Discover more from Who Stole My Dopamine?
Where Emma attempts sexiness and glamour
Hello my lovelies, as always, thank you for all the love and sharing.
I’m not a great fan of commercialised holidays (see my rant on Christmas) and V day is no exception.
Buuut I as have been the Frump of February, I thought I’d put in some effort. Apparently, a diet of 4 hours of sleep a night, persistent dystonia and nightmares isn’t the beauty regime they promised. (0 out of many billion respondents agree)
To the shower. Oh no! Not any old shower, a magnificence of a shower complete with scrubbing, shaving, conditioning and scented delightfulness. Break out the saving-for-lovely-event-eye wateringly-expensive shower gel. And go!
Now I don’t know why Parkinson’s is so anti morning, but getting moving is tough. Even when fuelled, as I was, with a gallon of coffee so strong you could take on Russia, it was a monumental effort just to get to the bathroom. Once there, there is the Problem of the Bath. To access that delicious stream of scalding water I must traverse mount Bath. Limbs that are only on shuffle mode being forced to fling a leg over as it were, are difficult to navigate. A combo of hanging on the rail, getting a very chilly backside sitting on the edge and the hauling gets me shakily upright. Que the angelic singing as the warmth envelopes my poor ravaged body. Ahhhhhhhh.
Scrubbing and luxuriating in the smelly goodness, imagining the silver screen goddess I will emerge as I blithely reach for the razor. Apparently, the likes of Ava Gardner or Lauren Bacall didn’t have blood streaks and grazes adoring their legs. Pah. I call them my Parkinson’s Stockings.
Talking of wardrobe, when did my clothes turn evil? All my perfected idiosyncratic style of the last 20 years looks horrific. Striving for ‘effortlessly chic’ I seem to have developed effortlessly hedge backwards scruff. For the no longer quite so pert of tit or round of ass those jeans and t-shirts need to go. And even more so the hides-no-bumps slinky dress. I need a wardrobe overhaul. Oh please don’t make me use a Catalogue.
After finding nothing of use, I donned my usual scruff slightly smug in the knowledge I was sporting the softest skin known to mankind. Plus a few blood streaks. (I promised you glamour, dear reader, I do not disappoint.)
I feel I should clarify that we had no fancy dinner planned, no romantic date. Just a Monday night with a few (extra*) candles, wine and something tasty. Hey, we have a tiny flat, a jealous collie and two judgy teens. Sexy isn’t prevalent. Also, it is half term here in Scotland so I was on ‘entertain the teens’ duty and R was working. (*I’m suspicious of electricity so always have at least one candle burning)
Duly I went to the cinema to watch Death on the Nile. Nothing like the glamour of the 1930’s wealthy and Egypt to make you long for a different life. I know, murder might put a dampener on things.
Anyway, I left inspired - longing for lobster and champagne. It seems that is all the characters ate, no wonder they can fit in those dresses! Sadly M&S offered only the ‘Love Sausage’. Shudder.
Finding myself almost doubled over with rigidity (thanks to cinema seats and staying still too long) I cut a fine figure of a sexy dinner companion. I couldn’t summon the Herculean strength to change into something with even a flash of cleavage. Possibly wise given my history of food decorating my bosoms. Serving food is becoming more and more creative and tonight in celebration of Valentine’s day I managed a Noddles a la Barnet*. Much to the hilarity of my loving family.
We both were so exhausted after our days that we gratefully called it an early night. No! Not that sort of night, you saucy bunch. A read the kindle and lights out by 930pm sort of night. Cuddled up with another soul who accepts the flaws, who shares a similar desire to shut out the world for a bit and who is eternally patient with my feeble attempts at romance, was the best Valentine’s.
All in all, it was a cosy but normal evening for us. Laughter, food, candles, and wine. And of course, a heap of love.
*For my non-UK readers: The term ‘Barnet Fair’, normally shortened to ‘Barnet’, has become rhyming slang for ‘hair’.
P.S. To show you how truly romance flourishes in this household, this is the V card I sent: