Saturday, 2 June 2012
Internal and external photoshopping
Last night the husband and I went out for dinner. I got changed about 18 times, tried to work out if I wanted to channel Liz Hurley/Mary Quant summer chic with white trousers and a glittery black top or show off my past two summer's efforts at eliminating strap marks by donning a new red strapless number I'd rather cleverly bought on ebay super cheap.
'Is that the one you bought online?' The husband buttons up his shirt.
'Yes, why? Do you like it?'
'It looks super cheap.'
I make a mental note to re-list the thing BNWOT and tap my lip whilst scrutinising my wardrobe. In the end I decide to pay homage to Barry Gibb by sporting a black, flared jumpsuit, vintage (looking) silver belt and high heels. Two kir royales later and I feel like the cleverest, funniest, most alluring person ever. After dinner we go back to the bar and bump into some 20 year old friends. I say friends - they are actually the offspring of friends. Two of the girls very sweetly feign shock at my being a 37 year old mum of 3 children. I simper and fob them off only half heartedly with a limp wrist and 'Oh don't be ridiculous'.
A band starts up and I dance like Bez from the Happy Mondays, making my fresh young friends look at me oddly then stumble home with the husband, happy and glowing. Still warm with my imagined youth I skype a friend in New Zealand. Her husband answers the call, looks at me and sucks in his cheeks with a whistle and says 'Fuck me, Rudd, are you at the back end of an all-nighter?'
It doesn't matter how generous you are with your internal photoshopping, the truth will out.