Dear Number One,
I would like to apologise to you. I have behaved badly, and, now that I have had time to think about it, I think I can put my apology down into words. Here goes…
You are fifteen. You are the one who should be wracked with insecurities. You do indeed, have your wobbles, and I try to help you through, but recently, I did not set a very good example to you. I let my own demons get the better of me.
Our last-minute opportunity to go to the Goodwood Revival was a wonderful gift – a chance to do something we wouldn’t normally get to do. And so, when we made the decision to go ahead and use those tickets we had been given, excitement should have reigned.
It was a shock to us all, I believe, that we suddenly had to dress the part – but luckily, my wardrobe is a timeless phenomenon, full of all sorts garments from most eras in History, and finding something to wear that sort of worked was not, in fact, all that tricky. You took it in your stride – you embraced the occasion. Even when I stole back my correspondent shoes that you had planned to wear, you didn’t crumble!
You tried on dresses – you were keen to get into the spirit of The Revival, and got on with getting ready whilst I faffed and stressed and got grumpy . They call it Social Anxiety, I believe, but crikey, I think I’m going to call it Ungrateful Bitch Syndrome, or, less harshly, The Going Out Grumps. I realise now that I suffer badly from this. What will I wear? How shall I do my hair? Where are the three million bobby pins that I know I have bought over the years? How will I create Victory Rolls without them? If I try a forties do, will it even work? Will I feel like a knob when I get there? Will people think I have tried too hard? Might I be over dressed? Does my lipstick look ridiculous? Am I too tall? Do I look like a drag queen? Can’t I just stay at home and have a bonfire in my trackies..?
When under such pressure, I become terribly self-conscious and it’s horrid.
I always get like it – I detest the “getting ready” thing. The reveal! Ugh. Then the cursory, up-and-down look Big Seymour gives me, which I interpret as him saying “What the hell have you come as?” when in fact he knows that anything he says will be accepted as criticism, owing to my state of mind at the time. It’s a vicious cycle. Because by the time we leave the house, my mood is black and I’m sweating, thus fulfilling my own prophecy that I am going to look stupid and minging.
So, in getting ready for Goodwood, I did not set a good example to you, my Number One child.
And it got worse.
We were unsure of what our tickets would allow us to do, as they were complimentary. Would we all get in? Might Big Seymour or I have to wait outside? Perhaps we’d got all dolled up like idiots for nothing! That would be embarrassing. As we neared Goodwood, my stress levels increased, and I really wanted to be at home prodding a conflagration in my garden instead, where nobody can see me and I don’t have to attempt to look nice.
We drove on, and I regressed further into a shy, awkward child, whilst having no mind for the vulnerable, teenage brain sitting behind me in the car, and my verbal reassurances to her that all would be fine were half-hearted. Mini and Boy Seymour were goading each other. There were arguments over open windows and hair spray. Lipstick got on teeth, the car was running out of fuel, the petrol cap wouldn’t open, and I actually had to get out of the vehicle in my ridiculous lipstick and wilting Victory Rolls to try to force it open. I even had to talk to a man on the forecourt. Then, all the children needed a wee.
By the time we got to the venue, I felt broken.
But you, Number One, were stoic. Your attitude was admirable. And despite the uncertainty of whether they’d even allow you in, you strode ahead, determined to make the most of this opportunity, even though I know you were nervous, too.
Well, we did get in! The tickets did their job. My stress dissipated almost instantly, and there we were, meandering around in the glorious sunshine, feasting on the sights before us – marvellous 40s, 50s and 60s outfits, glamorous people in suits, plenty of wartime overalls, magnums of Veuve Clicquot, fighter planes, jeeps, swing bands, launderettes, hair salons, nylons, immaculate vintage ladies and even a solitary man in lederhosen.
You showed an interest! You had the confidence to dress up, you took photos (when I refused to take my camera as I knew I’d be too busy reining in my shaking limbs). You desperately wanted to look at the shops, but when we went into the VIP enclosure, you just sat on the grass and read your book, waiting patiently whilst your little brother looked at racing cars and your mini sister did roly-polies on the grass under the stiletto-clad feet of champagne-swilling wannabe aristocrats .
My dear Number One Child! Mummy has tried to raise you as a bold and marvellous young lady for one very simple reason: because I was not one. I have learned, over the years, to be confident enough to get by. Mostly, I manage fine, but when I am thrown out of my comfort zone, or surprised, or when I need to be spontaneous, I crumble a bit. The awkward, shy old me resurges. I can feel it happening, and I am powerless to stop her. She is stroppy, under-confident, grumpy, somewhat insecure, impatient and actually a teeny bit bitchy. All of those traits come to the fore, until the getting ready and the arriving and the stressy bits are done and I actually start to have fun. And then comes the guilt.
I am sorry for being such a prat, and I will try harder to set an example to you that the world is not out to get you, and people can take us as they find us. Next time I feel Grumpzilla emerging, I shall take a few deep breaths and try to be more like you. You’re a legend, and you make me proud.
So, going forward, the next time I am lucky enough to be invited out, I shall remember the words of advice Roald Dahl indirectly gave us all when he was trying to explain why Mrs Twit had become so dreadfully repulsive:
“A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts it will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.”
Happy thoughts, Rebecca, happy thoughts.
0 Comments