A telling sign of just how little I do every day is the fact that I experience a sense of accomplishment every time I find myself all made up and clothed in something other than black "trackies" (this is an Australian term and I'm pretty sure it refers to what I used to refer to as "sweats". Which is a grosser, more descriptive word for what I wear when looking like a successful and well integrated part of society is not an issue).
And that's what I did today. I acheived a sense of accomplishment by putting on make up and jeans and some other stuff, and then I ventured outside to do something or other.
Actually, to be honest the only reason I went outside is because last night when fiancé called me all the way from New Zealand, he asked if I'd gone outside.
And I said no.
There was a telling silence on the other end which I'm pretty sure was a disapproving one, to which I said "Why would I go outside? I don't really have a reason to, do I?"
There was more silence and then what was said with a very very concerned voice was...
"Babe, I'm really starting to worry".
And I snickered. Because it's funny.
You see, although only in his thirties my fiancé and the way he thinks sometimes makes me suspect he has an ageing portrait in an attic somewhere and that the year he put it there was 1952. So the fact that I haven't gotten any "fresh air" all day is to him very unfortunate, not to mention worrysome.
To me, not so much.
the hard stuff
13 hours ago