I’m going to a wedding tomorrow. Here on The Rock. This affirmation of love will take place at the golf course between a bride and groom who met at the museum where we are all volunteers. How cool is that?
Unfortunately, however, my excitement and joy has been tempered by the greatest of all first-world problems for women in their fifties. Well, not for all of them. Just for the ones like me, who have allowed their bodies to be remodelled by the unholy triumvirate: Weightgainia —evil goddess of hormones and sworn enemy of all swimsuits; Gravitatum— the maker of all things saggy or droopy; and Wingzaflappen—commander of that area of the arm between shoulder and elbow.
Mother of all first world problems: What am I going to wear?
Full-length, 360-degree mirrors have long been off my Christmas card list, so I sensibly set a specific amount of time and number of stores for the search, promising myself that if I found nothing suitable, I’d just wear a garment I already own and glam it up with new shoes, fancy fingernails and a decent coif.
The shoes are stunning. Orange patent stiletto pumps. Sexy as hell. And my nails match perfectly. Coif TBC.
I’ll pay for my sins with pinched toes and calf cramp, but damned if I won’t feel gorgeous for the first five minutes.