Sunday, April 26, 2009

Havaianas to you too

For the last two days two book have occupied my failing attention, not because there are boring, quite the opposite, it is just hard to be attentive while alternately roasting with fever or shivering with cold against a backdrop of searing heat outdoors and persistent dog indoors. The books, Sue Townsend's, The Public Confessions of a Middle Aged Woman and Brigid Keenan's, Trailing Spouses, read them if you can. Both books were written by ladies around the same age, one a novelist, the other a coffeetable book author and are a collection of their experiences over the years. These two woman are screamingly funny, their ability to laugh at themselves refreshing, one knows they would have been inveterate bloggers had the facility existed earlier.

In the all too brief segues between contemplating my newest pair of Havaianas flip flops, a bright cheery red, dotted with, what else, cherry trees and gold straps, staring at the ceiling to avoid looking at the hopeful dog so that I can rest my eyes, I read for as long as I can. Meanwhile hoping that someone will materialise to take care of the house, cook lovely healthy, restorative meals and provide juice/foot rubs/cough syrup on demand. Sadly the hound does not have opposable thumbs so this is mere pipe dream. I suspect that for the next few weeks as I claw my way back to normalcy, the in-between moments will be spent contemplating whether it is time to think about the return of a significant other. As a background, this is a pretty vile case of bronchitis brought on by overwork, lack of sleep and whatever else was going on for the last two weeks. For those of you waiting my Summit stories, they're going to have to wait a little longer or call me on the phone.

The reason I brought up the books in the first place is that these women have reminded me of the pleasure of writing, as opposed to the utilitarian work purpose to which my pen has been turned of late. They've also reminded me that there is a world outside of the narrow little closet that I've been in for the last two years. And then it occured to me, anybody reading or just hearing about my exploits might think that I was a trifle glam. What a thought! Me, who can barely contain my thighs these days. In the last year I've rubbed shoulders with the Prince of Wales, partied with sundry celebrities while hanging on the super cool island of Mustique. I've just come off of seeing thirty some of the hemisphere's leaders up close and personal adn I have the thank you presents from grateful delegations to prove it. I've worked in the past with musicians, actors etc that are household names. I know lots of people and used to be generally considered a bohemian artist type before I gave up that to re-join the suitably offbeat, though really uptight profession that I do now. Along the way I've managed to collect an ex-husband, lots of colourful ex-boyfriends and a small cadre of really nice, really interesting friends who are all slightly mad, like me.

Wow, I'd be wowed if I read this about someone I knew, and yet, somehow it just does not seem that exciting to me. In fact, a long standing friend once said to me that I had all the qualities that in a different time and place would have made me one of those women, who when old would have many interesting stories that would mortify the children and thrill the grandchildren or nieces and nephews. Neither my brothers nor I have managed to produce any offspring so no danger there, the dog does not care as long as he's fed and walkied at the appropriate intervals. I can see it now, me in a suitably patterned dressing gown lounging in my Paris apartment left to be by a grateful lover. This after a lifetime of globe trotting, going on safari before taking off to work on an aid project or something. Hell even my dreams are earnest. Ah well, sadly I've never had to the ability to see that as an option, I've always just put my head down and worked. But I will admit to racking up experiences. Maybe one day I'll even tell.

These days however, my Havaianas are occupying more of my attention than they honestly should. I have a few pairs ranging from black with white pattern to green with hibiscus flowers, they are rivaling my extensive collection of high heels and winning hands down in popularity. I was actually offended when the lady in the shoe store in WestMall, no I was not buying myself more shoes, my friend was, looked at my flip flops and then said, you know, you can get tons of those for $10 at some store or other. At which point Charms hustled me out of the shop, she didn't want the explosion. Goodly reader, Havianas are not cheap, nor are they cheesy, they are Brazilian made and are the thing in flip flops. One thing those Brazilians know how to do, swimwear and beach footwear. They've even turned the "rubber slipper" into a "flip flop" which can be worn as a high end clothing item. And suddenly, my urge to flee the world of dark suits and towering high heels seems to be much more manageable, because you see, the lure of the flip flop is getting to be a siren call. See you on the beach.

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