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.
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?