Friday, December 28, 2018
Today I am grateful for turtle necks. . . not turkey necks which I seem to have instead. I just realized it’s been five days since I’ve graced you with a Heartprints post. Wow, that’s the longest in four years that I’ve gone without posting! It’s because I’ve been living my life, not writing about how I want to live it. I hope you were, too, and barely noticed I was gone.
Okay, back to the topic for today. Yesterday I hosted a tea party for 12 women from various water aerobic classes at the YMCA. While I was at my vanity table, ha-ha. . .sitting on the toilet seat, with my mirror on the stool, putting on a little makeup, I was shocked. I get shocked a lot when I look in a mirror these days. This time it was because of my turkey neck. Gobble-gobble!
I don’t know if it’s because I’m still recovering from the steroids, or if it’s because I’m old, or if it’s just because I’m me, but every time I exert energy, like preparing for Christmas or the tea party, I start to sweat. Knowing this I decide to wear a scoop necked top and sandals. Yes, sandals in December, in Pennsylvania, because if my feet are hot my whole body gets hot and I’ll kick off the shoes so fast people won’t have time to duck.
While I’m sitting in the bathroom, I’m already planning on how to avoid the sweats in front of my guests. That’s when I notice the gobble-gobble-turkey-neck. I should wear a turtle neck. A long one that goes up to just under my eyeballs and would cover my chipmunk cheeks, too. I wouldn’t have to use the 10X magnifying mirror scouring my face for long hairs to pluck. They used to grow out of the top of my head, but like everything else, gravity dropped them. . .to my chin.
I change my plan for the scooped neckline and grab a light-weight turtle neck, feeling smart and smug as I slip it on. This will hide the neck at least. The sandals were more key now, what with the extra covering-ups on top, so all I needed was little schmootz on my hair and I’d be all set. Almost ready.
I literally walk from the bedroom to the bathroom, a total of maybe six steps, when I started to sweat. “Oh my GOD! I’m going to die!” I claw at that turtle neck like it’s a noose. Beads of sweat pop out on my forehead. “Gotta get it off. Get it off!” I’m shouting to no one as I rip the thing off and throw it across the room.
I went with the scoop-necked top. After the tea party was over and Himself was helping me clean up, I’m shoving table cloths into the washing machine and having another case of the sweats. I yank off my shirt, bra, jeans and throw them in the same load as the table cloths. The underpants and sandals weren’t pissing me off so they stayed.
Standing there (save yourself and do not picture this), in close to the altogether, Himself asks if he can get me a robe or sweat shirt. When I do a projectile-sweat-strip, it makes him shiver under his twelve layers of clothing. They don’t make enough turtle necks or long-johns for this man. I look at him like only a wife in total meltdown can and say, “Are you kidding me? I’d be happier if you turned the hose on me!”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot.” He says. “These days you wear sweat as an accessory!” And that’s why I’m going to have to settle for a turkey neck instead of a turtle neck!