Confessions of a 60-something body. Yes, you guessed it: I have just ordered a set of vaginal cones.
In case you are not familiar, these squidgy triangles are the female equivalent (or opposite, if you want to be picky) of penis enlargers. Think of them as pilates for the pudenda. A gynaecological gym. I have only heard of them because when, in the early 90s, I was dumped by Trevor – he of the TCP for aftershave and over-ironed high-waisted trousers – I questioned where on earth I had gone wrong.
I had found him work. I had bought him copious M&S ready meals and secured him many, many free gangsta-rap CDs. My flat in Old Street was a mere hundred yards from his office, whereas living with his parents entailed an hour-long schlep from Ealing. (I know from bitter experience that men only date in relation to how many miles the sat-nav lady tells them to drive.)
So, suddenly single, I bought a step machine and the aforementioned cones: not that there was much traffic in that area for many, many years. After he dumped me, he left a message on my answerphone (oh, the days of haring home, jumping over Squeaky and Snoopy at my front door to see if a little red light was flashing!) telling me he was grateful, and that he would always be my friend.
I never heard from him again. Oh, just once, when I became editor of a glossy magazine. My PA put him through only for him to ask if I could secure him a free flight to Jamaica and advising me not to let my new power go to my head. I couldn’t, and it did.
Other horrors of a 60-something body?
What will greet me today, Valentine’s Day Boxing Day? Why am I thanking my lucky stars that I’m single, and not just because I’m spared having to give a death stare to forecourt gypsophila? I’m wary of slippery autumn leaves and also never walk Teddy when it’s icy. Even a hot-water bottle beneath my jumper convinces no one I’m pregnant. At the M&S self-service till, the assistant has no need to even glance at my face before she verifies my purchase of alcohol. What gives me away? Posture? Old-lady buttocks in my leggings? I’m going to ask her next time.
But I’m lucky in many ways. I read recently of the death of a former colleague. She was only in her late 50s and died after a short battle with cancer. She had a great career, a husband, a house in North London that was doubtless paid for. But all that counts for nothing if your body lets you down.
If all it throws at you is the odd wiry nose hairand, when you examine your feet in the bath, you find yourself singing ‘Purple veins, pu-urple veins’ in the manner of pop star Prince, then you owe it a huge debt of thanks.
Anyway, you use vaginal cones to exercise your pelvic-floor muscles, which, given that I am now almost incontinent, I thought I could do with, and that it will therefore encourage me to get out more. I have ordered them on Amazon as, if in the unlikely case Tesco does indeed stock them, I don’t want them handed gingerly to me by a carrier bags-free delivery man. It’s bad enough when he lobs the hair dye and the sensitive-areas wax strips. I’ve been reading a Substack about what it’s like to be 47, and the woman writes: ‘I’m suddenly a fan of public benches: very good for a wee rest.’ Well, 20 years on she’ll be sitting on them doing her pelvic-floor exercises.
JONES MOANS… WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK
- I try to avoid negative comments (all female columnists get the most awful abuse), but my friend in York mentioned a mean letter published in the Daily Mail. For my own mental health, I didn’t read it. But then another reader cut it out and posted it to me! Turns out a woman in Shrewsbury objects to me moaning each week. Thing is, I moan so you don’t have to. Plus, would you rather Liz Loves… yet another freebie passed off as journalism?
