I am writing this from a wobbly sun lounger made of colourful plastic stripes.
I swear that by the time I’m done with this post, my legs would feel all tingly and antsy. A quick fix will require a cautious stretch and a meticulous flip. When I finally get out of this chair, the back of my head will be flattened, with my hair squashed upwards and outwards. Indentions of thin stripes will firmly imprint my back from neck down. Not unlike a chargrilled steak.
The Husband, on the other hand, is down with leviathanitis — a non-life-threatening condition that plagues some males when they have to take an extended weekend from their workaholic lives to holiday at a place where spotty wifi signal would deny them the extensive use of their smartphone. In the Husband’s case, he has morphed into a beached leviathan — a sperm whale, if you must know – with eyes glued to some boring movie on free tv.
Alas! there is a bigger reason why the Husband is more keen on watching tv than talking to me. He reckons I have turned into a “50-something menopausal busybody aunty person.”
As you see, I have got myself in abit of a pickle this weekend. I have become an unwitting confidant in someone’s affair. Ouch!
What would you do if someone whom you thought you knew so well, tells you that he is in love with another man, and that his parents have found out a few days ago and have threatened to disown him?
Between awkward pauses and hand-wringing, he is begging you to please, please talk to his mum and dad because I am his best friend and that we have known each other for so long, and that his parents think very highly of me.
I hate to get involved in other people’s personal problems; simply because most times, despite all my good intentions, I always fall flat on my face and come across as being emotionally aloof, impatient, socially inapt, and at worst, pretentious and totally unsympathetic.
Why on earth did I assure him that I will try my best when I have no intention to do so, preferring to let the whole thing play itself out and run its course? Have I gone all soft and nice? Or as the Husband has sarcastically phrased it — why am I starting to sound like some “50-something menopausal busybody aunty person”?