The women in my life are breathtakingly marvellous. Beautiful, accomplished, independent, opinionated, fiesty, fashionable, sweet natured but strong, and with a hedonistic streak of mischief. And, quite deliciously, there’s not a bitchy bone among us. Of course, this doesn’t preclude the odd piss-taking audible mutter or practical joke. To be a truly good girl you need to allow yourself a few small evils.
With the advent of summer we’re all starting to dust off our frocks, deciding a few weeks back that we’d go for a pleasure ride one weekend. It’s a simple premise: girls with tousled hair, pretty sundresses and adorable high heels, cycling blithley around the lakeside, ringing bells and waving to all and sundry. Thus, the Pleasure Society was born.
Until recently I’ve had an ambivalent relationship with the word ‘pleasure’ and I blame Jean M Auel, she of the “Clan of The Cave Bear” series of novels. As a euphemism for sex, ‘pleasure’ is at once a bit gross (it’s the lingering ‘l’ and ‘zh’ sounds, I think) and also completely lame and bland.
I’ve also felt a bit guilty about the induglence of partaking in pleasureable, luxurious activities, as if the fact that most of the world’s population is struggling to get by means I should suffer as much as possible, too, in solidarity. As I grow into being a woman, however, I’ve come to realise that making time for pleasure is not only necessary – it’s sensible!
One is much more able to deal calmly and rationally with the demands of others if one has taken the time to revel in the delights of being alive.
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