WEEK 2

Teacup Tuesday

Today I sat at 3 kitchen tables and drank gallons of tea. Probably needed to re-hydrate as the lachycrimose glands show no sign of moderating their output. I visited the 3 Sisters; Sisters 1 and 2, both older than me and Sister 3, younger than me in years but immeasurably older than me in common sense. That’s according to her. My husband refers to the 4 of us as “The Coven”.  With Sister 1, I drink 3 cups of tea and snuffle my way through 2 chocolate biscuits. With Sister 2 (the champion tea drinker in the family) I end up being forced to drink 3 large mugs of tea, accompanied by a sandwich and two homemade buns.  With Sister 3, it’s just a coffee as I can’t look another cup of tea in the face. I’m not very hungry these days either. With all of them, I spill my guts out. They want to know what they can do to help. Their kindness makes me bawl even more. I have to stop them beating themselves up because they never realized that my situation was what it was. How could they? I was always making the best of things, counting my very real blessings and always hoping that somehow things would magically come right. Plus we were raised like all others of our generation not to talk about stuff like that. Don’t be selfish. Always put others before yourself. So that’s what we did. 

Anyway after all that it’s only surprising that we’re not wading across the kitchen floor through a sea of wadded tissues. Al least now The Coven knows what the story is.  That’s something. They decide we are going to go out to dinner on Friday, together with Nieces 1 and 2. Niece 3 can’t make it.

Research Wednesday  Blues

I don’t know how to cope with a broken heart, a broken dream, a broken spirit and if I keep wallowing in tears and self pity like this I’m going to need a wetsuit and flippers soon. Stop. Be sensible. What’s the first thing to do when you don’t know how to do something? Plenty of research.  Visits to Chapters, Easons, The Gutter Bookshop and Bargain Books yield the following books;

“When a relationship ends.”

“Re-claiming your creativity.”

“Finding your own North Star.”

“Flourishing”

“Thinking Fast and Slow.”

“Anam Cara.”

“The Game of Life and how to play it.”

“I can mend your broken heart.” (CD with this one)

“Feel the fear and do it anyway.”

“Discovering you.”

I throw in a “Mindfulness Meditation” set of CDs for good measure.

That should cover all the bases.  I’ll start with Discovering Myself and Mindfulness Meditation.  Surely I’ll be ok in no time with all this help... I start reading…

Why do they always assume that a new hairstyle or some new clothes does anything other than dress up a walking heartbreak?  Calling it a “breakover” instead of a “makeover” doesn’t change anything either. I don’t particularly like shopping even when accompanied by a latte and a lemon meringue slice… New hairstyle?  New clothes?

I have lots of clothes. I spend most of my off-work time in tracksuits and jeans anyway.

The realization hits me in the face; my self esteem is in ribbons. I’ve been in denial about this the way I’ve been in denial about everything.  I need to reclaim every bit of myself;

My voice, my sense of joy, my feminine self. I need to become my own woman again. Why DON’T I just go out and buy some new stuff?

This week I’ve started attending a weekly yoga class, although I find myself wishing the tutor would just get on with it – it’s all very slow.  I’m mindfully meditating i.e. falling asleep listening to the CD and waking with a sore ear from lying on the hard plastic earpiece. I’m writing 3 pages of affirmations every morning when I’d rather just eat my cereal and go to work.

“”Looking good makes you feel good. Start from the inside out. Buy yourself some nice new lingerie. You need to feel good about you, appreciate yourself, and cherish yourself. Reclaim the unique woman that you are“

Um…ok. I’ll kick-start the “I love me” campaign with some new things. “Because I’m worth it.”  I’ll go into town on Saturday morning and pick shops I’ve never been in.

Knicker Saturday

First stop is a swish Lingerie Emporium on the Boulevard of Rich People Shop Here.  It’s a tiny shoebox of a place. I’m looking through racks of this, that and the other, when a man enters the shop accompanied by a small ambulant man-child and another man-child strapped into a buggy. The assistant who has been hovering round me leaves me to attend to the newcomers. The man would like to see some silk nighties. I’m busy wondering if it’s for him, the children’s mother or his own mother. The way to a wife’s heart is not via a full length long sleeved Victorian nightdress, me thinks. But each to their own.  In the meanwhile the children are bored. The elder boy is behind the counter playing “shop” with the cash register. The Knicker Seller appears not to realize this. The Buggy Monster is screaming the place down – not happy that older brother is free and he is trussed into the buggy like a chicken on a supermarket tray. He kicks the footplate repeatedly. I narrowly avoid getting kicked myself- it’s a very bijou establishment.  “Let me ouuuut” he shouts. Papa is examining a lace trimmed version that wouldn’t disgrace a Mother Superior and appears oblivious to the fact that his younger offspring is screaming and kicking at a rail of feather trimmed basques. Oh my.   Older Brother has been busy rummaging in the Bargain Basket.  He is now pulling on the elastic of a black satin thong, aiming it at Little Bro’s head, and releasing it like a slingshot. Little Bro is in danger of getting concussion – from a gusset.  Still screaming blue murder, the Buggy bound One manages to reach up and grab the credit card terminal off the counter and is now bashing it off same. This gets the Knicker Sellers attention. The shop is so tiny, I’m surprised we’re not all deaf and the plaster isn’t falling off the walls from all the noise. Finally Papa takes control of the Juniors, pays for the Victorian Cream silk number (good luck with that one) and peace reigns in the little shop. The assistant returns to me. I’m not impressed with any of it. Still. Inn the end, I bought a nice little cornflower blue ruched chiffon number embroidered with little blue forget-me-not flowers and a hot red ribbon lace set styled in the French tradition. Oh yeah. The book said something about black stockings…Don’t you need good big meaty legs, like the women in a Rubens or a Toulouse Lautrec painting, to wear stockings? I don’t HAVE legs that could kick start a jet. I’m slender.   I add a pair of black stockings to my little pile on the counter and throw in a pair of ivory silk Italian lace top stockings as well. With the High Cs of the little brat still ringing in my ears, I hand over the equivalent of two weeks’ grocery shopping.

Later in the quietness of my bedroom, I try on my purchases and survey myself in the mirror. I’m wearing red lace and black stockings. There is only one thing to do. The Can Can.  La la la la la la la, la la la la la la, la la la LAH LAH LAH LAH.  I high kick round the bed and then collapse, breathless, on top of it. Just as well I didn’t attempt to do the splits. I’d have had to call an ambulance.