Sunday, 8 September 2013

Good intentions

The Husband, Son Number Two and I were going climbing this morning (Son Number One's in Birmingham, waving goodbye to The Girlfriend who's off to university), when we realised it's the day they do the induction course at the sports centre. Because there were nine people learning, there wouldn't be room for us to use the walls as well, so we'll go next week instead. It's good to be able to do things together at weekends now, as the cricket season has finally finished. This means family members are able to meet up during daylight hours, and the car isn't being constantly used to ferry cricketers to far-flung villages that no-one has previously heard of. The down-side is that Son Number Two and I (the non-cricketers) can no longer watch rubbishy films and eat toast all weekend. 

Thankfully, The Husband and Son Number Two have taken to climbing, as it's the only form of exercise I enjoy. I tried running, but it's so boring. I won't run through the village as I know too many people, and I don't want to be an object of amusement for the local school children. The forest is beautiful, but the nearby car-parks are used by people up to Suspicious Activities, so I may need to be able to run a lot faster than I can at the moment. Cycling is okay, but it's dark when I get home from work for half the year and I don't want to be mown down by crazed drivers anxious to get to their Suspicious Activities. The climbing wall is out of the rain, open until 10pm and just up the corridor from the bar, so it's ideal. 

I'll make sure I stick to climbing regularly, too. I put on half a stone on holiday because the Cornish cider was so nice, and that will have to go. I refuse to buy bigger clothes. While queuing for the book signing at Ely, Ms Fab and I whiled away some time by deciding how we were not going to grow old(er) gracefully. We would not, we decided, ever wear Hush Puppy, velcro-fastening sandals. If high heels became too uncomfortable, we would turn to Doctor Martens or New Rocks. (The Husband has actually taken a deep breath and is letting me order a pair of black Doc Martens with red roses embroidered up the sides. He said he didn't think they were 'particularly appropriate' for me, which just made me want them all the more. I also have a pair of Harley Davidson biker boots on the Amazon wish list, just waiting until the 'What would you like for Christmas?' question.)

Jeans with elasticated waists would be out for the aging Ms Fab and me. In fact, we would not wear anything that was advertised in colour supplements. We would not deal with expanding waistlines by buying bigger clothes, but would lose the weight in the old fashioned way of eating less and exercising more. None of these 24 hour fasting diets which Ms Titian occasionally uses, in which she eats very little one day thinking it excuses two cakes and a plate of chips the next. I decided I would model the seventy-year-old me on author Jacqueline Wilson. Heavy silver rings, crushed velvet and, hopefully, bucketfuls of money from all my best-sellers. 

Jacqueline Wilson

This is all obviously assuming that we will not be crippled by arthritis and unable to do up laces or fasten buttons, in which case Ms Fab will have to start her dream job of fashion design and sort out something decent for aging rebels. 

This reminds me of something that was said by the course leader the other day. It was something along the lines of how women felt under pressure to look good. How we felt we had to make ourselves look attractive because that was the pressure society had put upon us. As if we wouldn't wear make-up or nice clothes if that wasn't the standard that was pushed upon us by bitchy women and sexist men, or some such bullsh*t. I like nice clothes. I don't like fashionable clothes, because they then go out of fashion. I like the dregs of the sale rails - all those things that no-one else wants. I'm glad it's getting Autumn-y because I like thick tights, long skirts and boots. But I wear them because I, personally, don't want to wear joggers and trainers. I don't choose my clothes for other people, in the same way that I don't wear make-up or jewellery for other people's approval. I think most of us stop doing that in early adulthood, when we grow out of the: 'Oh, is that what's in fashion this year? I must buy it, even if it's hideous,' stage. 

Anyway, this is turning into another whinge, which was not my intention. I was going to leave you with that poem by Jenny Joseph, but it's kind of become a cliche, and it doesn't really apply to me because I already wear purple... So I found this, instead, which is kind of what Ms Fab and I were talking about:

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