Country life
Taking the plunge
Leanda de Lisle
Areader in Omaha writes to tell me that I have a 'fine touch with my sexual bits'. I'm not sure what he means by that, but I've decided to take it as a compliment. There have been times when I've felt that I've become an asexual being. That's not my husband's fault. I know he believes I'm gorgeous. Nor is it because I have lost interest in sex or romance. Rather, it's con- nected to the way some women adjust their behaviour and perception of themselves to fit their roles as wives and mothers.
I'm quite tactile, but when I married I made a conscious effort to stop touching men when I spoke to them as I thought I'd better be extra careful not to put out the wrong signals. I also avoided going out without my husband, and if I met someone new I'd immediately tell them about which ever baby I'd just had.
Sometimes being a real grown-up seemed rather fun. I remember hosting a house-party for a neighbour who was giving a dance for her son's 21st birthday. I was only 25, but to my delight the boys who came to stay called me Mrs de Lisle and lis- tened respectfully as I gave them the bene- fit of my advice.
But, of course, being a real grown-up wasn't a game and when I got pregnant for the first time I was horrified at the prospect of being plunged into middle age over night. Every book I read said that in ten months' time I'd have a flabby stomach, stretch marks and droopy bosoms, and I recalled with disgust all the ageing bodies I'd seen in the changing-rooms over the years. So I greased my bulge every night, wore a bra 24 hours a day, watched my weight and my increasingly skinny-looking girlfriends. Even if I say so myself, I left hospital with a figure Marilyn Monroe would have envied. However, by the time I'd had three chil- dren there was no disguising the fact that my figure had deteriorated. And, far from imagining that I had to be careful not to inflame the passions of any men I might meet, I believed I could be stark naked and remain as attractive to them as their own mothers. Living and working at home in the country there were no idle office flirta- tions, no strangers who could mistake me for being single, boosting my ego. Just chil- dren who called for me at night and, of course, my husband. And Peter could tell me I was a raving beauty until he was blue in the face, but, like a lot of wives, I just thought he was a little barmy.
Under these circumstances, some women give up completely and look like little old ladies by the time they're 40. Others reassert their individuality by having affairs. But neither of the options appealed to me, so I chose to make a life for myself by returning to work and making myself feel pretty by buying some nice clothes. This year I decided my knees had gone off, so I went to find a calf-length summer dress. Most made me feel frumpy, but there was one, slashed very low, that I snapped up happily. Peter seemed to like it, until I put it on for a London dinner party. 'Oh, don't fuss, darling,' I snapped as he pointed a trembling finger at my breast bone, 'I'll ask whoever's sitting next to me to tell me if my bosom falls out.' And I shoved him into a taxi before he managed to translate his squawks into words.
The dress made quite an impact. A mid- dle-aged man expressed his disappointment that my husband was there and a twenty- something asked me out to lunch, tea and dinner. Peter appeared to be less thrilled about this than I was. 'There's life in the old bag yet,' I informed him gleefully as he shook his head at me. Now the dress is hanging in the cupboard and, though it cer- tainly had a fine touch with my sexual bits, the funny thing is I don't fancy wearing it again. But as I must get some wear out of it (we're ever practical up here) I might bring it out for The Spectator party.
`Goodness, Grandpa — a full inch and a half shorter than last year.'
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