It transpired yesterday that I actually have yet another cold not unlike the one that devoured January. And while the Quasimodo limp brought on by the mysterious back spasm several weeks ago is better (I can put my socks on again, thank heavens), it has left lingering joint pains like so many pesky toothaches. I almost never take painkillers but feeling a Tylenol One erase the throbbing in my hips yesterday was quite a little thrill.
I reassure myself that I am holding my own.
I have a favourite pair of prescription readers -- they are tortoiseshell, round, and feel pretty darn cute, I must say. I donned them yesterday to give myself a little lift. I didn't immediately fear the worst when Jon commented that I reminded him of someone famous, a writer...... I hopefully offered up Virginia Wolfe, Jean Rhys, and Margaret Atwood. Nope, nope and nope. It slowly dawned on me that my husband was searching for a male author. Gulp. It gets worse. He thought I looked like ……..wait for it………..Truman Capote.
I didn't have the heart to ask whether it was the real one - Harper Lee’s childhood friend and the model for "Dill" - or Philip Seymour Hoffman. Not that it makes any difference, come to think of it.
I guess it's no worse than Jon’s memorable reaction to a self portrait I painted many years ago. Self-portraits are famously stinkers. They pretty well always (with the possible exception of Durer’s self-portrait which is more of a showcase for that handsome devil’s great hair) contain the glassy stare necessary to trying to paint your own face from a mirror. Finishing it, I was thrilled that the painting even looked like a person. When I showed it to Jon, all he said was "Who is that? She scares me."
He should be scared. I'm giving him a five minute start and some free advice. We all knew that Archie, not Edith, needed to know how to stifle.
A particularly smart place to start would be refrain from comparing your wife to Truman Capote.