12 Jun
Right. So. Divorced two years ago and I have somehow, against all odds, agreed to go on an actual date next Saturday. A real one. With a man who seems nice and has all his own teeth as far as I can tell from his profile photo. I am 56. My body is doing things I cannot predict. Last week I got a hot flush in Waitrose so severe I had to stand next to the frozen peas for four minutes. FOUR MINUTES. This is the reality I am bringing to a wine bar in Guildford. I have a GP appointment booked for the week before (already writing down what I want to say because I always go blank the second I sit down, the private stuff especially, the stuff about dryness and how that whole area of my life has felt like it belongs to someone else for about eighteen months). I want to actually say it out loud this time instead of just mentioning my sleep and leaving. In the meantime I am trying to eat something proper before I go out rather than being so anxious I skip dinner and then have two glasses of wine on an empty stomach and cry in the Uber home. That has happened. I am not proud. Does it get less terrifying? Please tell me it gets less terrifying x