Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Help! I've forgotten how to be female
I actually didn’t notice the loss of my sexuality, it didn’t hurt at all. And it wasn’t until recently that I noticed it had gone in the first place. And now I am rather discombobulated as I don’t know what I am anymore.
Maybe it’s because all the rest of them are boys and I have to sort of blend in so I don’t stick out like a sore thumb. It’s a camouflage thing. I hate being different. It’s also not necessarily practical being a girly. I mean I can hardly see myself feeding the chickens in my Louboutins or wearing a beautiful Roksanda Ilincic dress when I wring their necks and eviscerate them.
It’s unlikely I’ll be putting my beautifully manicured hands through the trauma of pulling bind weed or getting all dolled up for a game of tag rugby in the back garden.
But I still wonder where it all went.
In London I used to dress up every day and thought nothing of it. I had beautiful clothes which I loved to wear, high heels even, and I always wore makeup. Not much mind as I never could deal with foundation but mascara, eyeliner, a bit of lip gloss. A bit of Bronzer, a dusting of “instant health”. My hands were always clean, nails always short and neat with a bit of clear nail polish. My toenails on the other hand were always painted in an array of colours to match my outfits even if no one but me ever saw them.
I enjoyed shopping for clothes and updating my wardrobe. I loved trying things on and the heady indulgence of buying things on a whim or for an occasion and then of course there were the shoes! Oh the shoes! Russell & Bromley, Charles Jourdan, Gina, Emma Hope, it was heaven!
I dressed brightly drawn to strong colours and I revelled in the fact that with my coloring I could carry them off as well. The smart savvy little red wool business suit from Hobbs worn with a black roll top. My legs incased in long black leather jack boots. Topped off with a vibrant stripped velvet trilby hat and scarf. The amazing 1950’s style bright pink ¾ sleeve jacket and skin tight hobble skirt from LK Bennett worn with a rakish navy and white staw hat, huge sunglasses and my Gran’s white kid gloves and delectable navy kitten heels for a friend’s wedding.
Nowadays I worry about where I will get new jeans as mine are splitting at the seams and unsightly white flesh is seeping through. I bulk buy them from Sam Turners in Yorkshire as they are the only outlet I know that sell Wranglers. If I am feeling a little crazy I buy a darker shade of indigo for smart. Oh how the mighty are fallen!
I notice I now have flesh rather than a body and it doesn’t do what I thought it should still do. Now it sags. The definition between my hips, waist and boobs is somewhat hazy and I note the size differential and lopsidedness of my right hand boob is more pronounced than I remember.
My clothes are mostly made up of jumpers and sweatshirts in the winter and strangely foreshortened T-shirts in an array of colours which I inevitably have to have a shirt to cover because well I look odd. And all this is worn with the ubiquitous jeans. Boot cut in an effort to try to stay in style and to draw away the eye from the fact that my legs are rather short and stumpy and yes that huge round blob at the top is my bum. I try to stick to the rules a la Trinny and Susannah and I try to love myself as Gok says I should but it’s hopeless. I have forgotten how to be female!