to David by mistake, which was easily done, so I sent him another text: “Sorry, wrong person.”
I haven’t heard back. The next day, I realised he must have thought I was inviting someone else to watch the football match. Because he doesn’t even like football, which I’ve always found a bit odd in a man, and a shame as the beautiful game is a good way to bond – pretending you don’t know which way England is going, why the goalkeeper is standing there? Why aren’t they shooting? Why aren’t they wearing a scarf? All of which makes them puff out their chests as they explain their masculine behaviour.
However, I wasn’t convinced that he wouldn’t just show up. Like most men, with their imaginary finite number of messages and WhatsApps to send in their lifetime, he never texted me to say he was on his way or that he was five minutes away, like a woman would do. So, just in case, I dyed my roots myself – can you believe it?!
And the worst part is that I can barely write. So I used the Veet cold wax strips I bought at Boots. “Do you want a paper bag?” the shop assistant asked me.
‘Yeah!’
Shaving my armpits was fine, as were my knees and big toes. But when it came time to shave my bikini area, I don’t think I tried hard enough. In the end, I had to shave slowly and in sticky motions, so now… Well, it’s like sitting in a leather chair on a hot day and discovering that the skin on your bare thighs is stuck together. Ouch.
Women rarely talk about the humiliations we endure to be attractive, and that’s certainly the best part. The moment when the professional beautician asks you to grab both cheeks and spread them. “Do you want your lips waxed? Where are you going on vacation this summer?”
“Yes please, oh! And nowhere!” Needless to say, the only reason you’re putting up with this is the prospect of sex.
But I’m glad I was alone this weekend, because I couldn’t sleep on Saturday night. I kept looking at my phone. It was 2am, 4am. I think it was a panic attack. It’s hard to describe, but I couldn’t keep my train of thought.
It was like my brain was in turmoil and I was a passenger on a plane in turbulence. Then I thought I might stop breathing. I always pant, so I once went to see a breathing guru who taught me to breathe very deeply, holding each breath.
The process gave me a migraine; I couldn’t remember the names of my animals or picture my mother’s face. It scared me so much that I’ve avoided anything involving deep breathing ever since.
So on Saturday night I lay there in my beautiful green bedroom, with my new bed and my mother’s restored bergère sofa at the foot of it, and I thought, “I can’t stay on the floor now. Not after all the struggle to get here.”
What can I do? I’ve read thousands of self-help books and one sentence stood out to me: “Stop doing things you know are bad for you.” That’s it.
What am I doing that is bad for me? I drink champagne, so I’ve stopped drinking. I spend over 12 hours a day on my phone and laptop. I’m going to ban my phone from my bedroom. I’m going to have one day a week where I do something nice. I’m going to try to eat more. The last time this happened to me I was 12 or 13, and again it was on a Saturday.
At the time I was starving, but the experience had such a shock: “I’m not even safe in my head, or in bed!” The next day I said to my mother: “Today I’m having Yorkshire pudding.”
Oh, and I won’t be contacting David. We met again too late in life. He summed it up when I told him I had found a handyman to put up shelves in my office.
“If you had asked me 30 years ago, I would have been able to do it,” he said sadly.
If only.
Jones complains… What Liz hates this week
- The moment the Tesco delivery man carefully hands me the hair dye.
- Incorrect use of the word “staycation”. It can only refer to a day trip to Frinton. Anything that involves a toothbrush is a “staycation”.
- My online calendar, which tells me each year when the Battle of the Boyne takes place. What is that?
Contact Liz at GoddessLizJones.com and find it @lizjonesgodess
