I am obscenely excited at the moment and all because of one simple fact. For the first time in my 30+ years of wearing glasses I am actually sporting some proper, grown-up, adult frames. Never let it be said that I am hard to please.
This rollercoaster ride of dizzy highs and stomach churning lows began a couple of weeks back when I went for my regular sight test. A young, male 'para-optician' (not sure what the proper job title is as you may have surmised - you know, the person who does all the tests before you see the proper qualified person earning lots of money) approached me with the words "I'd love to measure the distance between your pupils." Well, I've heard a few chat-up lines in my time (actually, not that many thinking about it) but that one had to be amongst the strangest. Clearly he wasn't trying to chat me up but simply do his job, and anyway I was just about old enough to be his mother.
I don't like to be a tease, so he got his way and measured the distance between my pupils. I also let him blindfold me (well, cover one eye) and do that little test where you say how many dots you can see. Then he pushed his luck a bit too far and asked if he could take a picture. I said no. It was an extra £10 for goodness sake and who needs a photo of the back of their eye? Not exactly one to hang over the mantelpiece or send to aunties at Christmas.
After having my sight test it turned out that I needed a slightly stronger prescription. The lovely young woman explained that I had a stigmatism in one eye, a slight squint in the other and that my sight had deteriorated a bit. If it gets much worse I should think I could qualify for a nice Labrador, but that's middle-age for you. Perhaps I could get a hearing dog at the same time, or maybe they could train one to do both jobs and possibly teach a bit of Spanish too?
So, back to the nice young para-optician who, I must say, had just my kind of sense of humour. He looked at my pupil measurement, at my prescription, did some calculations and then sucked his breath in through his teeth à la dodgy plumber about to give you an extortionate quote.
"That's a very small measurement and quite a chunky prescription", he offered by way of explanation. He got his 'chunky chart' out to work out what size frames we could get away with. "We can't go past a 50", he said. I wasn't quite sure what this meant, but felt fairly certain that we were talking Disney Princess again. My face must have fallen as he said "This is going to be a challenge but I think I can do it". He set off round the shop picking up frames, checking codes on the sides and putting the ones which passed muster into a little box. We weren't quite there yet. We had to go back to the 'chunky chart' a few more times and decided I needed to have 'ultra thin plus' to make it work.
So I am now the proud owner of some nice glasses. They do have something of 'Nana Mouskouri' about them but I am pleased with them and glad to have been spared the humiliation of the kids' section for once.
Like it or not, clothes play a huge role in our every day lives, but for some they are obviously much more important than for others. I love clothes and have recently introduced a self imposed ban of a whole year on buying any new items. A bit draconian I know, but I am determined to save some money and make a bit of space in my wardrobe.
My husband, however, has a very different sartorial philosophy and to him clothes are purely functional. He wears them to keep cool/warm, to stay dry and to avoid being arrested, but he takes no pleasure in buying clothes or what he looks like in them.
I have recently had cause to look through photo albums of myself as a child, teenager and young adult. As a child of the 70s I look back and cringe at the flares, long pointed collars and unhealthy obsession with corduroy which dominated that decade. I had a lovely ensemble which managed to combine all of these; some green cord dungarees (worn with a flowery pointy collared blouse) bearing the slogan 'Have a nice day'. Well, I wasn't going to dressed like that was I?
My early teenage years were not kind to me in terms of looks. Big NHS glasses (you had no choice of frames in those days - they were designed with the sole purpose of making you look like you'd just got off the sunshine community coach and run away from your carer) and a series of what could only loosely be described as hair styles. There wasn't a whole lot of style going on, believe me.
The 90s coincided with my 20s and a time to experiment a bit more now that my mother no longer had a say in what I wore, how I had my hair. By the way, my son is only eight and we already seemed to have reached that stage in his life! The late 80s/early 90s was the era of Dallas and Dynasty, power dressing, city shorts and big hair. I thought I looked fab but when I see photos of myself from this time I just look like an extra from Columbo.
I am now 42 and can honestly say that I feel better about myself than I ever have done. I have found a style that I feel comfortable with, a haircut I love (apart from the grey bits) and I have perfected the art of putting on a bit of make-up without looking like the bride of Frankenstein.
So, I wonder what my 50s, 60s and beyond will bring in terms of fashion? All I can say to my nearest and dearest is that if I get a perm, have a blue rinse, start wearing floral skirts, pastels and beige or insist on putting tights on with sandals then please take me to one side and have a word. I will thank you for it and pay you most handsomely in British Home Stores vouchers.
