Grief / Moan

Can I see your ID please?

When I was younger, I used to make up stories about who I was and what I did.  My hairdresser genuinely thought for severaI years that was a teenage professional opera singer.  I started going clubbing at the age of 18 with my fake ID from music school.  When I know I can get away with taking the piss with strangers, I sometimes still make up elaborate stories, especially when in a high mood and drunk.  It’s quite possibly linked to my bipolar.  There’s the recent time I went to a dull launch for a book about marketing and told people that I designed the cover art.  The cover was black with some colourful boxes on it and the title in Times New Roman 30 point white font.  People complimented me.  I then went one step further and explained that I was the narrator of the audio book.  They also believed this.  Suckers.  But then again, I’m excellent at lying – even to myself (‘You can get through this widow shit! Keep breathing!’) and to people close to me (‘I’m fine, I totally don’t want to kill myself sometimes and I’m not an alcoholic anymore).

Last week, I was posing in Vegas with Mr Man Bun, toting, among other essentials, seven pairs of shoes, three revealing party slut dresses, two demure long dresses, enough makeup for a drag queen, hair straighteners, and two pairs of Gucci diva sunglasses. We looked fabulous and heads turned.  If I’d been on the hunt for a sugar daddy, I so would have snared one.  I never dress up like that normally; I may be a lipstick lesbian, but I like my Converse (with sequins) and usually have my bum cheeks relatively covered.  My Vegas visual identity for the week was certainly different to the one I’m sporting right now, which consists of no make-up, Alex Voss OITNB glasses, my late wife’s pink pajama bottoms and a red Planet Hollywood Chicago t-shirt I got when I was 4 years old. I haven’t showered.

As is common practice in the US, I was asked for my ID every time we tottered from flashy casino to trashy casino, piano bar to gay bar.  I may have had Botox, but I look very much over 21, and my driving licence backs this up. My identity may have changed so much since I became widowed, but my identity on paper remains the same and, unless I elaborate further, people are none-the-wiser.  Same name.  Same date of birth.  Same place of birth.  Same appearance (ish. I guess my boobs aren’t as perky as in my youth and widowrexia has taken some toll).  Same nationality. Same signature.

It’s only inside and behaviour wise that I feel like a totally different woman.  I’ve been through enough mentally for a whole bloody life-time, not 29 years.  I’m half a wife, half a single woman.  I’m a diva, I love the stage and nobody is smothering my ambition.  I’m financially independent.  I sleep around and I’m allowed to.  I’m broken-hearted. I’m feistier than ever. I’m grounded and I have a perspective that few women my age will, fortunately, ever have. I bounce around on trampolines with glowsticks for exercise.  I go to $100 Britney (bitch) gigs in Vegas instead of £4 with a wristband Saturday night popstar appearances at G-A-Y in London. I always have wine in the fridge.

In Vegas, I tried different approaches to the truth when talking to people – all men, because women never approach me.  My next few blog posts will chronicle my encounters with four of them since there’s far too much ridiculousness to chronicle just here.

In brief:

  • Vegas Man #1 believed everybody who wasn’t black was out to get him and it was only after about three hours of drunken conversation that I dropped lesbianbomb and then widowbomb, causing him to walk away with his tail between his legs;
  • Vegas Man #2 believed Mr Man Bun and I were minor British TV celebrities;
  • Vegas Man #3 was a singing twat who I humiliated in front of a bar full of spectators; and
  • Vegas Man #4 only got the truth about me in a professional capacity, which led to my debut performance with a live band at Caesar’s Palace and standing ovation.

Next time – Vegas Man #1

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