I can always rely on ‘my boys’ to come out with something to boost my ego – NOT.
One of the many instances of them bringing me back down to earth with a shuddering thud when I'm in danger of getting too big an idea of myself came one day when I was feeling very down about my rather ‘womanly’ hips and thighs. Seeing me down in the dumps, my Other Half tried to cheer me up with the following immortal words of comfort - “Don’t feel bad, Mandi. You’re not fat - you’re deformed!”
Well, I guess he meant well. I think. I hope.
And it's not just him. A good friend of ours, in all good faith, blithely told me "You don't count as a woman" this summer. Now, I know that he meant that I don't have a classic stereoptyped female response to most things (having orgasms over the prospect of a shopping trip, wearing pink, screaming at the sight of spiders, collecting shoes and handbags, playing the helpless maiden, reading sappy romances, etc. are just not my bag), but REALLY, couldn't he have phrased it a little more delicately?
Another time, my Beloved (widely considered to be the diplomat in our relationship - ha!) kept up that noble tradition. I had decided escew my usual trousers and top for work and wear a frock instead - a rather sweeping black long-sleeved jersey maxi-dress which fits in the right places and skims over the bits I want to ignore. So, on it went, with black tights and ankle boots.
Being tallish at 5 foot 10 (about 1.78 metres) I felt that I struck rather a striking figure, and I was feeling pretty OK about myself. Until…..
…..until the Ovver Arf took one bleary eyed look at me and then turned to Kidling Grand and said: “With her red hair, and dressed like that, doesn’t Mum look like a witch?” [N.B.: In Greece, the traditonal image of a witch has red hair]
Bloody charming! If I had my broomstick handy I would have given him a whack over the head. Oh well, move over McGonagall!
And darling, if you're reading this, be careful..... Hallowe'en is just around the corner.