Okay, so it’s been almost eighteen days now, without cigarettes and booze. And to my astonishment I feel fabulous!
Of course this might be a good time to tell you that while I was cleaning the house two days ago, I found my scale. It has been quietly sitting there gathering dust, waiting for the right time to take revenge on its neglectful mistress.
So I weighed myself and to my dismay it seems I need to give up eating as well.
I immediately got so excited that I had to celebrate with a cheese burger and small chips.
But for last night’s dinner I had a cup of fat free, sugar free yoghurt, a granny smith apple, an orange and four carrots.
Then I went to bed in the hopes that I’ll fall asleep before the hunger pains start.
I didn’t.
I ended up dozing fitfully, dreaming about guzzling gallons of wine, smoking cartons of cigarettes and eating pasta, bread, pork crackling, chocolate mousse cake and Flannagan’s like a mad thing.
I find this very disturbing because it means that food has now joined my long list of vices.
Yes, everyone, I now officially have an eating disorder.
I would have joined Gluttons Anonymous but if I’m not the thinnest person there, I might be forced to eat myself into an early grave.
But on a lighter note, I have finally bullied my long-suffering husband into buying me a hideously expensive, massive diamond-wielding wedding ring (I’ve found that foaming rabidly at the mouth while making demands has a profound effect).
Now I could die happy...after losing at least 5kg’s, that is.
You see, back in 2006 after years of cheerful friendship, he confessed “true lurve” to me. On this fateful day he generously threatened life-long infatuation, passion and eventual marriage (with a healthy side-order of children).
Obviously this terrified me and I back-pedalled wildly, blabbering about commitment being an evil catholic scheme and woman being from Venus and men being from the seventh circle of Hell meant that we were never meant to meet at all; love is nothing but a mutual misunderstanding and don’t get me started on children...etcetera, etcetera.
This seemed to only fascinate him more so in the end I told him that I would consider it if he waited at least two years before proposing and in that event he must wave a giant, sparkling rock in my face if he has any hope of an affirmative answer. Also I’d like many dinners in nice restaurants and if his car ever broke down or he suddenly lost his job, all bets are off. I warned him that I might grow tired of his antics at any point anyway and dump him unceremoniously and without warning or a logical reason of any kind.
Hey, I never claimed to be nice... or sane for that matter.
He obviously thought I was joking about the ring because that’s not what happened. And when cornered he denies ever having that conversation.
How convenient.
But in the end I won, naturally.
One of my friends gave me a disgusted look when I told him this story and said the worst word in the Afrikaans language: “Sies!”
Needless to say he’s a man because no woman would ever say that word in the presence of an innocent diamond.
I still maintain that all women who claim to “Not be a fan of diamonds” are fibbers. I like replying to that by saying: “That does not compute”. Or to quote Futurama: “That does not fempute”
Yes men, women are mostly material girls. Shallow beasts with eyes like crows, immediately attracted to all things shiny and expensive.
Anyway, I never did buy into the healing power of crystals but when it comes to diamonds I’m now a firm believer.
This ring cheers me up every time I reach, tremblingly for my sadly absent pack of Camels, every glass of sugar-free ginger ale I have to endure, every carrot I crunch between my teeth like Bugs Bunny, fantasising about body-slamming a Pepperoni Pizza.
Also, it instantly transformed my husband into the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. Even when he has bits of green stuff stuck in his teeth. For the first two weeks, at least, I stalked through the house, hungrily calling to my husband in a husky voice, whilst wiping the perspiration from my brow with my French maid’s apron.
A bruised and spongy Sean would have slipped out the back door by now and I’d have to turn begrudgingly to my beloved mint-choc-chip ice cream to keep me warm.
My new and improved non-smoker spidey-sense has unfortunately made candy one of man’s greatest achievements.
Now, just because I’m a shallow, fortune-hunting diamond hugger, doesn’t mean I’m a retail-therapy fashionista.
I’ve been collecting my husband’s bronze, copper and silver change, which is secreted about the house (some people have no respect for money) and using it to buy things, granted, but I only yank this money from him to buy granny smith apples, carrots and zero-kilojoule, zero-taste yoghurt.
Also for petrol so I can get to the shops.
Plus I don’t have a job so I can’t afford anything above R4 (the amount in my bank account).
And I only eat that junk so I can be true emaciated trophy wife quality.
My point is, the other day as I was counting out R190’s worth of 5 cents on a beady-eyed Pick ‘n Pay cashier’s counter, I noticed how she noticed my amazing (fabulous, most glorious, how-I-love-thee) ring.
This pleased me to no end.
You see, the ring thing is just as much about other women as it is about diamonds.
The way women interact is a strange phenomenon. Men, for instance are born without the ability to even detect these ongoing invisible conversations.
Question: If you are a man, have you ever heard your girlfriend/wife/sister/mother mutter something like: “I don’t like that woman...not one bit” under their breaths after bidding said woman the warmest, friendliest goodbye at a get together? This is usually mistaken for jealousy, hormones and female schizophrenia, when in actuality it’s a classic example of the secret language of women.
Men don’t do that. They either hit each other (when not friendly) or drink together (when indeed friendly).
Another example is how, coming from another woman, the phrase: “You look so good” (said with a sympathetic facial expression and an encouraging touch to the arm) is an unspeakable insult.
Apart from shoes, clothes and weight-gain, these conversations are mostly about men, which is why it’s so frustrating when trying to explain to your smug, all-knowing boyfriend/brother/husband that some slut is trying to sink her teeth into him.
“No, she’s just lonely/drunk/crazy, ha-ha, you’re being paranoid” and then sometimes the infuriating: “She’s waaaay out of my league, anyway, ha-ha”.
And this is exactly where the ring makes its most powerful appearance: the power of warding off and causing insane, golfer’s-green jealousy in other bitches. The symbolic version of a sign around his neck saying: “Whipped.”
Of course, sometimes this backfires because it can cause chicks to think that your husband is enormously wealthy, oblivious of the fact that he had to sell part of his liver and one of his retinas’s to be able to afford said ring.
Either way, who needs alcohol, cigarettes or food when you can have jewellery, right?
No comments:
Post a Comment