First of all, dearies, I shall be glad to receive (with most gracious and slightly smug expression) your congratulations for my having successfully passed the experience of a Christmas Office Party with completely un-Bridget Jonesity. Despite free booze and the presence of a dance floor (a usually fatal combination) at NO point did I break into song, do the splits, nor cause general concern (not to mention trauma for the poor, innocent victim) by sticking my tongue into somebody’s mouth who just happened to be standing close to me. I didn’t even ramble anyone’s ear off for hours on end. In fact, I have been able to come into work today with dignity unequivocally intact. Excellent, Ciggie.
Secondly… it has come. Potentially my last week as a singleton. Mc Mushy flies into the country on Friday, and has suggested a midnight meet up… which is almost unbearably romantic. Naturally I’m delighted. Naturally too, I’ve gone into panic mode as, not only have I not shed half my body weight, which I had planned to do, but I feel sure that my boobs are suddenly not the same size and that my right buttock has begun to sag slightly. Also, my neck doesn’t look right. It feels too long and looks too short, and I’ve NO idea how this could have happened overnight. As a matter of course, my face has broken out –no, you don’t get it: my face ACTUALLY looks BROKEN. And finally, there are distinct twinges in my joints when I move, and an unsettling look in my eye that I can neither put a name to nor get rid of. It’s all very uncomfortable indeed.
Still, by this time next week, I shall either be lying panting in extended orgasmic bliss… or a gibbering white-haired mess. And a lesbian. I’m not one to put all my eggs in any single basket, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that my heart is set on Mc Mushy and I hitting it off splendidly and going off somewhere romantic for a practice of our impending honeymoon… all of this, naturally in slow motion, to the soundtrack of violins, with wind in our hair. If it doesn’t work out this way… well, I probably will be an angry, gibbering, white-haired harpy for a while –a condition curable only by good sex with someone meaningless (not an option for me) or an entire bottle of whisky (doable, but I won’t answer for the consequences, as I can’t handle spirits –I shall probably break into song while doing the splits, stick my tongue in several unsuspecting strangers’ mouths, then buttonhole one and drunkenly talk his ear off until Security is called…) But I might hold off on becoming a lesbian, just because my parents would expire with shame. Plus… I still have time, right? A little time? I’m on the shelf, but not musty yet… I should hope.
My joy, next weekend, will be compounded by the fact that one of my oldest and best friends is transiting town, on his way home for the hols, and I can’t wait to see him and have one of those endless catch up sessions that, if ever scripted, could never be understood by anyone at all, though we speak English –most of the time. I have yet to tell Mc Mushy this, and don’t know whether he’ll be OK with coming along to meet Braveheart, or whether he’ll be offended and refuse to come, while being huffy about my going off to meet up with ‘a man’ (‘What’s the story here?’ he’d growl jealously –which I’d hate.) Hmmmh. Something else to think about… In fact, as a chronic list-maker, I have a feeling that there is a long list of things for me to do before Friday, midnight, but you know what? I can’t think of a single one. Which in itself is panic-making.
FRICK. I’ve been thinking ONE WEEK in my head…. but have just realised it’s actually only THREE DAYS!!!
(Loooooooooooooooong, silent screammmmmmmmmmmmm… til literally blue in the face.)