Hey, I See You

Right. I need to shower.

That’s it. That’s the task. I’ve got somewhere to be later, lunch, birthday, family - so the very least I can do is show up clean. Doesn’t even have to be glam. Just scrubbed enough to pass as socially acceptable.

So. Up the stairs I go.

…forgot my phone.

Back down the stairs. Phone retrieved. Fine.

Back up the stairs. Again. This time it’s happening.

But before I even make it into the bathroom, I take a detour into my room because I’ve had the genius idea to lay out clothes before I shower. Future Me will be grateful.

Future Me is a cow, by the way, but I’m still doing her a favour.

Anyway. Clothes. Sorted. Then I notice the bed.

And I decide, with no warning, that now is the perfect time to strip it.

No idea why. I wasn’t asked. No one’s inspecting my sheets today.

But suddenly I’ve committed. Duvet off. Sheets bundled. I’m halfway to the washing machine before I remember I was supposed to be showering.

Downstairs. Bedding in. Done.

Back upstairs, again, because this is a cardio workout now.

Back in the bedroom. Phone’s sitting there, right where I left it. Next to a clean fitted sheet.

And because I have the logic of a concussed squirrel, I decide to just quickly fire that on the bed.

I get one corner on. Two. It mostly fits.

“That’ll do the now.”

Back to the bathroom.

…no phone.

ARE YOU ACTUALLY KIDDING ME.

Back. Again. Pick it up. Bathroom.

Stand there, looking around, thinking Jesus, this room is tragic. White, supposedly, with slightly damp energy.

So I mentally create an entire Pinterest board. I redesign the bathroom top to bottom.

Mood lighting. Shelves. A fake plant I’ll pretend is real. A candle. That kind of thing.

Snap out of it. Turn the shower on.

Towel?

Course not.

Back to the room. Grab towel. Back again.

Steamier now. Air’s thick. Can’t open the window because it’s baltic and I’m already starkers.

Right. In you get. Just get in.

I get in.

Belt out one full song like I’m auditioning for a talent show. I’m my head. I don’t actually want to scare the dog next door.

Wash hair. Rinse life. Step out.

Now for the clothes I oh-so-helpfully laid out earlier. Except now I hate them.

The dress feels tight. Like, right round the ribcage. Not that tight, but tight enough to make me wonder if my lungs are expandable or decorative today.

Tights? “One size fits all” - aye okay then. My thighs have entered the chat and they have notes.

Shoes on. Two-inch heels. Already regretting it. One foot’s throbbing and I haven’t left the house yet.

Makeup. I decide to go full fresh face - which is code for where the fuck is my mascara.

It should be in the big makeup caddy. It’s not. Of course it’s not.

What is in there?

Three lipsticks I don’t like, a rogue eyeliner from 2021, and a hair clip that last saw action in the pandemic.

Whatever. I’m mostly done. Mostly alive. Mostly functioning.

Still, I’m feeling fresh. Sort of. So I pluck the courage out of the atmosphere and decide to pop to the chemist at the back of my house. It’s raining - of course it’s raining - so I grab my jacket, clip-clop out the door, and…

It’s shut.

Shut. Fifteen minutes ago.

Saturday, you absolute bastard.

Clip-clop back home, half-drenched, dressed like a summer brunch ad from the neck down and a haggard Victorian widow from the chin up. Cute.

And you know what’s wild?

I used to do this every single day. More, actually. Hours spent getting ready. Perfectly coordinated outfits. Scented like a goddamn luxury candle. Makeup flawless. Hair obedient.

Now?

Keeping up appearances isn’t on the radar anymore. For what reason?

It’s getting closer to the time to leave and my partner calls his daughter. She’s at her mum’s just now.

It’s her birthday today. Thirteen today.

And it’s off to a great start…

When she answers the phone, her voice says it all. She’s not okay.

She’d been with her mum, and by the sounds of it, they’d had a full-volume fallout. Teenager vs Parent, Birthday Edition. She ditched the sitch and walked to Sainsbury’s to wait for us.

Honestly?

Can’t blame her

I’ve barely made it out the bathroom and I’m already cooked, and now it’s not just me that’s spiralling. Brilliant.

Time to leave the house and go play birthday backup.

When we get there, she’s standing with a face like thunder. I don’t blame her for that either. I’d have brought the whole storm at that age. She’s wearing the only clean hoodie she could find, or maybe not clean anymore, because at some point she spilled milkshake down the front. On her birthday.

No one made sure she had a nice outfit laid out, no fresh jumper, nothing ready for her to wake up to.

And she didn’t stay at ours last night, so… out of our hands. But it still feels wrong.

Five minutes later, we’re in the shop. She’s being asked to pick a new jumper and she’s huffing. Not in a bratty way, in a burnt-out kid who’s already used up her spoons before lunch kind of way.

She says no to four options, which I respect deeply. She has her own style. Eventually, she finds one she can live with. I grab a tube of mascara for myself because I’m still half-face and the chemist episode earlier didn’t pan out.

We head to the bathroom to change.

Cue: SECURITY ALARMS.

Turns out my £10 mascara still has a tag on it.

Do I care? Absolutely not. We’ve got the receipt. We’re not shoplifting mascara in broad daylight in matching dresses and birthday hoodies.

She panics. Of course she does. I see her bracing, her face flushing, the embarrassment blooming in real time.

I remember that exact flush, that 13-year-old “please let the floor open and swallow me” moment. I lived in it for years.

But not today.

Not on your birthday.

Not with me.

“Let’s go,” I say. One eye roll and a reluctant stomp down the hallway into the bathroom.

Eight minutes later she comes out of the stall and I can see it all over her.

She’s done.

The day’s too much.

She’s hanging on by the thinnest thread of internal effort. I know that feeling.

I live that feeling.

And it hurts watching someone you love wear it. I want to grab her and hug her and tell her I know, I know exactly how she feels. I wish I could explain “you don’t have to feel like this” but of course - how could I expect that? I don’t even know how to do that.

And suddenly I’m back inside the changing room on my 18th birthday.

My uncle had picked out a dress for me, something fancy, thoughtful. I wanted to love it. And I did, in theory. But I was already stressed from the crowd and the noise and the whole bloody day.

He asked me to try it on, and I tried to say no. But I didn’t say it properly, not with any authority. So I people-pleased my way into that changing room and immediately fell apart. Hot, claustrophobic, overstimulated.

When he called in, asking if I was okay, I snapped.

Proper snapped. Full-volume bitch-mode.

And I still feel guilty about it.

That’s why I didn’t bear-hug the birthday girl, it’s either the only thing you need, or the last thing you need. People-touch when you’re maxed out on icks - god no.

She pulls the new jumper over her head, and I can see it happening. She hates it. The fabric’s new and scratchy and probably laced with betrayal. It looks lovely but it’s all wrong. She’s over it. Doesn’t want to carry the hoodie she had on earlier either. It’s too much.

So we cross the road, take the bag to her mum’s, and she runs in. Comes back out wearing a different jumper.

I try not to scream into the void.

Why?

Why didn’t we start with that one?

Why the jumper roulette?

Now we’re £18 down for something she’ll probably never wear again.

Whatever. As long as she’s happy.

Except she’s not.

Now she feels underdressed and over-stressed. Her dad’s in a suit. I’m still brunching in a floaty floral number with uncomfortable shoes.

She’s in trainers and leggings and invisible armour. I know that armour. I wore it all the way through my twenties.

I try to say something comforting. Something like:

“People walk past and don’t even notice you. Honestly. Fuck them. Be comfortable. You’ve got nothing to prove.”

But I know. I’ve said it before and will say it again:

I know exactly how she feels.

I’ve cancelled so many brunches, drinks, nights out and dinners because I got to the point she’s at.

She’s doing better than I did. She still came to lunch.

And then, as if the universe needed to add extra sauce, we get there and it’s chaos.

It’s so busy.

She hates it.

Wishes we’d stayed in and ordered food instead.

Honestly?

Same.

We walk round the entire fourth floor of St James Quarter like lost Sims before settling on the original plan.

Classic.