Lately it seems like I’ve been stuck in a rut. My apathy knows no bounds. I come home from work with great intentions to clean my hovel of a flat and even whilst faced with the yawning abyss that is my kitchen sink, I somehow can’t seem to find the motivation. (Well now, I’m thinking, if I can’t find the motivation to get my mottled ass in shape and run around the park that is literally outside my sitting room window, how the hell am I supposed to care about the dishes?)
As I’ve mentioned somewhere before, my mother’s advice to me when I go into one of my black troughs is to keep shaving my legs and putting my face on (I swear she’s not Patsy or Eddie from Absolutely Fabulous).
I was brought up to make the best of what I’ve got, which means brushing your hair, putting an outfit together and never leaving the house without make-up. I used to be like this. I was the teenager who suggested we put more lipstick on my (beloved) granny’s corpse in the funeral home because she too loved her slap and would have been disappointed that the mortician chose a nude shade for her lip colour; I’m the girl who a few years ago had to buy a third, count ‘em, GHD because I had blown up two previously from overuse.
Pah! It makes me ashamed to see how I’ve let myself slip. Somehow, without realising, I’ve sunk into a slow decline, where I’ve paid less and less attention to myself and gotten very used to being invisible. I suppose over the past two years I’ve had a job where my colleagues were almost entirely men (computer geeks) and a boyfriend who didn’t care too much for putting on the glad rags and somehow it all seemed to rub off on me.
Last weekend it felt like a bell rang in my head. I went out on Friday night, got very enjoyably pissed with friends and socialised with strangers, something I hadn’t done in a very, very long time. When I woke the next day, with a hangover, it really did feel like a bell was ringing in there. Still, I got up, cleaned the house from top to bottom, washed the car, then got into it and drove to Dundrum in my worn-out, greying clothes. I stocked up on jeans, a new top, shoes, Cons, cheapo jewellery and a shiny, shiny handbag.
The following day, I dressed myself in my new wares, stuck Fleet Foxes in the stereo and went to do the recycling. I felt great. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I had actually ‘made an effort’ and it made me feel good about myself. I was smiling to myself as I lugged the recycling to the giant bins. Then a man, total stranger, took the bag of papers out of my hands and emptied it into the bin for me. I swear I nearly swooned. And the man was 60. But still, Jesus, it reminded me of the wisdom in my mother’s words. I may even try some fake tan this week.