
I’ve just read Norah Ephron’s collection of essays, ‘I Feel Bad About My Neck.’ Well, lucky for you, Ms Ephron, I want to say, because I feel bad about EVERYTHING.
It’s my opening gambit in most conversations: ‘I feel bad because…’ and then off I go, indulging in a bit of self-flagellation.
I feel bad because my friends would, I’m sure, enjoy a nice relaxed conversation, instead of having to talk me in off the ledge.
I feel bad this morning because it is a rare day off and I meant to go to the gym, but then my period arrived with gusto. I felt tired and sore, and after putting on a wash and dropping the children to school I took to my bed for a nap.
I feel bad about mentioning periods because that will make half the people reading this stop right here because they feel uncomfortable.
I feel bad because yesterday I said a polite but not overly effusive hello to a neighbour, who clearly wanted to chat. The last time we chatted at length I ended up agreeing to have his grand-children to play on a Thursday, which would have gone on indefinitely, had I not had a series of imaginary appointments, which always occurred, on a Thursday. I feel bad about the untruths, but not as bad if the visits had continued and I’d had to feign interest in watching videos on his phone of him and his wife doing Scottish dancing accompanied by a man playing an accordion.
I feel bad because I’m writing this in a coffee shop, where I’ve just given an over-enthusiastic stirrer a dirty look. I cannot abide over-enthusiastic stirrers of coffee or hot chocolate, or Berocca. I once had to change seats in a staff room because of the vigorous way in which a fellow-teacher stirred her Cup-a-Soup. We were mid-conversation when I legged it. I felt bad about that.
I feel bad about hot beverages and the vessels from which we drink them. On Sunday I was cold and tired and a tiny bit hungover and drank tea from a polystyrene cup at a fun-day at a local park. I feel bad because most of the children and parents from the local primary were in attendance and witnessed my drinking tea from said cup. They know, (because I drone on ad-infinitum at the PTA) that I am opposed to the use of single-use plastics and my zeal for this topic has made acquaintances far and wide hide their coffee cups and water bottles when they see me coming. I feel bad because I could not quell the urge to drink the tea and thus opened myself to criticism on the grounds of hypocrisy. ‘Look at that one,’ I imagined them all saying, ‘drinking away there from a plastic cup, and her so agin them.’
I feel bad for the women making the tea because it was excellent tea, brewed in a pot and it made me feel a great deal better, except for the fact it was served in a plastic cup, which I can understand because large green areas aren’t known for their washing facilities.
I feel bad for joining the PTA because since volunteering on the committee I have been unable to have a single conversation, with anyone, without mentioning the PTA. It is now, among family and friends, known as the ‘fucking PTA.’ I feel bad about the swearing.
As a child, I didn’t hear the word ‘fuck’ until I was 8 and a girl with whom I didn’t often play uttered it in the playground. I have still never heard my father say ‘fuck’. My mother only says ‘fuck’ because I say it so much and I think she drops it in occasionally just to make me feel better. My children are so accustomed to hearing me say ‘fuck’ that they just say, ‘What’s the matter now mummy?’
I feel bad because yesterday my parents came and looked after my children, and dad weeded my flower beds and mum cooked a large pot of mince and potatoes. Mum also scrubbed my grill. I feel bad because I rarely wash my grill and have never washed my oven. Instead of saying ‘thank-you very much’ I wrote a scathing blog post in which I lambasted my mum for suggesting that my hair is not even grey, but white around the front. I then felt bad for my hairdresser who is a talented colourist and it isn’t her fault that I’ve gone prematurely grey and need to get my roots done on a fortnightly basis.
I feel bad (and cross) that I spend so much on maintenance, a subject on which Ms Ephron also wrote extensively, and wittily. I feel bad that in the last 5 years I have spent the equivalent in thousands on my teeth. I feel bad because I advocated the use of bamboo toothbrushes and some friends have even switched to them at my suggestion and my dentist has now told me they are unsuitable for adult teeth. The bristles are softer than their plastic counter-parts and they may result in a less intensive clean and my friends, because they heeded my advice, may now end up with dental caries.
I feel bad because children are starving in Yemen and I have spent thousands on dental implants and they have no bread or milk or hope. I feel bad because I cannot send them any money because I have spent it on my teeth.
And now, thanks to Ms Ephron, I know that in three year’s time, (because it happens at 43, apparently), my neck will sag and go crinkly or wrinkly or scrawny and I will have to feel bad about that as well. I have, however, just run in to a Korean friend, who is approaching forty and whose neck is as flawless and taut as a teenager Russian gymnast’s. She puts it down to the snail extract, known as mucin, in her daily face mask. I’d tell her to get me some when she goes home for the holidays next week, but I feel bad for the snails.
