At my fingertips

About this time last year I was writing about the importance of corporeality. I’ve never had difficulty with accepting intellectual pleasures, but physical ones present immediate self judgement. Eating, drinking, drifting into sleep, accidental contact with another live being … you can imagine where this list might go, yet even the simplest of these can be a source of guilt and shame.

Approaching the bar of my local pub on NYE, I was pondering how best to get served. Wearing my favourite little red dress with a thick, long teal cardi thrown over and a blousey scarf round my neck to soften the overall effect. I was dressed up for my own amusement much more than anyone else’s.

I smiled at an older man who was by the bar, a friendly and habitual gesture that I’d not have remembered later if it hadn’t set a subtle chain of events in motion. He moved to open up a path directly to the bar for me, a welcome gesture, and I moved into the space enjoying the tiny dance of our interaction. As I did so, his fingers brushed into my space, fingertips gently against the curve of my hip for an instant. I felt the fleeting contact through the thin material of my dress, respectful with an undercurrent of patriarchy. A minuscule dance of communication that, if I’d wished to ward off, I could easily have done so.

Contrast that with the younger man, now next to me at the bar. Without realising it I managed to get served a moment ahead of him and petulance seethed from him as I turned to ask him if the drink in front of me was his (it was not). He perceived me as an equal unlike the older man, but also as a rival. He was taller than me, but I had the edge on him intellectually and in my ability to navigate the other personalities within the environment. I had a suspicion the situational nuances were lost on him.

I am not sure which I prefer. Both had their moments of intrigue and pleasure in the interaction spawned. I am not entirely easy with the brief interaction couched within traditional gender roles. As if I betrayed the struggles of feminism by not only allowing it, but worse, by the brief surge of pleasure at the subtle physical dance of it. At being human, with other human beings.

As a closing thought, I came across this while reading a book on window box gardening yesterday. The tone of the book suggests the author as a brusque, English, matronly character. I can hear her voice ringing with an air of no nonsense as she delivers the last few words. Maybe being in the thick of life isn’t so bad after all.

“[in support of the practice of avoiding gloves while gardening] … this at least lets the hands feel what they are touching, whereas gloves do not, a large proportion of the pleasure being on the other side of the glove – one might as well wear gloves while making love.”
– Window Box Allotment, Penelope Bennett