Item – I weighed myself, I was distressed, I decided to go back on the Stern and Stringent diet. And then I ate a cheesecake.
Item – I weighed myself again, I yelped in alarm, I told myself firmly that I was getting right back on that diet wagon and then stocked up on Reese’s Pieces (made of equal parts nicotine, crack, marijuana and sugar) to have with my morning coffee.
Item – I weighed myself a third time, debated bursting into tears, and have been sticking to The Goddamn Diet for, oh, two days? now. I’m a bit slow on the uptake, me. Mentally. Alas, not metabolically.
Item – H and I were shopping for smart clothes this weekend. Moths ate his suit trousers, you may remember, and there is a family wedding next weekend which is turning into The Clan One-Upmanship Olympics. So H needed a suit. And I? Well, I have several summer dresses now, but they’re all a bit ditzy hippy with cleavage (don’t get me wrong. I like being a ditzy hippy with cleavage). And my other smartest frock is also ditzy hippy but with added sequins and my mother disapproves of it (she says it looks as if I’m not taking ‘it’ seriously. Whatever ‘it’ is). She also vetoed the floor-length backless satin ball-gown, on the grounds that it’s poor etiquette to upstage the bride. So I agreed to get something ‘smart’, with the caveat that if I couldn’t find anything that didn’t make me look like Hyacinth Bucket, I reserved the right to wear a ditzy hippy dress and be damned with it.
Item – I’m 36, you know. This is ridiculous.
Item – With much cantering about town in the rain, we found a new good suit for H, the price of which didn’t make him pass spark out on the floor. He looks very handsome in it. Flushed by this triumph, he even bought a tie. Good Lord.
Item – I then tried on a good dozen very grown up, smart, ‘hello, I’m a wedding guest at a formal British wedding in June in church in the rain’ dresses. The one I adored was, of course, not in my size (fat girls don’t want cute frocks, you see. They want to look like a cretonne-covered sofa). The one I liked very much clung to my tummy fat with surprising determination and made me look like I was smuggling a 12-pound pain de campagne (in case the buffet is delayed). The one I didn’t care for fitted, but showed my bra in several unflattering places. I tore my hair and the fitting room assistant eyed me nervously and then I tried on one H had spotted and good golly, it was flattering. And short (H is obsessed with my knees. Obsessed, I tell you). And so amazingly neon-vivid in hue you’re all going to spot me in the photos from the moon. It is also very tailored and smart and not in the least ditzy or hippy. So there.
Item – For reasons that give me a headache, I am now expected to go to the pre-wedding dinner, the pre-wedding breakfast, the wedding, the wedding dinner, and the post-wedding lunch. Not only am I expected to go, I am expected to go in my mother’s place and Uphold The Honour Of This Corner Of The Clan.
Item – My aunts have not seen me for a while, and have always taken what I thought was an unseemly and unmannerly interest in the size of my waist and the contents of my uterus. Also, my cousin who recently had a baby should be there. And last time I saw the cousin who is actually getting married, she went on and on and onandonandon about all the hints her parents and her fiancé’s parents have been making about grandbabies, aren’t they competitive, isn’t it funny. Oh yes indeedy ha ha ha. I have a horrible feeling that I shall be interrogated, judged, made to hold babies, nagged, and eviscerated, and come home in tears on Sunday.
Item – I am planning on totally being brutal and upfront, both on the multiple miscarriages and on telling people right to their face when they say something judgemental, crass, or dismissive. I will probably wimp out, simper, and hide in the loos a lot. Give me strength.
Item – And for this I bought a new dress.