Lower limbs: covered in mosquito bites, including two on my right foot that I have been conscientiously picking at and preventing from healing for about six weeks. Legs still peeling and dry after July freak sunburn incident.
Fingernails: ragged, long, dirty. Cuticles chewed, a newly acquired vice for this year. Nails have not seen varnish since the old King died*. I wander the house like a lost soul calling for the nail clippers, but answer comes there none. They have probably all been used in ill-defined and unfinished 'craft projects'.
(*Leopold I, perhaps)
'Hair': last washed several weeks ago (you can get away with this with wigs, unfortunately, though you shouldn't). Beginning to go bald in patches. Soon I will be reduced to rifling through the drawer of old wigs and looking for ones with less mange. Yes, I have a drawer full of mange-wigs. Every home should have one.
Clothes: My wardrobe - although to all appearances full of clothes - seems to have been reduced to two alternating pairs of slightly cropped, narrow trousers. I sort of wish I had never rediscovered the forgiving embrace of trousers: I went several years without wearing them at all, but now I seem unable to wear anything else. They're not even flattering: last week a man specifically went out of his way in the street to come up to me and tell me my arse was too flat ("Non, toi, ton cul n'est pas assez bombé". Oh no, I am so distressed not to have met your exacting standards to qualify for street harassment, let me go and get lethal backstreet arse fat injections where I will be injected with chip fat and diesel oil, so that you deem me fit for sleazily chatting up on street corners), thus confirming this groundbreaking survey I read about today. Today, for instance, I am wearing The Greenish Pair, with an elderly, dog-hair adorned black jumper with moth holes in the armpits. It's not great, but I can't seem to find any alternatives: I bust the zip on my expensive jeans trying to stretch them after washing and need to get repaired. My limbs are too ghostly white/peeling/dessicated for skirts/dresses and it's still really too warm to wear tights in all good conscience. I wore them anyway yesterday (with Gap wool shorts) and when I pulled at the leg to hoik them up, a dusty cloud of dead skin cells fluttered around me. I did it again, fascinated. Same result. It was very picturesque.
Shoes: alternating pairs of shabby, shabby, scuffed, broken flats that look like they were recovered from an archeological dig in a Viking burial ground. I took a pair off yesterday and several whole LEAVES were inside, and a piece of bracken. Which explains why they weren't very comfortable. I threw that pair in the bin, but look, today I am wearing these, which are even worse:
My flawed reasoning is that from a average person height distance, no one will notice that I am wearing shoes where the front decorative leather origami thing has fallen off. This has already been proved wrong but it has not stopped me.
Face: distressingly, patchily freckled. Puffy. Itchy spots on eyelids. Series of insect bites around left ear where a conscientious mosquito has enjoyed an extensive walking buffet. Red nose from some kind of idiotic summer cold, and a day of intermittent, frustration induced weeping yesterday. Last time I wore make up other than a bit of melted lip tint from the bottom of handbag: Dunno. It's been months, even though I know it genuinely makes a difference. Without, I look like a mournful potato. A child came up to me at school this afternoon and quizzed me extensively on my (tattooed) eyebrows (Why do you do it, does it hurt, why do you choose brown, why don't you do them another colour...). I'm usually quite robust about this kind of thing, but I had to get up and go away, pretending I had to fetch something before I started crying (again), because I felt judged and found wanting by an 8 year old. Not that that is a particularly new feeling. I just, I dunno. I thought I "passed", but this is the second time in a couple of weeks someone has made overt comment on my eyebrows. IF I HAD A CHOICE I WOULD NOT DO THIS. BUGGER OFF. Ok, not you, 8 year old girl. Come back, don't cry. Shit.
The only speck of improvement, is that I am not particularly fat at the moment, because I have mainly been consuming my own stomach lining with endless, boring anxiety. I am not exactly thin - I still managed to close a fold of my stomach in my own laptop yesterday - but I will Do, mainly thanks to my prominent clavicles which, regardless of my state of corpulence, can be used to good effect to give a vague surface illusion of thinness. I have conserved my double chin, however. I think it is my body's famine fat reserve, so at times of high stress it probably gets even bigger. Soon I will look like Denis Healey or Nigel Lawson before he got thin and started talking utter nonsense about climate change. Or like this:
Unless it gets cold very speedily, Something Must Be Done. I am not sure what. This is just a status report. At the moment it takes me twenty minutes to find the resolve to stand up and plug my battery drained computer in. So far I have put a sidebar link to that nice That's Not My Age blog for inspiration. Tomorrow, who knows? I might get as far as flossing.The pink rimmed, naked mole rat eyes are the worst of it, really. The rest is probably manageable. So all I need to do is give up weeping and buy some new Bobbi Brown gel ink eyeliner. Easy! Give me about three months.
Are you planning to up the grooming ante this autumn, or mercifully slip into no longer bothering? Any recommended quick fixes for Summer Hobo Syndrome?