If you are the sort to shirk away from grandiloquent displays of self-confidence à l'américaine;
If extremes of emotion make you wither in disgust;
If you think a life of toil, grey suits and substantial bank accounts is the highest form of accomplishment;
If you don't have any particular feelings of affection for me and would rather see me fail than succeed;
Then stop reading at once.
For today, Ladies and Gentlemen, today is the day when I announce to you all:
I AM AWESOME.
No no, seriously. Stop laughing. Stop it. I said stop it!
Let me prove it to you.
In the past month, I have:
- Awesomelly climbed the highest sand dune in the world and Table Mountain in the same week;
- Celebrated one year of being an awesome non-smoker;
- Taken my first ever ride in an awesome helicopter;
- Seen the most awesome Killers on stage;
- Run a totally awesome 21.1 kilometres;
- Realized that in certain places of my manuscript, my writing is - you guessed it - awesome.
There you have it. Are you in awe of me? Because I am in awe of me. So call me Barney and give me a high five.
Sadly, though, not all of us awesome people can be awesome all of the time.
Today, for example, I had a less than awesome moment (dear readers, turn away if you are squeamish and/or would rather keep me on that nicy cozy Res-shaped pedestal you've prepared.)
Life as a girl, even an awesome one such as myself, involves a certain amount of - how should we put it - undesired accumulated insulation. In order to remove such insulation in time for bikini weather, I have decided to invest in what I have been assured is a high-ROI insulation elimination process.
Which began today, when I was given to wear... full-body tights. That's right. It's like a massive white baby suit. A giant human condom. Even Scarlett Johanssen would struggle not to look completely ridiculous in this thing.
And what was the point of this marvelous, "Star Trek does bad porn" attire, I hear you query?
Well, turns out the "process" I was signed up for today was to subject myself to the attentions of a giant vacuum cleaner. The point of the body tights, therefore, is to avoid accidentally getting swathes of my skin sucked up into the infernal machine. Good call, then, those tights.But Lord help me. I struggle to find appropriate topics of conversation with the lady who cuts my hair, or when I get my nails done. What on earth do you talk about to someone who's hoovering your ass?
PS: This post is dedicated to my favourite Montmartoise.