Sunday, February 19, 2012

A Grey V-Day.

With age and maturity I have developed an appreciation for the finer things in life.  I realise that I may be getting on, but there is much in the way of modern technology that makes me feel, at very least, that I'm not starting to look haggard and, at best (like on those good days), that I'm even improving with age.

Sure, maturity allows one to feel a little more comfortable in one's skin.  So while I may have a larger-than-average buttocks, they're my buttocks and there's very little I can do about them.  I won't wear those uber short denim shorts that simultaneously (in the name of fashion) create moose knuckle.  But that's okay.  There's plenty else I can wear and anyway, I've got confidence which helps everyone overlook a large arse, of this I'm absolutely convinced.

Take the new Benefit base for example: that stuff is amazing.  In four or five seconds, I'm rid of a number of sins that previously would have labeled me The Eternal Spinster.  Black rings?  What black rings?  Acne?  Who's got acne?  Wrinkle-shminkle.

No, seriously, I've been a happy little lass of late.  The life I lead has been so filled with such joy that I've really liked being me:

1) The Daughter's independence in the sea now means that I can body board alongside her - super radness.

2) Survived Midmar Mile without drowning not even once - am a machine.

3) Have new live-in full-time Armpit who is not only amazing with The Daughter but also cooks - FOR THE WIN.

And so it was that I approached Valentine's Day as a single dame with very little concern.  I've got so much radness in my life that the last thing I want right now is to have to cancel really cool plans on account of a 100 kg + yoke around this independent neck. Besides which, there's the odd Secret Admirer scattered here and there, so the day itself did not leave me reaching for razor blades with a warm bath run.

That is, until I decided to take a few minutes out of my day to catch up with Lovely Secretary With Eye Level Mirror In Her Office (whom, for the purposes of this blog we'll simply refer to as Lovely Secretary).

So, picture the scene: I was engaging in idle chit-chat with Lovely Secretary whilst inspecting what was likely poorly applied (on account of morning rush) make-up:

The Pant: (inspecting) Lovely Secretary, this base is amazing... Don't you think?

Lovely Secretary:  Wonderful Pant.

TP: (perusing blendage at hair line)  Could have spent a little more time blending though.

LS: (not looking up from work) Mmmmmmmmmm....

TP:  How do you get your base to blend so nicely?

LS: Pardon?

TP:  (still absent-mindedly inspecting) Never min- OH MY FUCK!

LS:  (shocked) WHAT?

TP:  What the fuck is this (pointing at hairline)?

LS:  Your hair?

TP:  Look closely.

LS:  It's still your hair.

TP:  What colour is it?

LS:  Looks blonde.

TP:  I. Don't. Have. Blonde. Hair.

LS:  No.  You don't.  Except for those two.

TP: (unable to hide intense fear) TWO?

LS:  Yup.  Two.

Moments later, I had pulled a pair of rusty tweezers out of the closest First Aid kit and extracted the two offending hairs from my hairline.  Which I then inspected against a dark surface and realised that there was nothing blonde about these fuckers.  They were as grey as my mood.

Fucking dog shit poes cock dick neighbour-of-anus!

Greying and lonely on Valentine's Day.  Brilliant.

1 comment:

  1. I've employed the dying-my-hair-constantly-so-as-to-remain-in-denial-method of aging. Any emergent grey hairs are camouflaged in a multi-hued follicular concoction. On the down side people think I'm a natural ginger...