I really must stop sleeping on my face. The effect is not at all flattering. I look like a granny version of a
cabbage-patch doll until about four o-clock the following day, by which time
the overnight crinkles have disappeared and my face has settled once again into
its familiar folds. The worry is - this
de-creasing process is taking longer and longer - and I know the day will come
when the cabbage-patch granny face will be the only one I’ve got. That will be the real me.
As a change in my sleeping habits is unlikely, I had better
get started on a face-lift fund.
I am aware, however, that a number of age-related foibles –
mostly concerned with clothes - have crept into my life and, unlike giving my
frazzled face a lift, there isn’t a damn thing I can do about them.
Of course, there are garments that should never be worn by
anybody other than those for whom they were intended. Prom party dresses, for example, should be
limited to those young enough to be attending a prom and only babies and
toddlers should ever wear onesies.
But, as age invades, there are particular items of clothing
that my body now simply rejects.
Polo neck jumpers sadly feature amongst the ‘don’t even
think about it’ pile. Although the
perfect thing to hide a scrawny neck, these jumpers now seem intent on
strangling it and induce a surge of sweat-laden panic so severe that my head
takes on the appearance of a burst boil.
Not my best look.
Jeans have also had their day. These are now merely muffin-top highlighters
and will remain forever in the bin.
My stilettos, whilst still adored, are too often discarded
in favour of more sensible shoes and even then, if I can get away with
flip-flops or bare feet then I will.
And can there be a woman over the age of forty who does not
relish that liberating moment as she unhooks that constricting bra, does a
little wiggle, and slips it through her sleeve in less than a second? Oh the
release!
There must be more than me who can’t wait to get home, tear
off her clothes without so much as a flicker of passion, and reach for those
beloved jim-jams?
I have been obsessed with pyjamas – often referred to as
‘lounge-wear’ for some time now. I have
been known to don a big coat, stick the pyjama bottoms down my wellies and walk
the dog, with no intention of getting dressed for the entire day. There ought to be a ‘wear-to-work’ range or
slightly posh ‘pyjamas-and-proud’ sets where you could happily pop out for
lunch to meet up with other pyjama-clad patrons before having a little wander
round the shops.
How perfect would that be?
I suppose some would argue that gym-wear and jogging gear
are just as comfy as PJs, but these garments just add to my sense of guilt – as
I am neither at the gym nor am I jogging.
Even though my burgeoning battle with certain apparel continues,
I draw the line at nudism. There’s a difference between getting your kit
off, and leaving it off. I would rather
spend eternity in skin-tight jeans, six-inch heels and a bra two sizes too
small than mingle with a bunch of nudes swinging their sorry-looking saggy and slack
bits for all to see.
Perhaps their nakedness is nothing at all to do with an
expression of their cultural beliefs? Perhaps
nudists are simply suffering from an extreme case of ‘garment intolerance’. After
all, so many of them are pretty old and like me, will have fallen out with much
of their wardrobe. But they really ought
not to be on display.
Maybe they just haven’t discovered jim-jams?
