You know, there’s one thing about turning 40 that I do not appreciate, and it’s the fact that my knees have promptly collapsed overnight. What is with these Beagle Knees (hmmm, should I register this trademark…? I think strictly speaking I’m referring to a Basset Hound’s physiognomy, but ‘Basset Knees’ doesn’t trip off the tongue in quite the same way) and these new folds of determinedly downward-tending flesh…?
I was in Rome when I first noticed my new, vastly unwelcome knee rolls, standing in the change-room of a boutique near the Spanish Steps. I was also with my mother-in-law, whose lovely birthday gift was shouting me something to wear – a piece of Roman apparel, something to put the spring in my step back in Sydney. So there we were in the final hours of my time in the eternal city, and I think it was in store number 2 that I first spied my very own Sad Sacks, dangling past my knees like failed pastry.
It’s unfortunate that at the very instant I saw my Beagle Knees I was engaged in a conversation with my mother-in-law about the possible perils of skirts of a certain length.
“This would be quite a good work dress,” I offered through the door, inspecting my lunch- and month-bloated figure with thin-lipped disdain.
“Mmm,” said my MIL, before adding, ” but I don’t think one would want to wear a mini-skirt to a job interview.”
I stared at my drapes of knee fat.
“It’s not a mini-skirt,” I snapped. “It’s just a dress.”
I tore it off, too unhappy and menstrual and overfull to even pay my usual care not to leave a streak of face powder or deodorant dust on the thing, the monstrous thing I now wanted to flee. Hated dress. Vile dress. BAD DRESS.
Out of the store I tore, my poor mother-in-law doing her best to keep up with me on the cobbled streets as I charged off muttering to myself about mutton.
I’d all but given up when I spied a boutique I’d not noticed during our 9-night stay: Manila Grace. Inside was the perfect top (thanks, K!) and to go with it, a new pair of jeans I was desperate for and which cost me a lot less than the equivalent in Sydney. Success!
But now we’re back in Sydney, having landed here Sunday morning with a pretty leaden heart, I’m left contemplating my navel as well as my knees. What now, my friends, what now? Perhaps I should have chosen something ‘interview appropriate’ after all.