I have become a totally self-absorbed creature….
All it took was a week at an all-inclusive resort and I am strutting around like Gisele Bundchen when ‘she’ thinks she is having a good hair day.
A little sun, a little salt and no stress. Copious amounts of delicious reading material. A child that has hit the ‘I am totally independent but just make sure you are there if I need you’ age. No husband to fuss about (someone has to earn the big bucks to pay for my life of leisure). Nothing to worry about except keeping up the applications of sunscreen.
And then there is my shirt. I love it. I love it like a baby loves a binky. And all this love came at the cost of just one ‘flat out’ euro. Just before winging my way to volcano island, I went to a local flea market. Discovered under a pile of clothes that nobody would be seen dead wearing, was a lone hot pink shirt. It is the kind of shirt that someone bought on their Gap year… bargaining with a kid on the beach in Goa. Hot Pink, lightly embroidered with sparkly beads. Soft… worn… cheesecloth….loved and travelled. The sort of shirt that EVERYBODY wears when they get off the plane upon return from India. Except me… No sireee… not me.
During my two years of living in Bombay (yes it is Bombay… always was and always will be) I resolutely refused to go with the local expat trend and start wearing a Salwa Kameez. Something magical happened to women that wore them… there was something about those comfy, elastic waist pants brought out the inner ‘I can eat my body weight in ghee’. As soon as I twigged to THAT gig… I held onto my levis for dear life. And holding onto any type of european clothing was no easy task in those days. After losing several pairs of jeans to the hotel laundry, I had to kick some ass… some serious ass. I happen to get very attached my jeans. Come on… who hasn’t had that moment when they could either save the neighbours dog or their last pair of Sass & Bide!!! There is no choice to be made! (ok so maybe that was just me and perhaps we shouldn’t go into the details incase the neighbour wonders what happened to his dog). All of this happened in the days when Bombay had a population of 13 million and no supermarkets. When we were still buying black market groceries smuggled through by loving air stewards and sold out of the ‘special back room’ of one little store. Where I once saw a desperate mother pay out $10 for a tub of Betty crocker frosting!
And so it was, that back in clutches of the western world, I never ever seemed to have just the right thing to toss over a swim suit should I choose to have a vodka lemon at the pool bar. Until now.
I think I have become known as the ‘Odd chick sitting alone at pool with pink shirt’, sort of like my tribal name. Pretty sure that if I had to stand up in a line up, all that anyone here would remember would be my pink shirt.
It is a salt water pool here, so that and a combination of 50plus sunscreen and a squirt of my favourite perfume is what you will get when you bury your face in my pink shirt (but why would you want to?) I think I could bottle it and call it ‘Woman escaping from Surburbia and MIL on holiday’
What do you think?
Love Lulu xx