The Twitch by Bibi Baxter

THE CONTENTS OF THIS PAGE

The Twitch (Please scroll to the next box)
Return of the Twitch (Under Construction)

THE TWITCH

by Bibi Baxter

Advancing reluctantly yet rapidly towards the twilight of my womanhood means that every new wrinkle is greeted with dismay. Furthermore, as if that were not enough to contend with, I am besieged by a supporting cast of varicose veins, swollen ankles, drooping breasts, obesity, high blood pressure, haemorroids, protruding/bloated stomach, etc.... all of which herald defeat in the world of glamour.

Each year, competing in the beauty stakes has presented me with such enormous challenge that I have had to become a "mistress of disguise", able to conceal the signs of deterioration, which seem to be multiplying faster than a pair of breeding rabbits.

It is difficult not to dwell on the unfairness of it all, particularly after being a former "beauty", because no longer am I worthy of a second look. The fact is that not only have I become invisible to the man in the street, but also to the man in the office, the supermarket and wherever else men might congregate. It was under such circumstances that I went to work in France in 1994. An adventure for anyone, but even more so for a soul-searching granny.

Then IT happened! Over the years, I had felt a slight spasm just under the lower lid of my left eye; it had been so slight that it had been unnoticeable even in the mirror. Unfortunately, a few stressful years took their toll and the twitch blossomed to become an uncontrollable gremlin; to make matters worse people thought I was winking at them! I had no control over it and it embarrassed me time and time again - particularly in interviews and when in the company of my teenage son's school friends. I would notice them suddenly sit up and look at me intently, wondering if I had winked at them.

But what can be done to rectify a problem which not only adds premature wrinkles, but which also threatens to destroy my creditability in one fell swoop with everyone I meet? I considered wearing an eye patch, but decided against it, especially as my home was called “Shivering Timbers”. I moved my hair parting, so my hair fell across the twitching eye, instead of the normal one. This seemed the best option until I discovered that my hair was not only rebelling at being combed in a direction alien to the one it had always known, but it was trying to flop back to its original position with such gay abandon that I looked like a shaggy dog, thereby giving an opposite impression to the one for which I was striving. To make matters worse, the delicate skin around my eye was being jerked at such a rate of knots as to accelerate the wrinkling process, so I had one wrinkled eyelid and one unwrinkled one.

The last straw came when I noticed, to my amazement, that one of the students in my class, a mature French lady who was particularly nice and sympathetic towards me, was twitching her eye frantically at me across the classroom; it must have taken her hours, days and even weeks to perfect a skill which I can only do involuntarily, but which she had taken to be worth copying. It did not stop there. Not only did other students (of other nationalities) in other classes suddenly start perfecting this dubious skill, but also the dentist winked at me several times and the toddler next door gave a good imitation of my affliction each time I arrived at my door.

Nothing is wholly bad, of course. It's an ill wind .......etc. The practice in commercial enterprises in France (when not kissing frantically on each cheek) is to shake hands with everyone when meeting and leaving. The director of the particular enterprise in which I was teaching, was exceptionally handsome - tall, dark, mid-thirties with an open-top sports car and a moustache. In the true French tradition, he shook hands with me each day in the corridor whenever we met; I used to hope and pray that my eye would behave itself at least on those occasions, but as stress accentuated the twitch and I was nervous in his presence, these hopes were in vain.

After a while, I began to feel that he was engineering the meetings and, having invested in a mini-skirt, I began to wonder if my ageing was not as drastic as the mirror had led me to believe. One day I noticed him look searchingly at my left eye as we undertook the routine handshaking and suddenly it was patently clear that, not only did he think I was winking at him as I formally shook hands and wished him Bonjour, but that he was also delighted to be winked at in such a manner. I just could not believe my luck! What a boost to my self-confidence, especially as mature women are treasured in France.

Clearly every middle-aged woman should have such a twitch. Far from being the curse I expected it to be, it was my greatest asset. I loved working in France and although it was a busman's holiday whereby I had swapped one stressful hectic life for one with a different set of pressures and responsibilities, it was obviously doing me some good to be there.

It was therefore with great dismay that I saw my twitch melt away little by little, slowly waning and diminishing until it disappeared altogether. My most powerful asset, the one which had enabled an overweight, middle-aged old biddy to feel sexually attractive by ensuring that handsome men greeted me with an eager smile on their face, had deserted me. I hoped it would return, because I realised it was a vital accessory to my fading womanhood which I desperately wanted back!

RETURN OF THE TWITCH

UNDER CONSTRUCTION