The Feet of a Homeless Person

It is the morning of the big party. Spud Hughes and I are sitting in the kitchen of the DC apartment admiring my golden tan, acquired last night in a fake bake booth at a local spa.  We marvel at my honeyed hue and I dare to hope that tonight, the eve of my 50th birthday, will be the night I pull off effortless sophistication and radiant beauty.

I sling my brown legs over the end of the sofa and see horror cross the face of Spud Hughes. “Look at your feet`’ he squeals in alarm.

At least I have aristocratic arches

The fake bake spray that did not adhere to my many bumps and curves obviously slid to the bottom of the booth. I don’t see how I could NOT have stepped in it but I suppose there must be a way. Sadly my dreams of movie star polish have been cruelly dashed. Once more I’ll look like a homeless person.

This must have happened to fair-skinned and feeble-minded before, as Spud Hughes has pointed out. `’ I have a suggestion`’ he said, after a session of scrubbing in the bath failed to make a difference to my tortured soles `’ Just be sure to keep your feet on the ground and not in the air`’ Harrumph. What sort of party would that be?

About Liz Barron

US Peace Corps Volunteer in Armenia. Permanent address in Washington DC. Deep roots in Northern Ireland and persistent Belfast accent. Blogger,cook, mother, grandma, Scrabble-player and enthusiastic world traveler.
This entry was posted in Crone as Casualty, Crone as fashion icon, friendship, Life's vexations and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to The Feet of a Homeless Person

  1. merewoman says:

    Oooops! Hope you enjoyed the party anyway. Happy birthday.

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