Day Twenty-eight

According to yesterday's Sun Herald, the body type that appeals most to men is an elongated torso and shorter legs. I was torn between laughing at the mental image of an orangutanesque woman this description generated and feeling self-conscious because I suspected I fell into this alleged but highly doubtfully desirable category.

If my mother was on cue she'd be yelling that I am perfectly proportioned, and that any scrunching of jeans around my ankles are a consequence of my petite stature and nothing else.

I'm not so optimistic.

Tomorrow is Jez's birthday, which means the agonising 6 days of being technically one year older are very nearly over. For some stupid reason I wanted to buy him a present. Stupid because we've already accepted the fact that we're just not present-giving people. And for good reason, because I went home empty-handed having failed to come up with anything plausible.

We browsed Myer this morning, passing the toys section in which a giant Lego masterpiece of the Eiffel tower stood. I took this idea into enough consideration to go back after work and check the price. No box of plastic is worth $395.

After that idea was out I was completely lost. Clothes? The boy is too picky. Books? I have $200 worth of new books sitting at home. Cologne? Worst idea ever. Underwear? Very much needed but hardly something I could pull out in front of his parents tomorrow night. I had a wild thought of buying him a jumbo box of Mrs. Field's cookies, except of course I'll be the one eating all of it.

Well, better to give nothing at all.

When I walked home from the station I caught a whiff of a deliciously familiar scent. It was the smell of walking to the sandwich place after gym for a mango shake. God that was good mango shake. I'd bite the top of my straw until it was flat, so that the liquid flowed through it slowly and I could savour it while I walked around Coles shopping for the chocolate that would soon enough cancel out all the calories I've just burnt.