Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: PRIDE (inflated opinion of one’s self) (02/19/15)
- TITLE: Clinging On When Youth Is Gone.
By Danielle King
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Oh, just look at that, will you. What a tart. Bit draughty round the nether regions, lady. Pull your skirt down from around your neck. You’ll catch your death.
“Freddie, just come and take a peek.”
Tsk! I’ll swear she’s grown an extra crow’s foot since yesterday. It’s all that muck she slaps on her face; fertilizer, it’s nourishing ‘em.
“I’m trying to snooze, Cynthia.”
I remember when she was a youngster. No need for uplifts and corsets then. Shapewear, they call it nowadays, but there’s always an aspiring escapee, sneaking over, spurning death by Lycra. Flab; Ugh! Ugly.
“Why don’t you close the curtain, Cynthia?”
You will never catch me slumming it like that. No way. You need a modicum of decorum woman, for heaven’s sake. I’m booked in for eyebrows and nails today.
“Cynthia, STOP obsessing over THAT woman!”
“Freddie, you don’t see what I see.”
“Neither would you if you stopped gawping at her!”
I give up! Men are a perfectly peculiar breed. Sits there, beer barrel gut resting on knees; odd socks, one stripy, one polka dot, and yuck… nose hair. How unflattering is that!
In winter it sports a permanent dew drop, just hanging on in there, the ultimate cliff edge drama.
His persona suggests… well, street dweller, I’m afraid, and there are times I’d rather not be seen with him.
We are in the prime of life, and personally, I refuse to look like a sack of sprouting King Edwards. Neither do I care for lady facial hair, age spots or a scrag end of mutton style neck. I was not brought up to be slovenly.
His sons are the same. People will think I’ve raised scarecrows. They have no self-respect. Yes, they’re law-abiding citizens, hard workers, provide for their families, but no-one would guess by their semblance of slop.
I was secretly pleased when they chose to attend their wives’ former church, and leave ours, though they never explained why.
Hmm… not sure about the specs now. Rimless; cheap and tacky; unfashionable. Something dressier, maybe?
“Don’t involve me Cynthia. Ask her what she thinks.”
TSK! Typical. I’ll hit the High Street. Feeling girly.
“Popping out for a while, Freddie.”
“Take all the time you need, Cynthia… please.”
Lists, I need a list. I’m glad he’s staying home. Wouldn’t want to bump into anyone I know with him unshaven. Why he’s cultivating a beard is beyond me. But the moustache is far worse. Maybe it’s to soak up seasonal nose-drips. Eek! Unsavoury!
It’s sad because he’s a good man at heart. He’d share his last crust with anyone in need. I sometimes wonder if it’s a mini protest. His mother told me he could dig his heels in when it suited. But he’s not like that with me.
He never questions my judgement. Always listens to what I have to say... and I say a lot! Lately though, I’ve noticed a change. He’s not himself… wait, male menopause. Now why did I not see that sooner? My friend swears her husband is in the throes of hormonal cataclysm.
Poor Freddie, must be more patient with him. He’ll be thrilled when he sees my brand new, sophisticated image.
Phew… that was some shopping trip!
“Freddie, I’m home. Booked Botox consultation Friday, personal trainer starting next week, and hey, can’t wait to show you my new gear.”
I can barely carry it upstairs. I’ll dump it on the bed and take a breather. Something’s wrong. What’s happened here?
“Bit of a revamp, Freddie?”
I’ll check the spare room. Oh, my full length mirror is gone. All the mirrors are gone!
He’s on the stairs.
“Cynthia, before you ask, you need to know something.”
“It’s OK Freddie. I’m aware of your problem.”
“I miss you, Cynthia.”
“The gentle, unpretentious girl I married; the perfect mother to our kids; the woman whose happiness was complete in her family... and God. Who are you?”
This male menopausal thing has really screwed him up.
“It’s her, that superficial, empty headed lightweight. Her, whose flaws you scrutinise every morning. And now she’s changing yet again. Into someone I don’t recognise… or even want.”
“She has to go.”
“You thought wrong! She is not welcome. Cynthia,
I do NOT like that woman!”
Funny, but those were my exact words this morning.
“Freddie… let’s dump my reflection at landfill and return this trash to the shops.”
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