I’m young at heart and dress accordingly. – Ivana Trump
I thought I looked quite funky on that first dry, sunny Saturday morning we had in weeks.
“Very sporty,” my friend commented at the sight of my skateboard baggies, thick-soled surfer shoes and bright yellow golf shirt.
Indeed I said, bowling an imaginary ball at the CNN reported on the flat screen who in turn, on the spot, declared war on me.
But the fact was I had completely disregarded the six decades+ of summers on my body clock.
And the winter white legs.
And the past season’s stew-and-chocolate tube resting comfortably on my hips filling every inch of my short-long pants in that area.
And most of all, the fact that my very classy friend was taking me to lunch to celebrate spring at an up-market restaurant set in the Durbanville hills surrounded by massive oak and poplar trees.
On our arrival the happy sounds of nature and the wonderful aroma of good food cooking inspired me immensely and pumped a sudden rush of adrenaline right through my body.
Which ended up in my spontaneous attempt to celebrate life.
But ungracefully turned into a hop-skip-and-all-fall-down on top of the well-kept herb garden.
My classy friend bravely pulled me from the lavender bed and steered me towards the entrance.
By then I’d regained my athlete’s confidence and sashayed into the foyer.
I moved my number six Island Stylers into the fifth position and bellowed “yyyeeeeellllooooowww to youuuuuuu!”at a flawlessly combed head of hair.
The hair changed into a handsome face and “yyyyeellowwwwed!” back at me.
But with one eye looking straight at my forehead, clearly checking whether this is an old-ewe-dressed-as-a-lamb singogramme while the other eye wondered suspiciously over my outfit right down to my lavender knees and back up to my smiling face.
I could see him calculating my age, dividing it by my mass and subtracting a dress code, coming up with and equation to match nothing else on earth.
The smile stayed.
So did his composure.
But the voice changed and I clearly detected a slight hysterical tone in his professional manners.
“I am not dressed for this, am I?” I asked the left eye staring at my chins.
“No problem ma’am. I take it you will be seated most of the time anyway, aren’t you?” he said in a firm but friendly cough.
And showed us to table number 107.
Between the kitchen, latrines and emergency exit.
Behind the delicious monster.