Tag: humour

Posted on by — 22 Comments

Mirror, mirror on the wall…

Recently I’ve noticed new, small changes to my body which have made me pause and consider. As in, think about the stance I always had on aging. ‘Oh it won’t bother me!’ said I, ‘Wrinkles are a sign that you have lived and laughed in your life, bring it on!’.

Hmm.

Yes well, they ARE. And I do still agree with what I’ve always spouted about aging gracefully and refusing to walk around with skin that looks like it’s been pumped full of liquid rubber or stretched tightly over a drum.

But I must confess there are moments nowadays when the mirror asks a lot of my pure intentions. More than I expected, to be quite frank. In these moments I find myself quietly raising a finger to pull the skin above my eyelids gently upwards “just to see” the difference it would make if I were to… (what? I don’t know!) get something done I suppose, to the slightly sagging skin that is now making its presence felt around my eyes.

It’s confronting, but quietly done because I don’t want anyone to spot me being so vain and frivolous (including myself).

Then there’s that favourite black evening gown hanging upstairs which I must finally acknowledge no longer suits me. Having worn sleeveless tops/dresses for most of my adult life, I am more than a little shocked by the change in my upper arms – when did the muscles start to hang from the bone like loose meat fillets?? And why can’t I make the bodice fit snugly like it always did? Nowadays it bites into my body in strange ways. Looser skin I guess, or something like that.

Geez.

Ah well, chances are I’ll never do much about any of it. I’m too chicken, too poor, a little bit too lazy and even principled on the topic to take any drastic measures but that doesn’t stop me being surprised I even considered it. When you get right down to it, I guess aging is difficult to accept no matter how ‘wise’ you’ve become. I’ve had to work my way through a fair few unexpected health challenges this past year (knock on wood) which shook the balance out of life for a while. Moving away from my private pyjama party on the sofa is a very welcome change let me tell you, with simple things like walking to the bus stop or going shopping for an hour finally back on the agenda. I’m hugely thankful for it.

And yet I can occupy my mind now and then with silly irritations about my skin losing elasticity. It’s too silly.

Maybe I need this little reminder to chill out a bit more.

I’m ready for a good year, I’ve waited and hoped for it so fingers crossed my friends and let’s all be a little easier, kinder to ourselves in 2016. Because life’s just too short for silly worries and irritations.So right now my eyes are looking pretty ok to me, and I’ll be damn happy to go out feeling fabulous in any evening dress, under my own steam this coming year. How’s that for starters!

plastic surgery
I wonder, maybe, what would it be like if I had that bit lifted??
Posted on by — 16 Comments

“Open wide now!”

Is it the fact that the chair goes completely flat, and you lose perspective on the room? or that huge, glaring light that burns into your eyes? What about those shiny, metal instruments that lie in wait, a mere six inches from your nervous, salivating gums?

I know, of course, that it’s one of those things we have to deal with, every six months. And that when it’s over and done with, the next visit will seem light years away and can be shoved back into the drawer of items-we-don’t-talk-about-for-now. But the minute that small white card plops onto the doormat, we gasp with collective horror for the dreaded half-yearly dental check-up has arrived! Yikes. Here we go again.

The thing is… I just can’t stop being fearful of going to the dentist. Even for a check up. Wish I could. Some people are far less bothered and I’d love to be one of them.

It all started when, as a child, I decided to “pull a fast one” in school and on impulse, told teacher that I too had a check-up which (coincidentally) meant leaving school at 10am to head across with my best friend. Dental check-ups, in those days were rare, you see. There was no such thing as ‘going every few months’, still isn’t really, in Ireland. You went to the dentist only when there was an urgent need to do so and your mother’s whisky-soaked cotton wad had failed to rid you of toothache the night before.

Having watched various school pals take entire mornings off, for ‘the dentist’, I decided I wanted in on the act. And in on the act I got. By the time the hopelessly old-fashioned dentist had shot my gums full of anaesthetic with what looked and felt like a monstrosity of a needle, then left me shivering in a freezing waiting room for half an hour before drilling ferociously into two teeth – I had moved firmly into the camp of dentist-haters. And there I have lived, ever since. Dreading each visit, postponing it if feasible and thankful that I’ve seldom needed much done.

By the time I had children, I was determined not to pass on my fears. Cheerily leading them in, I smiled as best I could, tried not to gag at the medicinal smell and told them they had nothing to worry about. But fools they are not, and although they’re less nervous than I am, it stays a challenge, when all is said and done.

Last week was ‘check-up week’. My son, who frequently needs teeth filled, manned up to ‘going last’. My daughter and I go in together. Strength in numbers. By now we have our own code: if she needs me to kick in with moral support, a well timed interruption or mild objections she’ll move her left foot twice.

As the dentist worked his way around her gums, I stayed alert. With maybe three teeth left to check we heard some of the dreaded words from behind the scary mask, “M3, distal, make a note for next time”. The left foot stayed still but the right one twitched. I held my breath and readied myself for battle, “but I think we’re good for now” he finished.

And exhale. For six more months.

Image of nervous patient in dentist chair
Is it the fact that the chair goes completely flat?
Posted on by — 22 Comments

Walking is good too…

I’ve had many unforgettable moments or minor dramas in my life. Usually they make me laugh, cry or see life differently for a while. This was one of those.

Hubby and I were relaxing into week one of this year’s jaunt around Europe in the trusty camper van. With plenty of laughs, wine, good meals munched lazily in the fresh, open air and carefree indulgence doing… as little as possible!

We’d driven through Germany and were now parked before a beautiful lake in Switzerland. The sun was blazing in the sky and the air was still. With mountains on every side – that looked as if they’d been vacuum-cleaned – all we needed was the purple Milka chocolate cow, neck bell a-dangling to complete the picture.

We decided to go for a short cycle. A courageous move on my part, given the knee problems I’ve had all year. But hey, we were on our ‘hols’ and what could go wrong I reasoned.

With hubby leading the way, I slowly and steadily puffed my way up the hill, towards the road. It was a tad steeper than I’d imagined, and the higher I got, the slower I went. By the time I’d almost reached the top I was practically at a standstill, sweat was dripping down my back and the front wheel was wobbling in every direction. “Focus woman, focus” I told myself, “you’re almost there”. I could already see the main road, just one last effort and I’d have made it…

Suddenly I heard a shout from up ahead, “stop! There’s a car coming!”. I panicked. Unable to put my ‘good leg’ down at that exact second, I lost control and crashed to the ground, the bike straddled across me, my legs askew to minimise the fall.

“Shit!” I shrieked, top of my voice, “Shit!! Shit!!”.

“Are you alright?” yelled himself from across the road.

“No, I’m bloody not alright” I hollered back, “I can’t get the bike off me!”

Bent forward, my legs clamped in and my eyes glued to the ground, I suddenly realised a pair of sandaled feet had come to a stop beside me. The ankles were bare, and as I lifted my head I saw to my astonishment that a gown-clad, Tibetan monk was standing right beside me. He reached down and began pulling at the bicycle, trying to lift it off. Terrified that his skinny arms would snap in two, or that he’d mangle my already-aching knee in the process, I gestured wildly for hubby to come help, my eyes berating him for the huge grin on his face.

Three minutes later I was free again. We all shook hands, it seemed a good thing to do. Recovering my equilibrium I talked, quietly, calmly with this gentle man. He advised me to let go of my cycling efforts, saying, “I was watching you go slower and slower, (ouch!) walking is good too“. Told me he’d lived and worked in Asia for 30 years, but was now home to recover. I asked from what. He gestured to his face, “cancer”. I asked if he was getting treatment. “Not the usual kind” was his reply. He’d returned to spend time with his sister.

It was an unusual meeting. Later that evening I held my head in my hands (while my husband laughed out loud) to think, with no small amount of embarrassment, that I’d yelled ‘shit’ in front of a Tibetan monk. In the Swiss mountains. And not just once.

Swiss mountains biker
“Shit!” I shrieked, “shit! shit!”
Posted on by — 18 Comments

Miss Olympics I am not!

The thing is... I’ve always been totally rubbish at anything even vaguely “sporty”. The simplest things my pals in primary school could do (skipping rope/running/jumping) were challenges I tried – and failed – to master. Annual sport events were a tragedy, with last place in the egg-and-spoon race the best I could offer, and even then minus the damn egg. Oh the will was there, certainly – but the legs just refused to pay attention and sluggishly did their own thing.

My sister was equally blessed, although I do recall her winning a sprint once – only problem was she’d started too soon so it didn’t count. She also failed to notice that she was the only one charging down the grass towards the ribbon. Which made it just a little sad, so my mother and I cheered ourselves hoarse when she triumphantly passed the finish line. Because that’s what you do for your loved ones.

By the time I’d passed the big old age of 27, I realised I needed to master something – anything – sporty. Just to show ‘the world’ that I was more than a shopaholic in high heels and could achieve perfect balance in something other than holding up a bar. Which led to many discussions with hubby-to-be. Because not only was I ready to launch myself into some new, physically challenging caper, I wanted him to do it with me. (I’d read somewhere it was good for couples to do things like that). Problem was, we couldn’t agree on what the something would be.

Weeks it took to make a decision, with neither of us liking any of the standard activities like tennis/squash etc. Eventually we settled on horse riding. I liked the sound of it. I even quite liked horses (in films anyway). I also liked the mental image of me galloping over the hills on a beautiful horse, my hair tossed by the wind… He was already very good at it, so I figured I could lean on him for manly support, and sob into his shoulder if it came to it. A win-win, you might say.

We chose a riding school that had a special program for beginners. This reassured me. Beginners wouldn’t have to ‘ride’ the damn horse, at least not for weeks – right? Wrong. Our first lesson consisted out of a grooming session (which I spent tentatively fingering the pretty horse’s shiny locks from as far back as I could, the brush I’d been given hanging loosely in my other hand) followed by a half hour in the indoor ring.

All very well except no one had let the horse in on the secret. Chomping quietly in his stall, he happily ignored my whispered efforts to guide him forwards, swishing his head at me every so often to remind me he was boss. After ten minutes hubby came to get him. The trainer looked at me witheringly, “you’re supposed to walk the horse yourself!” she barked. I smiled at her to show my good will, my stomach twitching with fear. It didn’t seem to help.

By the time I’d hoiked myself into the saddle, my new boots gleaming in the lights, the ground looked terrifyingly far away. Mustering all my courage I soldiered on, after all, this stuff was good for couples – right??! Minutes later, my bottom aching from repeated, off-beat collisions with the saddle as I tried (and failed) to do a proper ‘trot’, a horrid buzzing had begun in my left ear. I’d had enough. “I want to get off!!” I screeched, “No! You must try harder” the trainer yelled back.

“I have a fly in my ear!!” I shouted, as the horse began to dance in circles, my left leg now dangling loose from the stirrup, “let me off!!”.

“No!” she again yelled back (the biddy).

Glancing up into the observation room as we thundered by, I spotted my sister-in-law howling with laughter. An accomplished horsewoman herself, I guess it had been quite some time since she’d seen anyone cavort around the ring that way. We’ve laughed about it many times since. Later that evening my hero held his head in his hands, trying to figure out how a simple riding lesson had gone quite so amok. It wouldn’t surprise him now though, he’s too used to my ways.

But I guess ‘they’ were right after all – it did us some good anyway, ‘cos we can still giggle about it now.

I do still have the boots and yes, they’re still shiny.

Egg and spoon race
The best I could offer was last in the egg-and-spoon race, and then minus the egg!
Posted on by — 10 Comments

In Sickness and In Health…

I love my husband. I do, I really do. Happily married to the dear man for 26 years. We still giggle at the same things. He is my best friend, the first person I share news with when something significant comes along… the only person who makes me feel ‘safe’ if the world comes too close or shouts in my face.

He still brings me a bunch of long stemmed red roses every year for my birthday. Not a lot to complain about there and I know it. Very well.

BUT…

The thing is… Let’s face it. All men have their flaws. And he, as many others before him, is just a little bit of an eejit with certain things. Especially when it comes to finding items in our house. Items that have been IN our house for generations. Or are lying right under his nose. Like the butter in the fridge.

Now for some reason, this one pops up with alarming regularity. Some heinous member of our household ‘moves’ the butter from its usual place to a different spot on the shelf. Maybe 10cm to the left or right – and what does he do? He panics. Instantly jumps to the wrong conclusion, every time again. Standing with the door open he’ll yell to me, “There is no butter!!”.

“Yes there is” I’ll say.

“No, I’ve looked. There’s none!” He’ll reply.

“Yes there is. Look again” say I.

“I’m telling you, there’s none here!”.

Me (slow exhale of breath): “Did you look beside the cheese?”.

He, after a pause, “Well … who put it there??!”

Same thing counts for milk, bread… tins of beans. All of which can be right there in front of him but he just won’t see them unless they’re placed EXACTLY where he expects them to be. Every single time.

Nor does he flourish well if put on the spot to make snap decisions, as I was reminded last month when he was given just ten minutes to prepare an overnight bag for my hospital admittance.

As we waited for the last test result, I suddenly thought of it and wondered how he’d coped. “You did pack some things for me, right love?” I queried. “Yes!” he replied, pride glowing on his face. “Did you grab my nightgown from the bed?” I wondered, with a little bit of hope, “No… ” he replied, his voice a little weaker. This is when I got worried. “So, what did you put in?” I ventured. “The nice black one, hanging on the door” (still proud, but definitely some doubt in there now). “Jesus Christ, not the black, transparent negligee??” I squeaked, my face aghast to think of what the hospital staff would say if they found me lolling in the bed in my ‘sexy bit’. White faced, he whispered, “was that not good?”.

Half an hour later (and one super speedy race back home by him to walk the dog AND pick up a cotton nightie), he was back, the missing nightgown and a toothbrush bundled into a large, garish plastic bag. Smothering my inner, “Mrs. Bouquet” streak – I let that one go.

Two days later, when he showed up with a set of four, seriously HUGE granny knickers – I’m talking deep enough to pull up to my chin – in response to my plea for some new, loose underwear, I let it go too.

Because you know what? once we’d made it past the blips and bloops of the whole process, it was his face (and only his) I wanted, needed to see coming around that door at visiting hour. And when you think about it, finding the butter is a highly overrated skill, after all.

Posted on by — 14 Comments

Bikini or no Bikini, that is the question

There had to be ONE good angle it would work from, right? 

The thing is... I’d been dying to buy myself a fabulous, new bikini for a few years. Kept putting it off. Last summer I finally found the courage to saunter into an elegant swimwear store in the ooh-la-la fabulous, South of France seaside town of St. Jean de Luz. Where hubby and I had been enjoying a taste of the authentic good life in our trusty old camper. Told him I was popping in ‘just to browse’ (yeah, right).

Having loitered in a slightly sinister way outside similar tempting but equally intimidating boutiques many a time – without going in – I surprised myself that day. Maybe it was the clear blue sky, fresh summer breeze or sparkling waves that spurred me on. Or maybe I just had a momentary burst of confidence (not easy after two pregnancies have yanked your stomach muscles out of all recognizable shape). Whatever. All I know is I did it. And I’m still glad I did, even though the little venture made a fairly hefty dent in my purse AND my pride!

Why was I so scared you may ask? Because I knew exactly what was facing me the minute I stepped over that threshold. Reality, that’s what. And a full-length mirror to boot, both of which I’ve become marvelously adept at avoiding in recent years. The Madame of the sumptuous, air conditioned little shop was pleasant and experienced, smilingly tolerating my pigeon French response to her Bonjour greeting that I would let her know if and when I needed her assistance. Without bothering me (and I am easily bothered in stores) she gently slid a small selection of the brightly coloured little items in my direction, her soft voice barely intruding on my feverish thoughts as, trance-like, I slowly succumbed to the general a-la-plage mood of her boutique.

Then, “Quelle taille madame?” (me: frantically wondering why she needs to know my waist measurement before realizing it’s my size she’s after). With only a small measure of shame I tell her size 14. After all, I’m 52 years old, have twice given birth and I enjoy life. Food. A glass of wine with dinner most evenings. Could be worse right? Turned out it is worse. Within minutes I was stepping into the tiny changing room, three bikini tops draped across my arm, her smiling face encouraging me as her skinny little arms yanked the curtain closed. As soon as I caught sight of my pink, sweaty face in the mirror, I knew I was in trouble.

From beyond the narrow bit of fabric that shielded both of us from total embarrassment, she peppered me with questions while I struggled to remove my heavy Diesel sneakers (my husband having insisted I cycle with ‘real shoes, not flip flops!’), my socks, my baggy summer pants (which by now were moist around the waist with sweat from the hills we’d puffed up and down to get here). My tiny summer top, which I’ve told myself emphasizes my good shoulders. And there it was, staring me in the face in the long mirror: The TRUTH. Layers of fat that should be somewhere – anywhere – else, resting on my hips, my thighs, my belly and upper arms, staring me boldly in the face. Filling out everywhere except the one spot I might not find it so objectionable: my boobs. Holy Crap.

How the hell had I let things slide this far I whined in silence to my shiny face as desperately I swiveled my body in all directions, frantic to find at least one angle which looked less whale-like than the rest. There wasn’t one. Merde. Well, there was nothing for it but to try on the damn tops now I’d gone this far, I told myself. Lunging my boobs into the first one, I gained a moment of satisfaction from the sight of my good shoulders saving the day slightly. Maybe it wasn’t that bad I whispered to my mirror image, maybe there was still hope…but then the curtain swayed and there she stood, her expert eyes narrowing at the sight of me. ‘Excusez moi madame’ and before I could object she had stepped into my space, her small, capable hands yanking the damn thing higher, reaching into my bra top with more determination than any man I’ve ever known!

With nowhere to go my poor boobs tried manfully to cooperate and as the seconds ticked by even I could smell the sweat from my armpits (damn those hills!!). Finally, with a sigh, she stepped back. ‘ah oui, n’est-ce pas? C’est meilleur madame’. Well it had better be an improvement or I’ll have you for sexual harassment I mumbled under my breath but of course she was right. The mirror and I were in agreement. Who knew my boobs could reach such dizzy heights?

But now we had reached the trickiest bit of all: the lower-garment. La culotte. ’Quatorze?’ she asked with a question in her voice. ‘yes, but perhaps you can bring a bigger size as well?’ I countered, trying to sound casual about it. Glancing at my front bottom, she swiftly agreed, ‘Oui’. That said it all. Two tryouts later and an apologetic mumbling on my part to explain my sagging belly, we’d settled on a black bikini bottom. (One size larger than what I’d hoped for). I’d had enough and so had my scalding limbs.

Smiling coyly at me while I pinned a small fortune for my indulgent act, she helpfully remarked that starting a diet en vacance was never a good idea. I rambled on about the lusciousness of French patisseries as if my unwelcome chubbiness was something new, something recent which could only be blamed on my eating habits of the past ten days, ‘les gateaux en France, vous comprenez?’.

Pitiable. Vraiment. And a load of old cobblers what’s more. Still, I was pleased with the new bikini. I felt better in it once I’d left the pretty shop and could view myself in our camper’s half-length mirror. My husband even managed to squeeze out a “Nice love”, bless his heart. I allowed myself to believe him. But the bell has tolled in whatever language I chose to go for and that night I promised to shift some of those extra kilos, as soon as we got home. I did. But when your fridge has a pretty box stuffed with jammy beignets (sounds so much nicer than donuts, don’t you think?) it’s a big ask. N’est ce pas?