My new friends don't judge
I haven't been dressing up much lately. Sometimes I haven't dressed at all, just stayed in pyjamas, or a version of lounge wear which might as well be that. Loose fitting, nondescript. Early on, when it was still quite chilly, my daily walk required the addition of the old Barbour jacket which used to belong to my daughter and now has the feeling of an old friend. It's around ten years old now, so I guess it is.
During May, when it was so warm, it was lovely to walk in just a teeshirt and skirt, but these were not chosen with much thought.
I have been dressing up on Friday evenings when I zoom with my family. It's the night I wash my hair and put on a bit of make up and something other than the lounge wear. It feels like a ritual, one I enjoy, and that has some point to it.
So I have been considering - who do we dress up for? In my case, not for myself, it seems. Which I think is a shame, but it's hard to make a judgement at this time. In fact, I have been making friends with inanimate objects since mid March when I pretty much stopped seeing anybody. These friends don't really care what I look like or what I'm wearing. We shuffle around the house together, chatting about inconsequential things. Patsy and Georgina, the two 1950s dolls pictured in this post have lived in my attic for years, but recently they've been occupying the sofa in the living room and also the bench outside. They've seen me cry on a couple of occasions, they've seen me in pain with toothache, and anxious about the future. They've been really great. They may have to go back to the attic soon, before I completely forget that conversations can be two way.