Mother Nature’s Wicked Sense of Humour
It was quite a revelation this morning when I jumped out of bed in happy expectation of a brand new day – only to find that for the first time in my life something other than my feet hit the carpet first.
As I sleep butt naked, I’m sure you can imagine what I forlornly ended up dragging along the beige shagpile towards the bathroom, whilst avidly avoiding hubby’s boots that had hastily been kicked off the night before. Needless to say, double nipple burn is not pleasant but I counted myself lucky that I hadn’t smacked them into the wrought iron candle holder on the landing.
Somehow, and I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed it sooner, I had grown old.
Everything that had previously pointed North, had suddenly decided to take a road trip South. They didn’t bother packing an overnight case or think it necessary to let me know where they were going, or leave a forwarding address. They just bloody got up and went between 10pm the night before and 8.30am in the morning.
As I plonked myself down on my silent flush, low level budget bog, my once pert nellies rolled out to comfortably drape themselves across my upper thighs.
I wanted to cry.
I’d got used to pulling out the odd grey hair that had begun to adorn my head. Even a single stray that had hung tantalisingly out of what was left of my right eyebrow last February, got the rapid tweezer movement, but THIS….. this was something else. Whilst brushing my teeth, I desperately tried to console myself that at least nature hadn’t combined the two and given me hairy nipples. Then again, on closer inspection, I could be wrong.
Plucking at the fine fluff adorning them I give a sigh of relief. Carpet fibres. I offer up a solitary, half hearted, thank you.
As my luck would have it, Mother Nature decided she wanted to give me one more kick in the Tena Ladies, as my day got gradually worse.
Once I’d hoisted my hooters back into their rightful place with a bra that had seen better days, I casually dressed myself in shorts and t-shirt for a bit of gardening. I have an agreement with my hubby. His knees creak less than mine, so he does the weeding and I do the watering. Actually….. talking of watering, that’s another aspect of impending old age. A need for what’s commonly called amongst us oldies, APP.
Advanced Pee Planning.
If you don’t monitor your fluid intake you sure as hell better carry plenty of change and know the prime location of every toilet facility within a three miles radius – intimately! Pretending you’re an Irish Clog dancer to cover the jiggling, whilst dragging the depths of your handbag for a 20 pence piece is soul destroying.
Right, so far we’ve got droopy nellies, hairy nipples, creaky knees and bladder weakness, all signs of old age that has crept up on you whilst you have, in sublime ignorance, carried on with your blissful life, believing you are drinking from the fountain of eternal youth.
So, where was I? Oh yep, gardening. So there I am, happily watering the back garden in my best cerise pink Crocs, you know, those delightful plastic things with holes all over them, allegedly for aeration, but in stark reality it’s really where your street cred slowly seeps out with each squelchy step. This is my shameful confession – I am a secret Croc wearer.
I never venture out in public for fear of ridicule, although I did get shitfaced once on the cooking sherry (one for the pot, two for me) whilst making a Beef Bourguignon, forgot I was wearing them and went out to empty the bin. The look on my neighbours face said it all.
I knew that from that moment on I would forever be ostracised from the Meols Mummies Group, and as a consequence, invites to Aloe Vera Product parties, Ann Summers and Gin Evenings would never again rattle through my letterbox or bleep on my mobile phone.
I was so distraught at being caught red handed, or should I say cerise pink footed, that I finished off the rest of the bottle, burnt the Bourguignon and woke up eight hours later in bed wearing nothing but my bloody Crocs and a half-hearted smile. According to Hubby, getting my clothes off was easier than trying to prise those dratted things from my sweaty feet, so he’d left them on. Well at least that’s what he told me, maybe he had a ‘thing’ about naked women wearing Crocs. Sadly, due to my alcohol induced coma I will never know, but if he buys me a new pair for Christmas I’ll be seeking an appointment with a Deviancy Counsellor.
Anyway, back to gardening and Croc wearing.
I was happily enjoying a quiet five minutes whilst still mourning my loss of gravity and bounce over a glass of chilled white wine. The glossy pages of the LaRedoute catalogue, open at the the underwear section, fluttered and shimmered in the sun along with a landing strip of hair on my shin that I must have missed during my most recent leg de-fuzzing session without my glasses. I studied each youthful lingerie model with growing envy. Not one of them had droopy nellies, flabby tums, nasal hair or cellulite. One well toned red-head, her hair tumbling across her shoulders, softly draping over her buoyant boobies grinned out at me from the pages, gloating. I was just in the process of wishing a thousand boils upon her pretty face, when the doorbell rang.
…..and this is how my day ended.
“Oh hi, I was just wondering if you could take this in for one of your neighbours?”
There, standing on my ‘Feck Off’ doormat was the epitome of manhood. A Poldark lookalike. His smouldering eyes swept from my feet to my head, a glint of a smile touched the corner of his full lips.
Rooted to the spot, I desperately tried to hoist my newly drooped baps up another two inches by leaning backwards against the doorframe whilst simultaneously trying to hide my Croc-clad feet behind a nearby plant pot…..
…..only for them to suddenly emit a horrendously loud ‘fart’ as my damp, sweaty feet forced a rush of air through the holes.
“Oh dear, that’s one good reason for not wearing these dreadful plastic shoes isn’t it?” I coyly proffered, desperately trying to hide my embarrassment.
Mr Poldark grinned.
“Gosh, I wouldn’t worry too much love, my Nan suffers from flatulence too. She has tablets for it…”
And THAT my lovely friends, is why women over fifty shouldn’t wear Crocs!
All I’ve got to look forward to now is giving my granddaughters the obligatory electric shock from my upper lip hair (which I’m in the process of excitedly cultivating) whenever I give them a kiss goodbye, along with milky cocoa, Ponds Cold Cream and a hair net at bedtime.
So, whilst you digest that depressing thought, I’m off to pencil in my ever diminishing eyebrows so that when the postman tells me about Nora from next door-but-one dragging her droopy nellies across her memory foam mattress whilst pleasuring the milkman, I can at least raise something to show how surprised I am..!