Dear Self,
I know you’d really like it to be that bit closer to the weekend than it actually is, and I’m sorry to disappoint you on that score, but today is TUESDAY. Not Wednesday. Tuesday. So when you posted that special ‘Wednesday’ feature at The Fashion Police? You know, the one that’s only ever posted on a Wednesday? And when you opened it with the words, "It’s Wednesday!"? You were wrong. And also: stupid. And you are really, really lucky you didn’t get dozens of comments from people telling you that.
Please, try to keep up in future.
Love,
Amber
P.S. – TUESDAY
Last night when I looked at my diary to see what I had planned for today (because obviously my life is SO busy that I need to do that. I mean, it’s not like I could just write "Blog, eat, sleep" every day and be done with it, is it?) I found that I had written:
"9.15am – Amber"
Eh? The hell? Was I planning on being more "Amber" than usual at 9.15am? Or did I feel I’d need a reminder that I was Amber at 9.15am? Or am I just going crazy? I’m guessing Terry would probably go with "crazy", because despite the fact that everyone totally agreed with me that the whole "reading at the gym" thing = a bit weird, really, he is still maintaining that it’s a perfectly normal thing to do. His argument seems to involve proximity to the sauna and jacuzzi, which I guess could very well dupe people into thinking they were, in fact, at an expensive day spa and not AT THE GYM. Personally I think all the screaming children would convince me otherwise, but hey, that’s just me. (Also, Terry? You’re wrong.)
Oh, and 9:15am this morning was body pump, by the way. Not "Amber". 9:15am tomorrow is my first attempt at Body Combat, and I’m actually quite worried about this because apparently the fact that the schools are now on holiday means that hardly anyone goes to the classes all summer (there were only a handful of us in Body Pump today), and I’m having horrible visions of it just being me, on my lonesome, prancing around in front of the instructor rather than just hiding at the back of the room, like I usually do in classes. That would clearly be embarrassing enough in itself, but when you consider how clumsy I am (this morning I’d only been in the studio for two minutes and I’d already dropped my step and almost knocked over a whole pile of barbells), and I’m sure you can understand my fear…
Anyway, you will have gathered from all of this talk about gyms that my trip to the opticians on Friday was a relative success and I was not diagnosed with a fatal brain tumour. Or, indeed, any kind of "seen through the eye" tumor. Result! In fact, it seems my eyesight has actually improved since my last visit. Given that on my last visit it had improved from the visit before that, I’m guessing that within a few years I’ll be back to 20-20 vision again, and since I haven’t had 20-20 vision since I was about 9 years old, I’m quite excited.
The bad news is, for reasons to boring to go into here, I had to move to a different type of contact lens, which is more expensive than the ones I’ve been using. The cost of this isn’t huge, but it has made me wonder again about maybe getting my eyes lasered at some point. Terry is currently thinking about doing this too, but of course, Terry is brave and I am not, so I’m wondering: is the thought of not having to wear contacts any more enough to persuade me to allow a laser to be beamed into my eyes? (MY EYES! MY EYES!) Hmmmm. The jury is still out at the moment, but if any of you have had this done, please feel free to share your experiences…
I have to go to the opticians tomorrow, for my usual annual checkup. This worries me, for two reasons:
1. What if the optician looks into my eyes with his little light-stick thing, and spots a huge tumour growing in my brain? That can totally happen, you know, and the reason I know this is because I constantly get hits to this website from visitors who have Googled some variation of the phrase "OMG, opticians can totally spot brain tumours and that could happen to YOU, dude!"
Also, my optician has a tendency to make lots of sombre "Hmmmm" noises as he looks at my eyes, and my fevered brain tends to translate these sounds as "Hmmm, I wonder how I’m going to tell her about the massive brain tumour I’ve just spotted behind her left eye?" so by the time he tells me to "take a seat in the big chair" I always think the unspoken end of that sentence is "because you’re going to want to be sitting down for what I’m about to tell you." So, lots of fun there, then.
2. When he switches off the lights in the room and gets out the little light stick thing, which he then waves about in front of me, I always think he looks like he’s rave dancing. You know, like in the 90s? When people used to carry those day-glo sticks to raves and make "whooo! whoo!" sounds while waving them around? (* Has clearly never been to a rave in her life*) So that makes me want to laugh. Like, really, really badly. Luckily, I’m usually able to prevent myself from laughing by thinking about the brain tumour, though, so we’re all good.
Also, just while we’re talking about the gym, (see that effortless transition there? That’s why I am a writer.) today when Terry and I went to Body Pump, I happened to glance down at the pool, which you can see through one of the windows in the Body Pump studio, and noticed that it was surrounded by women in snazzy swimsuits who were all just lounging around reading novels. In the GYM. For an hour. So, they were basically pretending to be sunbathing, only without any sun (because they were indoors), or a pool bar, or a martini or anything.
Anyway, I mentioned to Terry that this seemed a bit strange to me (because it’s a gym) and then he gave me that, "Oh my God, I have married a moron" look he does so well, and explained that no, it’s me who is a bit strange, and that there is nothing more normal in the world than to head down to the gym with your beach towel and a paperback. Apparently this is what all the cool kids are doing now. And then I felt stupid, because I normally just read in bed, where there are no screaming children or judgmental redheads walking by, and now I realise that I’ve been missing out on a whole world of sunless sunbathing at the gym. RELAXING: UR DOIN IT RONG!
Maybe I should give it a try?
This morning I woke up to the news that I had been quoted in The New York Times. Yes, the actual New York Times. Me! The article in question appeared on the website as well, so I clicked on the link (sent to me by Laura), and here is what the New York Times have quoted me (Or rather, The Fashion Police, which is the same thing basically because I am it, and it is me, and you are he, and we are all together) as saying – sorry, “screaming”:
“My eyes, my eyes! Show me the person who wouldn’t look like a giant toddler in them.”
Um, yeah. Wise words, there. I bet you’re all wondering where I get this crazy talent from, no? And doesn’t it just figure that I get quoted by the New York Times, and I’m talking about giant toddlers? Smooth, Amber. Very smooth. I’m thinking I probably won’t make it into the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations with that one…
Of course, what I was really talking about was harem pants – or any kind of pants with a dropped crotch – and actually, I stand by my “giant toddler” statement (I just hope it’s not what I’m remembered for, is all.). Seriously, look:
Yeah, I hate harem pants. Really, really hate them. Still, The Fashion Police in The New York Times! I mean, that’s pretty cool, no? And yes, sure, a link would’ve been nice, but even so, The New York Times! And to think it never would’ve happened without those giant toddlers!
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