I went to a ball last night. strange choice of photo you might think. Not really, she is a slightly out of focus lady sitting alone, she has bare feet to paddle in the waters of fun and looks upward for help, something better, inspiration, freedom/ who knows.
There was dancing, much, much dancing. Kilts swirling, silken dresses in every colour of the rainbow, everyone pulling out all the stops and looking their best.
Smiling happy faces, chatting smiling, smiling. Why are the dull ugly men all too easily attainable, the handsome ones as ever out of reach. Like sweeties on a high shelf, tempting you with their brightness and promise of fun.
No 'Marlborough Man' or 'French Husband' meets my eye from accross the room.
When Janis Ian poured her heart out in "At Seventeen" it said it all. Like not being picked for basketball, watching from the sidelines and wanting to be one of the chosen ones. Funny how in just a few short moments everything can spirall out of control, spin you right back to all your old insecurities. Suddenly I was a size 20 again, frumpy in tent like dress. My size ten slinky number had vanished in a split second and my old fat self took over and crushed me.
Maybe this Cinderella is just too old for the ball. By the way, when is Cinderella too old for the ball?