Putting aside the state of my lady parts for a moment, the rub with the whole middle-aged dating thing isn’t solely because I have become used to a single way of life. Even in my youth, I was never in a bra-clutching state looking for a mate.

An overhead snippet of conversation hit me between the beans and biscuits one Tuesday in Tesco. It was that "It's never too late to start a diary." Or journal, as my American side of the family will insist. Admittedly, I've heard this sentiment a bunch of times since we last met, but I heard it differently this time  — and I haven't been able to unhear it.

The day I became invisible, I was wearing a button-up cardigan, red tartan wool skirt, and sensible flats that whispered, “Go home and do better” with every step. This was my costume of choice as the restaurant server guided me to a murky table near the restrooms. “Dining alone, madam?” Only my bladder gushed a grateful thanks.

He was nice enough, but I felt exposed during our therapy sessions, so I used an inflated sense of intellect as a fig leaf. I challenged his every assertion instead of listening and engaging with what was being said. Our time together became a battleground in my mind, where I was determined to pass whatever test this was.

As a 15-year-old Afro-Caribbean schoolgirl, I yearned for ‘television hair.’ I coveted the locks of Charlie’s Angels’ Farah Fawcett, platinum blonde pop stars, and my Caucasian friends. I ached for hair that shone, moved, and returned to home base without having to wrestle it into submission when caught in even the puniest of winds.

My first brush with creative criticism came in ‘Little School,’ when I was punished for drawing a red squiggly fish. To be fair, the class had been asked to draw houses.

Smoothing imaginary wrinkles from a starch-white tablecloth — a wedding gift from his aunt — I resist the urge to refold my favourite periwinkle-blue napkins for the third time. Over the years, a newlywed’s wish for “things to be nice” has turned into a nervous tic when hosting these dinners.

The first time an online troll came after me and one of my essays, my self-worth shattered. I strained my back over the coming months, trying to pick my self-esteem off the floor.

If not a dystopian portrait aging in the attic, my slide into vanity-lite has been as insidious, a gradual, snake-like process. Occasional hisses hinting at declining standards were ignored as I cranked up the volume on my Walkman, clambered onto four-inch heels, and click-clacked those hisses into silence.