are we there yet? are we there yet? are we there yet?
Occasionally when I'm feeling weepy and unsure about what good my life on this earth does to anybody, all I have to remember is the state of Z's shoes and trousers before we started going out and my Life's Path It Opens Up and Shines Shinily Before Me.
It has always been a source of mystery to me how a man who displayed such exquisite taste in buying clothes and presents for me could see no problem with clothing himself in apparel that looked like it had been extracted from dumpsters and sewn by cats. The jacket of his one suit nearly came down to his knees and he owned one pair of trousers that was not:
a) baggy and misshapen
b) too short
c) too tight in the wrong part of the leg
d) designed for the riding of motorbikes
e)from the 80s.
f) from the 80s and the time when his waistline had been smaller by 4 inches or so
g) part of a tracksuit.
Z's trouser choices made me cry as much as his baggy collection of baggy t-shirts (although his shirts with the holes in the back from where he had been practicing archery IN THE HOUSE, that made me laugh). Along with all this, Z owned one pair of shoes that were not trainers or biking boots and he wore them day in day out to every occasion from job interviews to hikes in the countryside (he did this with a feeling of pride since "their endurance and versatility is exactly the reason I bought those shoes"). We come from the same country. I am as fond of footwear constructed with communist endurance in mind as anyone else. But I was also convinced it was time to expand his range.
And because H&Ms exist in the world and make things shiny and good and because Z is an essentially cheerful, easygoing person who wants to please others he let himself be steered into Brent Cross on more than one occasion during our years together and he purchased lovely fitted things of his own free will.
And then with my underground Resistance movement of throwing out stuff that looked like shit and replacing it with stuff that didn't, slowly, slowly his wardrobe reached a level of Perfect Acceptability meaning the only thing truly left to tackle was the hair on his head which grows incredibly fast and assumes alarming shapes. (And aside from you know the odd occasion where I accidentally amputated a sideburn or two while learning how to wield hairclippers thereby forcing Z to walk around for two weeks with band aids on his face in an attempt to disguise this, the Hair Taming Experiment has gone pretty well on the whole; nowadays Z has even found a local barber he is in perfect understanding with, and I'm pleased to report there have been no more sideburn casualties).
But the true revolution came in the field of shoes. And I knew I had helped make the world a better place when Z bought not one but TWO PAIRS of lovely and sexy and appropriate and smart-looking shoes. Of his own free will no less. And using his own eyes and aesthetic capacities! And without making any comments along the lines of: "Now I'll be able to go to construction sites and ballroom dancing!"
And then yesterday I reached the pinnacle of my joy when of his own free will, he bought lovely shoes over the internet. And the angels, they sang. And the unborn children they bounced as they surfed the waves of their mothers delight. And the Ninas, they rejoiced.
And the cobblers, they sat up with alert expressions. Because - Mystery the second- I am starting to suspect that Z's feet actually have secret titanium extendable claws in them, a bit like Wolverine's hands since that man he makes cobblers cry. Or you know laugh, as they extract blood money from me every six months to repair the sole, or shake their heads in mystery as they contemplate holes, HOLES! that have been gouged into the shoe's inner lining.
In other news this has been a week of Exciting Things. I started having contractions on Sunday (painful, but few and far between) which I breathed through in between finishing off various handwritten pieces of my coursework. And then on Tuesday I handed in the said coursework and there was FREEDOM, and then on Wednesday it was chiller's birthday and my waddling to the pub was rewarded by the presence of lovely peoples and chiller's glorious shiny hair.
In other news:
I am exactly 38 weeks pregnant, which means I have been lugging this child around for 35.5 of them and the last time I was pain free enough to have sex is but a distant memory of happiness and heady, innocent summer when dinosaurs entertained themselves by roaming the earth.
I saw the midwife today and she confirmed that the baby's head is nicely descending into the pelvis (3/5ths down, woo hoo!) and we worked out a communal plan of action for Getting This Child Out Of Me As Soon As Possible, Thank You, Using Natural Methods Or Black Arts, At This Point I DOn't Care, Whatever Works.
It has always been a source of mystery to me how a man who displayed such exquisite taste in buying clothes and presents for me could see no problem with clothing himself in apparel that looked like it had been extracted from dumpsters and sewn by cats. The jacket of his one suit nearly came down to his knees and he owned one pair of trousers that was not:
a) baggy and misshapen
b) too short
c) too tight in the wrong part of the leg
d) designed for the riding of motorbikes
e)from the 80s.
f) from the 80s and the time when his waistline had been smaller by 4 inches or so
g) part of a tracksuit.
Z's trouser choices made me cry as much as his baggy collection of baggy t-shirts (although his shirts with the holes in the back from where he had been practicing archery IN THE HOUSE, that made me laugh). Along with all this, Z owned one pair of shoes that were not trainers or biking boots and he wore them day in day out to every occasion from job interviews to hikes in the countryside (he did this with a feeling of pride since "their endurance and versatility is exactly the reason I bought those shoes"). We come from the same country. I am as fond of footwear constructed with communist endurance in mind as anyone else. But I was also convinced it was time to expand his range.
And because H&Ms exist in the world and make things shiny and good and because Z is an essentially cheerful, easygoing person who wants to please others he let himself be steered into Brent Cross on more than one occasion during our years together and he purchased lovely fitted things of his own free will.
And then with my underground Resistance movement of throwing out stuff that looked like shit and replacing it with stuff that didn't, slowly, slowly his wardrobe reached a level of Perfect Acceptability meaning the only thing truly left to tackle was the hair on his head which grows incredibly fast and assumes alarming shapes. (And aside from you know the odd occasion where I accidentally amputated a sideburn or two while learning how to wield hairclippers thereby forcing Z to walk around for two weeks with band aids on his face in an attempt to disguise this, the Hair Taming Experiment has gone pretty well on the whole; nowadays Z has even found a local barber he is in perfect understanding with, and I'm pleased to report there have been no more sideburn casualties).
But the true revolution came in the field of shoes. And I knew I had helped make the world a better place when Z bought not one but TWO PAIRS of lovely and sexy and appropriate and smart-looking shoes. Of his own free will no less. And using his own eyes and aesthetic capacities! And without making any comments along the lines of: "Now I'll be able to go to construction sites and ballroom dancing!"
And then yesterday I reached the pinnacle of my joy when of his own free will, he bought lovely shoes over the internet. And the angels, they sang. And the unborn children they bounced as they surfed the waves of their mothers delight. And the Ninas, they rejoiced.
And the cobblers, they sat up with alert expressions. Because - Mystery the second- I am starting to suspect that Z's feet actually have secret titanium extendable claws in them, a bit like Wolverine's hands since that man he makes cobblers cry. Or you know laugh, as they extract blood money from me every six months to repair the sole, or shake their heads in mystery as they contemplate holes, HOLES! that have been gouged into the shoe's inner lining.
In other news this has been a week of Exciting Things. I started having contractions on Sunday (painful, but few and far between) which I breathed through in between finishing off various handwritten pieces of my coursework. And then on Tuesday I handed in the said coursework and there was FREEDOM, and then on Wednesday it was chiller's birthday and my waddling to the pub was rewarded by the presence of lovely peoples and chiller's glorious shiny hair.
In other news:
I am exactly 38 weeks pregnant, which means I have been lugging this child around for 35.5 of them and the last time I was pain free enough to have sex is but a distant memory of happiness and heady, innocent summer when dinosaurs entertained themselves by roaming the earth.
I saw the midwife today and she confirmed that the baby's head is nicely descending into the pelvis (3/5ths down, woo hoo!) and we worked out a communal plan of action for Getting This Child Out Of Me As Soon As Possible, Thank You, Using Natural Methods Or Black Arts, At This Point I DOn't Care, Whatever Works.