Minerva Morgan
08-02-2007, 07:04 PM
So Dita and I agreed to meet at the stairwell leading to the upper parking lot on the Zeller’s side. The time was to be between 1:00 and 1:30. This was my first time out, not counting the Hallowe’en when I dressed as a ‘witch’ (at least I had a pointy hat) as was read by every kid who came to the door. I recognized the symptoms of stage-fright. You are about to go on stage, everyone knows it’s an act, and everyone’s a critic.
Living in an area where at least six neighbours know you are up to something when you step out of the door, and those who cannot see you will soon hear about it, I realized that any secrecy, assuming it existed, would likely disappear as I prepared to venture out in the noonday sun. One of those neighbours has a lawn-cutting service, and they pull up just as I am preparing for my exit (or entrance, depending on the metaphor.) At least he didn’t block the driveway, he doesn’t know me from Eve, and I’ll just step out and hop in the car when his back is turned. Drats! My neighbour has stepped out to speak to him. I retreat from the door until they finish their overly-lengthy (‘What can they possibly have to talk about?’) chat; and then the dash (okay, one doesn’t really dash as such in heels; wobble?) to the car.
It is a very warm day when I arrive at the mall. I park in the shady under-section of the parkade. Being a kilo or two (give or take) overweight, I am breaking out into a gentle dew profusely. So much for the curl in my hair after a night’s discomfort in curlers. I find a place in the stairwell which is shaded and breezy. That bit about the breeze up your skirt is quite true; I cannot imagine why anyone would want to wear trousers on such a hot day.)
Punctually, Dita appears, slender and pink. I knew what she looked like, but she had no idea what to expect. ‘Hi, Dita’, I say (relieved that I am not alone anymore); ‘Give me a hug!’, says Dita; and we did. We go to her van, and she pulls to a shady spot. She approves of my appearance (which is flattering) as we talk about ‘stuff’ as she puts on her nails (pink, of course.) Then we go to another mall to find the on-sale items in Le Château she had considered buying earlier, and to look into one or two other shops.
Careful of her protegé, Dita gives soft advice on walking. It is difficult to remember that linear step, with the reverse-angular swing of the arms and to keep your shoulders back. It’s a bit like patting your head and rubbing your tummy and outrunning the avalanche; all at once.
The skirt and belt are still there. For me, another difficulty arises. With me a size 22-24 (I did mention that kilo or two extra), Le Château has little to offer me in the way of clothing; even if they have an exciting collection. The question arose of not merely being passable, but of being passably interested. The high point (for me) was the skirt which seemed to be just the sort of thing for Dita. I wanted to be enthusiastic, but until I saw it on her, could I be sure it was ‘her’? It was a white skirt, with a sort of red and black plaid giving a pink and grey effect. Dita bought the skirt and the belt, was tempted by one or two items on the way out, and then we went to Mariposa to check things out.
After half an hour or so, we were back at the van, and Dita (noting I am melting away) turns on the air conditioning. We drive back to the first mall, to the top floor of the parkade (where hardly anyone parks in the blazing sun), and Dita daringly and impetuously (she CANNOT wait) steps out and puts on the new skirt and belt. It is just darling, but the skirt has an attached, fabric belt which is too much with the pink belt over it. ‘Just tie it into a bow on the attached side, Dita.’, I say. ‘What a good idea’, says Dita; and she does, and it looks even better. It was her! Dita has the photos, so we will have to wait until she shows them.
Into the mall we go (Dita checks out the jewellery), and up the escalator to the in-store restaurant. I have coffee, and I am not sure what Dita has, but it’s pink. We talk about the difficulties of forming a social group for CD’s in Victoria. We assume, as there is a fair-size population that there must be thousands of ladies around; but all too timid to make themselves known. The main difficulty is: ‘How to get to them?’
We pay (well, Dita does, thanks sweetie), and go down the escalator (Dita checks out the jewellery), and go out to her van. Dita drives me to my car, we hug and tell each other how much we enjoyed meeting. Dita drives off on her long and complex journey home, and I wave goodbye. I drive home. ‘Well how did it go?’, ‘Fine’, and a brief inquisition later I am changing into something more comfortable, a nylon night gown.
Were we noticed? Well, of course! Will it be on the 6 o’clock news? Not likely! Did I really care? Not really! My fear was not be ’clocked’, but of the nasty situations that might arise. With Dita, there were two of us, and with her height and my width, we outnumbered them.
This may not be the place to describe the difficulties through which Dita fared to give a total stranger her first day ’out’. It is difficult to fully convey my appreciation that she would go to such lengths for a sister she never met. ’Thank you, Dita’, seems insufficient, but the gratitude is genuine, and the affection for someone so giving is sincere.
Thank you, Dita.
Love,
Minerva
Living in an area where at least six neighbours know you are up to something when you step out of the door, and those who cannot see you will soon hear about it, I realized that any secrecy, assuming it existed, would likely disappear as I prepared to venture out in the noonday sun. One of those neighbours has a lawn-cutting service, and they pull up just as I am preparing for my exit (or entrance, depending on the metaphor.) At least he didn’t block the driveway, he doesn’t know me from Eve, and I’ll just step out and hop in the car when his back is turned. Drats! My neighbour has stepped out to speak to him. I retreat from the door until they finish their overly-lengthy (‘What can they possibly have to talk about?’) chat; and then the dash (okay, one doesn’t really dash as such in heels; wobble?) to the car.
It is a very warm day when I arrive at the mall. I park in the shady under-section of the parkade. Being a kilo or two (give or take) overweight, I am breaking out into a gentle dew profusely. So much for the curl in my hair after a night’s discomfort in curlers. I find a place in the stairwell which is shaded and breezy. That bit about the breeze up your skirt is quite true; I cannot imagine why anyone would want to wear trousers on such a hot day.)
Punctually, Dita appears, slender and pink. I knew what she looked like, but she had no idea what to expect. ‘Hi, Dita’, I say (relieved that I am not alone anymore); ‘Give me a hug!’, says Dita; and we did. We go to her van, and she pulls to a shady spot. She approves of my appearance (which is flattering) as we talk about ‘stuff’ as she puts on her nails (pink, of course.) Then we go to another mall to find the on-sale items in Le Château she had considered buying earlier, and to look into one or two other shops.
Careful of her protegé, Dita gives soft advice on walking. It is difficult to remember that linear step, with the reverse-angular swing of the arms and to keep your shoulders back. It’s a bit like patting your head and rubbing your tummy and outrunning the avalanche; all at once.
The skirt and belt are still there. For me, another difficulty arises. With me a size 22-24 (I did mention that kilo or two extra), Le Château has little to offer me in the way of clothing; even if they have an exciting collection. The question arose of not merely being passable, but of being passably interested. The high point (for me) was the skirt which seemed to be just the sort of thing for Dita. I wanted to be enthusiastic, but until I saw it on her, could I be sure it was ‘her’? It was a white skirt, with a sort of red and black plaid giving a pink and grey effect. Dita bought the skirt and the belt, was tempted by one or two items on the way out, and then we went to Mariposa to check things out.
After half an hour or so, we were back at the van, and Dita (noting I am melting away) turns on the air conditioning. We drive back to the first mall, to the top floor of the parkade (where hardly anyone parks in the blazing sun), and Dita daringly and impetuously (she CANNOT wait) steps out and puts on the new skirt and belt. It is just darling, but the skirt has an attached, fabric belt which is too much with the pink belt over it. ‘Just tie it into a bow on the attached side, Dita.’, I say. ‘What a good idea’, says Dita; and she does, and it looks even better. It was her! Dita has the photos, so we will have to wait until she shows them.
Into the mall we go (Dita checks out the jewellery), and up the escalator to the in-store restaurant. I have coffee, and I am not sure what Dita has, but it’s pink. We talk about the difficulties of forming a social group for CD’s in Victoria. We assume, as there is a fair-size population that there must be thousands of ladies around; but all too timid to make themselves known. The main difficulty is: ‘How to get to them?’
We pay (well, Dita does, thanks sweetie), and go down the escalator (Dita checks out the jewellery), and go out to her van. Dita drives me to my car, we hug and tell each other how much we enjoyed meeting. Dita drives off on her long and complex journey home, and I wave goodbye. I drive home. ‘Well how did it go?’, ‘Fine’, and a brief inquisition later I am changing into something more comfortable, a nylon night gown.
Were we noticed? Well, of course! Will it be on the 6 o’clock news? Not likely! Did I really care? Not really! My fear was not be ’clocked’, but of the nasty situations that might arise. With Dita, there were two of us, and with her height and my width, we outnumbered them.
This may not be the place to describe the difficulties through which Dita fared to give a total stranger her first day ’out’. It is difficult to fully convey my appreciation that she would go to such lengths for a sister she never met. ’Thank you, Dita’, seems insufficient, but the gratitude is genuine, and the affection for someone so giving is sincere.
Thank you, Dita.
Love,
Minerva