Feeling guilty for forgetting the exact date of David’s birthday, I sent this: “Why don’t you come over to the Parsonage? We’ve got skyglass! You can sip champagne and watch the England game. I’ll get some takeaway food from Barnard Castle while you sit with the puppies.”
I thought it was a nice touch. He never hints at anything. I then texted Nick that an Octopus engineer was fixing my smart meter. “Man gone.” It got sent to David by mistake. As always, I texted him again. “Sorry, wrong person.”
No reply. The next day I realised he must have thought I was inviting someone to watch football, because he doesn’t even like football. I’ve always thought it was a bit odd that guys like football, and a shame, because the beautiful game is a good way to bond. Why is the goalkeeper standing there pretending not to know which way England are going? Why doesn’t he shoot? Why doesn’t he use a handkerchief? All of this gets their chests puffed up with mansplaining.
But I couldn’t believe that he wouldn’t suddenly show up. Like most men, I imagine there are only so many messages and WhatsApps in life, and he didn’t text me like a woman would: “I’m on my way!” or “I’ll be there in 5 minutes!” So, just to be on the safe side, I dyed the roots of my hair. Can you believe it?
And here’s the worst part: I can barely type. So I used some Veet cold wax strips I bought in Boots. “Do you need a paper bag?” the shop assistant asked me.
‘yes!’
Waxing my underarms was fine, and so were my knees and big toes. But when it came to my bikini line, I don’t think I pressed hard enough to remove it. I ended up having to slowly peel it off, and now… it feels like when you’re sitting in a leather chair on a hot day and realize the skin on your bare thighs is sticking together. Ouch.
Women rarely talk about the humiliations we endure in order to be attractive. And undoubtedly it’s for the best. The moment a professional hairdresser grabs both your cheeks and tells you to spread them apart. “Are you going to wax your lips? Where are you going on vacation this summer?”
“Yes, please. Oh, and don’t go anywhere!” Needless to say, the only reason you’re putting up with this is because of the prospect of sex.
But I’m glad I had some time alone this weekend because I couldn’t sleep Saturday night. I was on my phone the whole time. 2am, 4am. I think I had a panic attack. It’s hard to explain, but I couldn’t think straight.
It was as if my brain was all scrambled and I was a passenger in an airplane caught in turbulence, and I thought I was going to stop breathing. I was always out of breath, so I went to see a breathing guru who taught me to hold my breath and take deeper breaths.
During that process, I got a migraine, couldn’t remember the names of my pets, couldn’t picture my mother’s face, etc. It was so scary that I’ve avoided anything to do with deep breathing ever since.
So, on Saturday night, as I lay in my beautiful green bedroom, with my mother’s restored bergère sofa at the foot of my new bed, I thought to myself, “I can’t be depressed now. I’ve worked so hard to get to this point.”
What can I do? I’ve read thousands of self-help books, and one sentence stood out to me: “Stop doing the things you know are bad for you.” That’s it.
What is bad for me? I drink champagne so I don’t do that anymore. I use my cell phone and laptop more than 12 hours a day. I’m going to stop bringing my cell phone into my bedroom. I’m going to do something good one day a week. I’m going to eat more. The last time this mental mess happened I was 12 or 13 and it was a Saturday.
I was starving at the time, but the experience left me so shocked that I thought, “I’m not safe in my head, even in my bed!” The next day I told my mother, “I’m going to have Yorkshire pudding today.”
Oh, I’m not going to contact David. We met again later in life. When I told him I’d found a handyman to install shelves in my office, he summed it up:
“If you had asked me 30 years ago, I could have done it,” he said sadly.
If that’s the case.
Jones laments… What Liz Hates This Week
- The moment the Tesco delivery man carefully handed me my hair dye.
- A misuse of the word “staycation” – it only means a day trip to Frinton. Anything involving a toothbrush is a “vacation”.
- My online calendar tells me when the Battle of the Boyne takes place each year. What is it all about?
Contact Liz lizjonesgoddess.com And find her Follow
