The husband has new glasses. Now this is nothing unusual in itself, as he has been peering through reading glasses for some time now. But these are different, in that they cover every base. Near and far, he can see it all. The trouble is, they are so big that I can't see much of him anymore. I suppose it's something I will have to get used to, in the same way that he has to get used to me not having a waistline anymore or the fact that my boobs point more towards the south west rather than north east.
Getting older is no fun at all. I remember laughing with a much older friend some years ago about how if it didn't head south, wear out, shrink or drop off, it would simply stop working. I suppose that is where we are now, the husband and me.
But good things happen too of course. With a shrinking bosom comes the thrill of not having to wear a bra all the bloody time. Who invented these instruments of torture? A bloke I'm sure, as there is nothing similar in a man's wardrobe. I suppose he would need a paid of padded boxers with a discreetly positioned metal splint to achieve the same reaction from a woman that certain bras are meant to draw from a man...
But that's never going to happen is it?
They also don't have vacuum knickers. You know the ones, which when you take them out of the packet measure about 4" square, and you look at them in disbelief, quickly checking the size on the packet to make sure that you picked the right size up. Lo and behold, they are the right size, deep breath, sucking in stomach (has to help) and pull them on. I say, 'pull them on', but this implies one smooth movement. I don't know about you, but it has taken up to seven attempts to get these on, with one memorable sigh of relief being swiftly followed by a shriek of dismay when I realised that I had them on back to front. The tough stitching meant for the buttocks, gave the impression of my having two stomachs. Attractive and vital on a cow, but not on this 52 year old woman.
Then there are the dreaded knee-highs, as god forbid someone sees your skin in its natural colour. So many times, the elastic in one will give up the ghost, slowly making its way down my calf (the speed of the descent is dependent on how recently I have shaved my legs). This is almost impossible to remedy in front of normal folk, and a hurried trip to another part of the house/office is required to hoist the offending suicide stocking back into its rightful position, where it will stay for approximately 10 minutes before launching itself down my leg again.
I know there will come a day when I say, 'Oh bugger it. This is me, and this is what I really look like'.
Unfortunately, now the husband has these new glasses, that may have to wait a little longer...