The show I’m singing in, which is a collection of Cole Porter songs, is set in a nightclub, at an indeterminate time between the 1920s and today, and we have been asked to provide our own outfits – something elegant with plenty of ‘bling’. I don’t do elegance – or bling – largely because I never go anywhere to wear it. I do have one Posh Frock, which I had for my graduation ball (my PhD graduation, only 11 years ago). It’s red crushed velvet, quite fitted round the boobs and waist, with a long skirt swirling out from the hips, bare shoulders and spaghetti straps. I’ve put on quite a lot of weight since I had it (though I have lost some recently), so I thought I’d better try it on before rehearsals last night. It is a bit tight round the top half, but I was impressed that I managed to get into it at all.
Without warning, I walked into the kitchen wearing it, where Hubby was reading the paper and waiting for his dinner. I made some quip about not dressing for dinner, and he glanced up and back at his paper again, without reacting either way.
‘Well, what do you think?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know, do I? You’re better able to judge than I am, you know what the others will be wearing.’
‘Well, does it fit OK?’
He looked up again, briefly.
‘Yes, I’d say so.’ That was it, no emphasis, no enthusiasm, just irritation of the ‘why are you bothering me when you can see I’m reading the paper?’ kind.
Well hey, I’m used to it, aren’t I? When was the last time he showed the least interest in the way I look? Forget it, it’s not worth even asking the question, the only answers I can come up with are a few examples from when we were first together, and they only stand out because they were so unusual, even then.
Anyway, who cares about his opinion. My daughter will come round today, I’ll see what she says.
I read this yesterday in ‘What’s Bred in the Bone’ by Robertson Davies, a Canadian writing (in this part of the novel) about England in the 1930s. It rang horribly true:
‘Like several other girls he had seen in Oxford, she might have been a beauty if she had possessed any firm conception of beauty, and related it to herself, but in her the English notion of neglected womanhood was firmly in command’.
Oh, that sounds like me, all right.
I woke at 4 again, but this time I didn’t manage to get back to sleep, I got up, went back to bed, played a tape, got up at 5:40, fed cats, didn’t meditate, sat and cried, felt sorry for myself, thought about where life is going and can’t see any possible scenario which doesn’t revolve around unhappiness, either the unhappiness I’m used to or a different kind of unhappiness, either mine or other people’s or both, because how could I be truly happy if I’d made someone else miserable? So, here we go again, accept life as it is and make the most of it, and stop wanting something more.