never trust a vintage dress...

(Original unedited image via Pintrest)

By now, you’ll know that things are hotting up for my 30^thReunion back home. My google search has progressed to “How to lose 30 kgs in 3 minutes.” I have a feeling I’ll still be doing squats and sit-ups on the plane in a frantic attempt to look, well, better. I do feel a certain sense of triumph, however, as I’ve come up with a cunning solution to deal with the aging “smoker’s lines” around my mouth. (I don’t even smoke, which makes me wonder if I’ve spent my life puckering up my lips a lot?) Yesterday I gave it a trial run. I’ll be keeping a stash of orange rind slices that I can wedge underneath my top lip. Works like a charm until you have to speak. 

All kinds of weird feelings and insecurities have popped up with this impending event. Things I normally never really think about. Like what I should wear. What’s the perfect outfit to communicate that I’ve made enough of an effort but I also kind of don’t give two fucks? Most folks go with jeans and a T-shirt but when I wear jeans it feels like I have a straight-jacket on my legs. Considering that my daily outfit is normally smelly gym clothes, appropriate reunion attire has kept me awake at night a bit. Looking at the weather forecast, one thing is for sure: My primary accessory will be my hot water bottle. 

One of my other main concerns is around tiredness. As much as I’m really looking forward to seeing everyone, I kind of also feel tired at the thought. 11pm is a late night for me so the thought of staying up till an unknown late hour is a little like telling me to run on the spot till you stay stop. It reminds me of the first time I went to a rave in London. 

Exotica and her man, Rasta, were already well into the rave scene and it was not their first rodeo, so to speak, with using a little help to stay awake. I, on the other hand, had not been around this particular block yet and had the usual concerns about my partying staying- power. Consequently, I decided to prepare myself.

As it was, the woman we were housekeepers for, needed to get her car from the country to London. I was to drive with Exotica and Rasta, drop off the car, and then head to the rave. Poor Exotica and Rasta were subjected to my constant babble for the hour and a half long drive it took us to get to London. You see, I’d decided that, in order to bypass my natural ability to be struck down with unstoppable tiredness, by sipping on mug after mug of coffee for the entire day. This left me acting like the character Spud from Trainspotting who drops speed before an interview to “give him the edge”.

There’s more to the story though. The weekend before, Exotica and I had gone pottering around Camden Town. I’d bought a black sheer swing top from a 2^ndhand vintage shop and decided to don this for the rave. Just like I’m experiencing the same stress about reunion gear, I had similar concerns about rave gear. And although I knew that ravers generally wore tie-dyed, crocheted kinds of kit, I didn’t think I could pull it off because, having just arrived in London, I wasn’t “Ecstasy Skinny” yet. Accordingly, my kit of choice was: black caterpillar boots (the only shoes I owned), black cycling shorts (good stretch for big dance moves, no chafe, no chance of my butt showing) and said sheer swing top. 

There’s a couple of things I didn’t know about raves and vintage swing tops which I know now. Firstly, if you decide to imbibe in staying awake substances other than coffee, you’re going to dance your arse off. And, if like me, you’re quite a sweaty person, you’ll get pretty dang slick and wet. Secondly, vintage swing tops can be made out of a fabric called “Georgette”. Wikipedia describes it as “originally made from silk, Georgette is made with highly twisted yarns.” 

Now, logic would dictate that when yarns become wet – especially twisted yarns – they’ll stretch. Not so. Apparently, it does the opposite. In addition, I discovered that my Georgette top wasn’t made from silk, but rather a blend of something and rayon. Rayon, I discovered, likes to shrink.

As each new trancy track was played, I danced and sweated and danced and sweated. And the seam that once sat neatly beneath my bustline, now found itself somewhere mid nipple. My hemline was no better. My swing top had gone from mid-thigh to  - as my dad would call it – a fanny pelmet. 

Never have I been so happy for short leggings. 

Needless to say, I’ll not be taking any chances at my reunion. I’ll play it safe with trousers and a sensible top. But I will imbibe in coffee. E for the over 40’s. (I’m hoping they’ll also be serving morphine pie for dessert. Where do all these inexplicable body aches come from?)

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30th reunion and other musings...

(Original unedited image via www.masterfile.com)

For those five of you who regularly read my irregular blog posts, you’ll know that my 30^threunion is looming. The prospect of seeing a whole lot of people who last saw me with 80’s hair and legwarmers is a little daunting (oh those aerobics leotard days!) Consequently, I’ve been pondering how I can present the best possible version of me, aged 40-something. 

The problem is that my other attempts at any aesthetic improvements have gone horribly awry. Need I remind you about the time that I decided to wax my top lip and lost the courage to rip it off due to the ungodly pain? (I’ve subsequently found out that you’re not supposed to let it set hard before you RIP it off – alas, information I could sorely have used before!) Ah yes, who could forget me walking around for weeks afterward with little flecks of wax on my upper lip.

But there’s a few past improvements we haven’t yet explored. I should start with my hair. By way of introduction, I should by rights put “hair taming” as a unique skill on my CV. Since I can remember I’ve been wrangling my hair – with little success. The wild curls and frizz manage to assert themselves no matter what. 

When I was in Standard 7, I was invited to a Matric Dance. The fellow in question was a hot surfer and quite frankly, I couldn’t believe my luck. I stumbled upon him when Exotica, my two cousins and I developed a fool proof tactic to meet hot guys. We’d eye the chap in question, decide on a name, and rush up to him saying “Steeeeeve! How awesome to see you! What are you doing here? It’s been so long!”. The bewildered fellow would then insist he’d never met us in his life. We’d then fake our apology, claiming that it was all an innocent mistake but that it was nice to meet him anyway. And voila! Thus, we’d made our introduction. (In retrospect, it was more an ambush than a tactic.) 

Anyhow, the night of the matric dance came about and I asked my mom take me to have a blow-wave – which was the only way to get the curls out. She obliged (bless her), but we both forgot an important detail. The matric dance was in Hillcrest, a part of KZN that is known for heavy mist.

Those of you with straight hair will never be able to contemplate the risk that precipitation poses for someone with frizzy hair. As we pulled up to the school hall, the mist was thick as can be. And while Matric-Dance-Boy insisted that we hang around outside the hall to wait for his friends to arrive, I felt both my hair and my panic rising. The result was way, way worse than Rubenesque curls. It was beehive in height, and rather than curls, I had kind of straight, frizzy, poofy hairstyle going on. I’d have been welcome in a band with Diana Ross. To make matters worse, it would seem that ALL the other girls had gorgeous, sleek, obedient hair. It was a long night.

My next Version 2.0 effort saw me getting fake nails for my best friend’s wedding. For the life of me, I have no idea why I thought it was a good idea. I think it was an attempt to look more feminine as I’d recently cut my hair super short and looked like my brother’s brother. What nailish people don’t tell you, is that there are a whole ton of things you can’t do once you have long nails. Opening car doors becomes a nightmare because they hook underneath the bit that hinges. Grabbing anything, for that matter, becomes a subtle art. Because you can’t use the tips of your fingers to grip, you have to kind of lay them flat. (On this note, scrunching up and holding a wad of loo paper becomes almost impossible – but we won’t get into that.) I spent the night alternately dropping things and tapping on my wine glass, well, because it was such a novelty to have tappy nails. The very next day I was found ripping them off one by one and nibbling on what plastic was left in an effort to get them off. (Side note: Like a bad boyfriend, I gave fake nails one more try. I put DIY nails on and went to dinner. As I was squeezing lemon on my fish, one took flight. I still don’t know where it landed.)

More recently, I thought I’d give the fake eyelash trend a bash. I’m not even gonna tell a lie – I think they look awesome, even if they do look fake. Anyhow, I spent fifteen million hears of my life getting them put on and they were irritating AF! It felt like someone had dropped a ton of mascara on my eyelids, but scratchy mascara, with little knives. Almost immediately, I started pulling them off – which left me with a truly awesome look as some remained and some came off. I looked like I’d been in an unusual bar fight where you have to randomly tear eyelashes from your opponent’s eyes.

Then, this morning, just as I thought I might get myself some fillers in my lips, I saw a lady in the gym which reminded me why I shouldn’t. Lips, it seems, are defined by definite lines. As we age we lose pigmentation which means that even if you plump up your lips, it just makes your top lip look kind of puffy. Like you actually don’t have lips. Like you’ve been injured, or just been to the dentist. So ja, fuck that shit. It ain't gonna fly.

Of course, I still have one last trick up my sleeve: weight loss. Though I must be honest here, as time draws near my google search history has switched from “How to lose 30 kgs in 3 years” to “How to lose 30 kgs in 3 months” to “How to lose 30 kgs in 3 weeks”. And if you watch this space carefully, I might even share how I successfully lost 30kgs between the time that I left Cape Town to the time that I arrived in Durban. But don’t be too hopeful. I know I’m not.

P.S. I feel my current orthodontic braces are the cherry on the cake. In order to limit lacerations made by the metal braces, I’ve not only developed a list but also now possess the special skill of “spit-shower speak”. Lucky me. Wear your raincoats to the reunion folks.

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