FROM today, Tuesday 7 September, there are 115 days left in the year. It is the 250th day of the year. Of course, I needed no help from Google to impart these facts, for I possess an encyclopaedic mind.
Everything that goes in stays in. (Obviously, I am lying, I have a memory akin to a small flea).
Although, let me share for those who don’t know that on this day in 1940 London was blitzed by German bombers, and in 1822 Brazil declared independence from Portugal. Good for them!
But more important than all that, Tuesday 7 September 2010 will surely go down in the annals of history for one reason, and one reason only, that being: I am about to get my fancy new eyelashes.
Yes, yes, I know, control yourselves, it really is very exciting. “What’s wrong with your old lashes?” someone I know asked me.
“Nothing,” I replied. “They are quite adequate.”
“Are you going for surgery or something?,” he foolishly questioned.
“No, no, you being a mere man simply wouldn’t understand,” I said. “It will take two hours, and the kind lady is going to transform me in a magical way; I’ll have so many lashes, I’m sure I’ll just float away.”
“I just don’t get it,” he persisted. “Your own eyelashes look grand.”
“Look, for God’s sake, shut up. She’s going to make my eyelashes longer by lengthening them with other lashes, OK?”
Then he goes on asking more utterly ridiculous questions, like, why?, and how much will that cost? And yadayadayada.
I mean, I have tried to educate him. I have tried my hardest, but there comes a time in a gal’s life when enough is enough.
This is how bad it has become. He has actually banned me from putting on fake tan in his house. Yeah, I know, can you believe it? I certainly can’t; that’s why I do it anyway.
Imagine banning poor ol’ me from putting on a bit of fake tan at the weekend? Pah!
What does he want me to do? Go out with my own natural skin tone? No way; sure, I’d be white.
“It stains the bed sheets and you get it all over the carpet and it stinks and ...” on and on and on he goes.
I suppose he is ever so slightly scarred from the time I put it on after a tipple or two, only to fall asleep without wearing my protective bed armour.
I may, or may not, have accidentally put my arm around him and he may or may not have woken up the next morning with a brown arm imprint across his chest and a few other imprints on his back, which we don’t need to go into detail about because this is a family newspaper.
There was also the time we were coming back from a trip somewhere and I threw a bottle of tan into his luggage. I might have carelessly put it on top of his favourite white shirt and the bottle might have burst, thereby ruining his shirt and just about everything else in his bag.
But that was not my fault airport luggage handlers should be more thoughtful when dealing with other people’s belongings.
So yes, some people might say he has his reasons for being an anti-tan man, but not I.
I just think he’s being awkward. I’ve informed him that the eyelashes, the tan, the hair, the nails, the constant waxing and the ridiculous undergarments ladies have to wear is all for the greater good. But, of course, he doesn’t get it.
I’d explain in more detailed terms but I just can’t quite put my finger on what that greater good actually is.