As regular readers will know, I’ve been nominated for an MS Society Award for my blog.
I’m over the moon and chuffed beyond belief, as is The Teenager, who will be my plus-one.
The dress code is ‘smart’.
Hmm. I feel ‘smart’ if my knitted hat for work has been washed the day before (it gets chilly stumbling around building sites, checking on concrete foundations).
A night out in smart clothes involves jeans, boots and a top. A coffee with friends involves jeans, boots and a top. You could say it’s a kind of tragic demi-student uniform.
But, I tried. I thought, ‘ok, this is my opportunity to show I can wear a dress’. I gave it a go. I stood in endless shop dressing rooms, tugging at hems, checking my reflection from twenty-seven different angles. I ordered three different sizes of the same dress off the internet, then sent them all back the next day.
I’ve had to admit, I’m just not one of those amazing women who suits a dress. Apart from the fact that most dresses look lousy with flat shoes, I’m just not … me. No amount of Spanx will convince me otherwise; I look like a sack of turnips.
However, when I slip on my lovely black trousers and black shoes, I feel transformed. Teamed with a beautiful top I bought for my visit to Downing Street (get me), I feel good. Normal, but much better. Confident.
I was discussing this problem with The Teenager yesterday. We went out for lunch, as a well-earned break from his studies. He asked me when I had last worn a dress. ‘Um, my wedding day?’ I replied.
‘Ah’, he said. ‘That was, like, back in the 90’s. Everyone wore dresses, probably, and blokes didn’t have man-buns.’ Impressive reasoning, I thought.
He patted my hand and said, ‘they’re not there to see what you’re wearing, they’re there to see your sad face when you don’t win. So make sure you’ve fixed your lippy.’ He sat back, impressed with his sage advice.
He’s got a point. ‘Comfy’ is creeping in to my lexicon. There’s other ways to push my boundaries and I don’t think dresses are one of them. So I will be monochrome on the day and will check that my lippy is present and correct.
My phone pinged. ‘Um, why are you texting me?’ I asked The Teenager. ‘You’re sitting right across the table?’ ‘Like, d’uh, I know, just wanted to tell you, no matter what happens, you’ll be fine. You’ve got me with you. And can I have your bread?’
The text read, ‘Love you. All good.’
