Yesterday I received the ultimate compliment. No, not on my looks. On a higher good. The one commenting no doubt feeling very pleased with himself since it was one of those backhanders when you are favourably compared to someone few people can abide. No, not John Humphreys, the Rottweiler. Better. Much much better. I am so pleased I am glowing. No bull. I am glowing.
Who have you been compared to? And why? Please don’t say Marilyn Monroe. I won’t believe you. Talking of whom: Some years back and to my detriment in public standing, it was established that one of my favourite films is “Some like it hot”, mainly on account of Daphne (Jack Lemon in drag and tottering on high heels). Was there ever anything more delicious than him reminding himself “I am a girl, I am a girl, …” whilst lying next to Marilyn Monroe? That’s one of the advantages for a woman like me lying next to Marilyn Monroe. You know you are a girl. And please please please don’t bring the Lesbo combo down on me. It’s not my fault that I am hardcore hetero. Even if politically incorrect. There is only so much Zeitgeist one can observe before forced to join a cloister.
Shall there ever be an end to my beauty? One of my upper incisors has cracked. Yes, I know my dentist told me that I clearly grind my teeth at night. Still, there are boundaries. Bit of respect won’t go amiss. First you clean them then they grind. Better them than me.
Good job I am not American. I wouldn’t pass muster. Though am better than your average English.
My sister-in-law and her grandmother have teeth like a horse. Or an American with help. Perfect. Not a filling in their lives. I have gold from when I was still in the motherland. British dentists in awe of it. Yeah, well. Whatever. Sometimes it’s better to invest long term than taking a short cut.
Since I like to shine light on things how they are my magnifying mirror has confirmed the worst. Next my gums will bleed.
Please do look forward to many more life enhancing shots where this one is coming from
Unlike Martin Luther King I don’t so much “have A dream” as many. One of them it being easier to reach the upper half of my back. And I say this as someone who is supple. And whose shoulder joints are not rusty.
The back. If it were a toy we’d all see the design fault. It’s an easy chat up line when down at the beach and, no doubt, one of the reasons people get married: “Can you rub some sun lotion onto my back?” One of these days I will invent a contraption that makes access to your back easy – without getting married. Or asking a total stranger.
Still, it could be worse. Imagine you weren’t able to reach your hands, manicure your fingernails. It’d be awful. Don’t say I don’t put things into perspective.
Yes, the body is a wonderous thing. And that’s before you consider the mystery workings of your innards. I don’t know how many showers I have had in my life, washed my hair. Yet sometimes, particularly in the last few years – maybe ennui/inertia creeping in, I fantasize about being able to take certain body parts off, not least my overly long hair, and chuck them into the washing machine. Press start. 55 minute programme on ‘delicate’. Dry and iron. Put back where it belongs. Come to think of it this would make a marvellous story and/or film – guaranteed to give your children nightmares: Your skin being laundered. During the wash walking around like one of those ghastly stripped depictions you got in old school books (biology) or pickled/mummified at the Josephinum (Wien, Austria). And then, of course, there was what’s his name? Dr Hagen … something. Caused a sensation in Germany and round Europe with his real life dead bodies.
No, I haven’t gone mad. Which reminds me: One part of my body I do leave well alone. My brain. May it grow cobwebs. I am not prepared to run the risk of letting it shrink or go pink in the wash. Particularly as I never bank on the washing machine’s door opening at the end of its cycle. A recurring nightmare of mine. Which nearly came true the other day.
Today I bought a celeriac. Isn’t there beauty in what is ugly?
There are questionable sayings. Like “Whenever a door closes another one opens”. Not in my experience. A door will close (make sure your foot doesn’t get caught in it and just walk down the corridor – an exit will show itself) and then – after a suitable interval of agonizing – not ONE, nay, several doors will open all at once. Like buses. First there is none for twenty minutes. Then you’ve forgotten which number is yours. Come to think of it: That’s how carelessly I live my life. Some of my wonderous fellow human beings having it all mapped out. Sweethearts, if you are one of them make sure you know how to read a map without having to turn it upside down in order to take the right or left turn on route from A to B.
Apropos of nothing: I don’t like revolving doors. They are a menace and in these ‘health and safety’ hyper aware times should be banned.
As metaphors go this is good.
When Maupassant’s friends asked him why he ate dinner, every day, half way up the Eiffel Tower, he said: “Because it’s the only place in Paris where you can’t see the Eiffel Tower.”
Don’t dismiss it. Think about it. Let if fester.