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Sunday, November 8, 2015

Have you let yourself go during your marriage?

I’ve had a large, local reaction. No, I haven’t been running laps on my front lawn in my undies and titillating the neighbours.

I’ve had a large, local reaction to the wasp that decided it didn’t like the cut of my jib on Thursday. There’s a big, red, hot lump on my elbow. 

Celine the fox terrier came over and sniffed it a moment ago and whined something that sounded a lot like the word, ‘aaaampuuuutaaaaate’.

Dogs know these things. They can sniff out cancerous tumours and everything.

"Don't say I didn't warn you!"

It’s okay though, it’s my left arm. How much do you think an arm weighs? (I was just thinking it’d be a very quick way to lose a couple of kilos.)

Despite the vicious wasp assault, I’ve maintained my 5am starts and walks but decided to err on the side of caution and walk along the street instead of the foliage-lined river path. It’s not as picturesque but I don’t have to be as vigilant about looking out for snakes and spiteful wasps.

I showed my elbow to Scotto on Skype but the redness didn’t show up enough on the washed out screen to elicit much sympathy. 

Please don't focus on the enormous bat wing hanging under my arm.
It's hormonal. A hormonal bat wing.

Agreeing to communicate with Scotto via Skype was not something that came easily to me. The thought of chatting to him on the telephone in sexy, appealing, dulcet tones, but with no makeup on, greasy skin, unwashed/combed hair and wearing a stained, ripped t-shirt whilst picking my nose or flicking through a magazine, seemed like the ideal long distance relationship mode of communication to me. 

What you can’t see can’t hurt you and all that. But I missed seeing his big, boofy head and finally acquiesced to a face to face.

I suppose I’ve let myself ‘go’ a bit over the last ten years (since getting married) and in this past ten days, sans husband, my physical appearance has deteriorated exponentially. I’ve enjoyed lolling around in baggy shorts and going braless in tent-like t-shirts on the weekends.

My friend and real estate agent, Nettie, and I went for a coffee and a walk around the shops yesterday after the open house. She was dressed in a neat little pencil skirt, a white silk blouse and heels and I looked like a recently electrocuted homeless person who’d just crawled out of her sleeping bag.

I picked a dress off the rack in one of the boutiques.

“This is nice,” I said hopefully, feeling around for the price tag.

“It’s a sack, Pinky!” Nettie scoffed. “It has no waist. Besides I hate those high necklines.”

“But this style hides a big belly and the neckline protects your upper chest from the sun,” I stammered.

“Bugger the sun,” Nettie pooh-poohed me. “I think a bit of décolletage needs to be on show.”
I looked down at the floor in shame and spied her perfectly groomed, pink toenails under the sparkling straps of her pretty sandals, then glanced across to the gnarled bunion poking out the side of my rubber thong.

My toenails were so long they could Julienne a carrot and they were a dull grey colour with one black, crusty pinky-toe.

Nettie is an eligible single lady, you see. She still makes an effort. Women who get pedicures take care of themselves, unlike dirty-toed, old cows like me.

Sigh. I want a pedicure now but I think my bunion precludes me from even entering one of those nail salons. The young girls would shriek, ‘Pariah!’ and push me out the door. If they happened to notice the carbuncle wasp bite on my elbow they’d call the health authorities for sure.

Anyway, Scotto can’t see my feet on Skype.

I’ve decided what I’ll do next time I Skype Scotto, is smear Vaseline all over the camera lens on my laptop (I was about to smear it all over the screen but then I realised it wouldn’t work).

I’ll turn the lights off and wear a hat to cover my unwashed hair. That should create a dewy, mysterious look.

Any other smoke and mirror tips?