Friday, 23 February 2018
I HAVE always been a fan of black. It’s slimming, sophisticated and elegant. Even when I’m not. Like Henry Ford, who produced his cars in any colour you wanted, as long as it was black, it’s always been my go-to shade.
Yep, as far as I’m concerned, black has always been and always will be the new black.
Except, perhaps, now, when it’s making me look like an old Mediterranean lady still grieving for the husband she lost 40 years ago.
Then it’s kind of the sad, miserable, inconsolable, old black and not a good look on someone who isn’t even 50 yet and whose (ex)-husband is still very much alive and well.
I was thinking about this and the vibe I might be giving out, when I went in to John Lewis yesterday to get some long-overdue threading done.
As I waited in the beauty rooms downstairs it struck me that the last time I’d gone through this unbearable torture was a day before The Ex and I had one of our first dates, more than 16 years ago (told you it was overdue).
Back then, of course, threading hadn’t yet been invented and waxing was still all the rage. So there I was, a lot younger, way more naïve, but still as hairy as a half-eaten Chupa Chup left at the bottom of your handbag for a whole school term — until they ripped all that hair out of my poor pores in a rapid and drastic de-forestation that left big red welts all over my top lip.
I looked like a poxy Medieval wench, the kind who might bring a frothy tankard of ale over to you at the inn, smile a rotten, toothless smile and cackle like a crone at some hideously bawdy comment.
But The Ex didn’t seem to mind — or, indeed, notice — and shortly after that date, we moved in with each other.
Which only goes to show love is... blind? Well, yes, that and also it has been a million years (approx.) since I’ve been on a date.
They say, in these heady, spiritualish days, that in order to get what you want, you have to boldly state your intentions out loud, put it out there and ask The Universe.
Which is all well and good, I suppose, but I bet you feel really silly standing there in the back garden, while you wait for your dog to do its stuff at 10pm, staring into the night sky and essentially wishing on a star. For all the neighbours to hear.
Not that I’ve been doing that, of course — it’s just what a dear, divorced friend of mine told me she did. She announced to the ether the attributes her perfect man would have and then, three months later, she met the love of her life. And it’s all thanks to The Universe, she says — and the minutely detailed questionnaire she filled out for Elite Singles.
I suppose I’m slightly envious that she now has someone to wander around a garden centre with on a Sunday (the epitome of mid-life love) but I’m not sure I’m ready to get back on that dating horse just yet.
Another Single Mum friend of mine didn’t wait till the ink was dry on her decree absolute before she joined Tinder. “Well, a girl’s got to eat,” she’d smile, swiping suitors left and right on her mobile phone.
Now I know I’m not interested in that kind of caper — I’d much rather stay in and catch up on missed episodes of Cash In The Attic.
But while all my Single Mum mates are out on dates, I’ve been trying to work out just exactly what I want in a man.
Sure, he has to be funny, kind, smart and taller than me but, other than that, what? Drop-dead gorgeous? Obviously. At least 50 years old? Ditto. As rich as Croesus? Now you’re talking.
But that’s where my must-haves end. And even the last three are negotiable.
So I guess, until I can figure it out properly, I’ll simply carry on wearing black and staying in with the man who has stuck by me all these years, the lovely and really very sweet Mr Kipling.
But that’s another story…
15 September 2017
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