I'm blogging while waiting for my red onion soup to cook: Welshcakes suggested the soup as the Italian remedy for colds. What it really needs with it, of course, is some chunky crusty bread. I don't have any and anyway 'I'm on a diet.' I am so fed up of that phrase, particularly as I'm not losing any weight.
Wandering out of Tesco's this evening with two treacle tarts (for the price of one: how could I refuse?) I said to myself, 'I'm not losing weight by not eating so I might as well eat and not lose weight.' But then I also just opened the front door and said to Harvey, 'Allez! Allez vite!' He looked at me and said, 'Why are you talking to me in French?'
'I don't know; it just came out that way. It must be the influence of the onion soup.'
'Ah oui.' (He is multi-lingual, you know.)
So it was to the hairdresser this afternoon.
Is there any place on earth more likely to make you feel your age than a hairdressers'?
Sitting in front of a mirror in the glare of the harsh bright light, with hair scraped back from sagging pockmarked cheeks, while a slim blonde flawless-skinned nineteen-year-old dabs at grey roots, is akin to having a fortieth birthday every day.
(I'm about to eat my soup. Last time I made soup I found glass in it.)
I say fortieth because that was the birthday I found most difficult (so far). Thirty wasn't much fun but fifty was okay. I'm hoping they'll just get better and better.
5 comments:
Slim blonde flawless-skinned nineteen-year-old - you MUST tell me where you get your hair cut!!
On the subject of birthdays, believe mw they do get better. 60 took a bit of careful handling, but I find that age brings the ability to take a 'what the hell' attitude and I find I can be more outrageous in my attitude and get away with it when I wouldn't have been able to in my 30s and 40s.
I love going to the hair stylist. But I'm not crazy enough to go to a nineteen-year-old beauty ;) Mine's a very handsome 45-year-old man. Now that's the way to go, Liz!
It's like going to see the doctor and you get a handsome young one and realize he's almost young enough to be your SON! Arggh. Ah well...perspective, my dear, perspective.
I agree, 40 was much worse than 50! It was when I suddenly realized I was no longer "young." Now I must have been resigned to it because 50 was fine. But for 40 I woke up in a cold sweat at 4 a.m. for months thinking "Omigod, how did I get here? How can it be I'm 40???"
Liz, for the 3rd time tonight, trust me! The red onion soup will work! You're already multi-lingual, aren't you? - So you'll be able to walk in your shoes, the cold will go and all will be perfect! As for b/days, I hated my 40th, enjoyed my 50th [because I was in love with the most unsuitable man] and dread my 60th!
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