Notes On The Middle
The big black knickers hanging on the line looked like a row of depressed bats.
Most of my clothes are pretty funereal in fact, except for occasional bursts of bright which render me clownlike. I feel safe in black, sturdy, roomy clothes, a barrier against the world that prickles and probes and demands from me. I like the anonymity and invisibleness of it. Surely nobody will notice me if I’m lurking about in the shadows in dark colours, a camouflage in the murk. I don’t want people to notice me most of the time, I don’t want to notice myself!
Summer is such a chore for the body conscious. So tiring to dodge the sunshine when it makes you feel like a barrage balloon scudding along the ground, or The Good Year Blimp! I break up the block of black with stripes, monochrome mostly, no need to be too adventurous. I stay in if I can, or find trees, canopies and other forms of shelter. When I have to be in it I worry about it for ages before, plan and prepare with hats and sun cream and hope it doesn’t fry me. I acclimatise to a point but I find it so overwhelming to be in the sun. Somehow the black clothes standing lifeless in the bright sunshine seem to be mocking me. I can hear them.
“It’s too hot for YOU, but you will still wear us, still want to hide your body and disguise yourself, but you will burn and boil and blister and it will make you feel rotten and grumpy and ill. But you will wear us!”
Spring sun is nice, not too warm yet, just a glow that follows a bitter winter to give you hope. Autumn is nice too, cooling down but crisp bright sunny days, good for walking. And I can start to layer up again and hide within the folds of my black hoodie and diminish my face with a good hat and scarf. I get more done in these seasons, able to fly about on my bike without melting like the Wicked Witch of the East! If you find a pair of lilywhite legs with Vans on crushed under a house in the height of summer, it might actually be me!
You don’t want anything about you to make you feel too conspicuous. No secret special underwear, I mean, who for? It’s wasted on me. It’s wasted on them too. Granny pants all the way. It’s all about the security, and I got here by degrees from skimpies to hi legs, then shorts of sorts to a full on, full coverage, fully oversized, very black and very sensible cotton. I’m not even sure when it happened exactly. These things, like bad eyesight and aching limbs, they creep up on you and before you know it you’re getting out of bed all leaning over and bent out of shape and huffing and puffing until you can stand up straight again. Observing the deep grooves of sleeplines across your face that will stay until lunchtime, you’re grateful at least that the fading clarity in your vision means you can’t see all the flaws, at least not all at once.
Living alone is very useful in these matters, no poor soul has to witness my emersion from a concertinaed old crone to someone who passes as a spritely middle aged woman! But once I get going I can go for hours. Honestly.
I used to be strong, really strong, freakishly strong my son said once. But age, injury and menopause have put a stop to that and it pisses me off. I now need to ask for help when I have to move heavy furniture. (must clear out that loft before I can’t get up and down the ladder)
I can understand why housekeeping goes a little awry with age, not only can you not see the dust without your bloody reading glasses on but you can’t move anything out of the way to clean it, or bend yourself into a pretzel to get into those odd places. Not even that odd, under the bed, behind the cupboards, quite normal places. It’s a bit of a drag frankly. Still...I shall adopt the Quentin Crisp approach to household chores. “There is no need to do any housework at all. After the first four years the dirt doesn't get any worse.” I mean, he really did have a point there. Don’t look under the bed, whatever you do!
My clothes are a sort of uniform, comfort blanket and armour. They make me feel safe, protect me and hide me. I don’t have to think too much about what to wear as I tend to wear the same things most of the time. I can fit into most situations too with a column of black. Sometimes I’m sure people don’t even notice that everything is elasticated and stretchy! Or maybe I look like I’m wandering about in a sloppy tracksuit. Either way, it’s neutral, and neutral is good. Every now and then I get an urge to wear something flouncy or sparkly, but it feels like fancy dress and makes me feel a bit of a fraud, trying to pass as a woman dressing up. Luckily, most of the places I go are full of drag queens and beautiful queer people so nobody minds what I wear! I’m accepted as I am and flattered when I go rogue with the sequins and colour.
I wish I could be more adventurous sometimes, I love clothes, it’s a lot of fun and you can be mad with it. I mostly put this down to my body shape, the dissatisfaction I have with it, and a pervasive thought that’s been passed down through decades that only thin people look good. Look to the fashion industry and tell me otherwise. But I see a change happening, and it is GOOD! At long last a lot of brands are showing their designs on models of all shapes and sizes, Not just “acceptably” plus size, i.e. goes in a lot at the middle and doesn’t have a double chin, but people who are wobbly, bumpy, shapely. And people in the middle, and the very slender, all together and all beautiful. I see a change too in some things being made for TV where bigger people aren’t fetishised, explained or bullied, they’re just there, loved, desired and wonderful. Fully (ahem) rounded people. As someone who wasn’t represented in my own youth in that way it’s a joy to see, truly. It’s coming through, in small revolutionary ways. So I hope that the safety of my black clothes, the desire to hide and not be noticed is something that fades out. I may yet become one of those fabulous fashionistas like Sue Kreitzman and Lady Trumpington. I’ll dig out all the lovely things I was too afraid to wear and go wild!
Comfort is a great thing, but maybe your knickers hanging on the line will be all colour and lace and daring.
Written by Vonalina Cake
My name is Von, I’ve lived in Bristol since 1992 and I’ve lived a lot of lives since then.
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