lundi 25 avril 2011

I'm a superhuman 3D baby.

Whenever I’m asked what my superpower would be, I pick ‘shape shifting’.  I believe that I am drawn to this particular supernatural skill because I am already half a step closer to it than most normal people anyway.  I am not kidding.
Today, I am approximately seventeen shades closer to Nubian Princess than I was last Thursday.  This is not because I have been sunbathing on the beach, or fake tanning, or, god forbid, sun bedding.  This is because I sat outside a café, then briefly in a pub garden, and then had a quick walk in the park, in sunny weather, wearing Factor 50 suntan lotion.  Honestly.  I am, like, if not Beyoncé then at least J-Lo-coloured, maybe Princess Jasmine.
My arse is also about twice the size that it was at the beginning of the long weekend.  This is due to a lovely surprise package, via Hotel Chocolat and courtesy of my beautiful sister, that arrived in the post a little early for Easter.  That was some muy fancy chocolate, and despite its beauty and the unseasonable heat, you will be pleased to hear that I managed to gobble the lot (‘the lot’ being the family-sized gourmet chocolate feast selected online).
I seem to have the ability to get fat or thin, brown or pale, in the space of a day or less.  If it rains on Wednesday and I eat a weed salad or something, I’ll be back to pale and skinny and droopy before we know it.  Seriously, my mum always says – only half joking – that I seem to have the ability to lose half a stone in front of her very eyes simply by saying the words ‘I’m going on a diet’ (I have to mean it, though; there’s no faking it).
I honestly believe that I have some sort of weird, half shape shifter perhaps, body chemistry.  I have never been able to take drugs at all, because even a tiny bit makes me go wrong – once after attempting to smoke pot as a feeble seventeen-year-old, I became convinced that I was melting and/or weeing myself at all times, and tried to make my friends phone an ambulance, or an exorcist.  Not pretty.  I can barely drink because I’m such a lightweight (although that one took me a little longer to figure out).  I even save coffee for special occasions – it makes me go so loopy and over-productive (seriously, think speedfreak Kerouac knocking out ‘On The Road’ and you’re nearly there) that I like to save it for dire emergencies.
It doesn’t end there.  Once, at a clothes swapping party, the entire room was astounded that the two dresses I had wanted most – once a size eight and the other a fourteen – both fitted me perfectly.  Such was the ridiculous disparity of size when the two garments were on the hanger, no-one quite believed me until I demonstrated at length that both were a perfect fit and I wasn’t cheating.
See?  All this weird and over-sensitive physical chemistry seems to me to point only to one thing.  Shape shifter.
My boyfriend has gone away for five days, locked away in a recording studio in Cornwall that is only accessible by boat.  I’m trying to decide what species I might morph into while he’s away.  Maybe perfect housewife by Friday.

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