I was walking the dog the other day when another dog walker passed me on the way back home.
There's nothing unusual about this scenario, except she was plugged into her iPod and singing at the top of her lungs. The sound was enough to send all the neighbourhood dogs crazy. It was whiny and screechy, but she was oblivious to her lack of vocal talent.
She sashayed past me with a flick of her shiny, waist-length brown hair, dragging a small, white feather-duster dog on a diamante leash.
The walker was around 20, with legs up to her ears and wearing brief, hot-pink shorts and a skimpy top that showed a healthy amount of cleavage.
Get the picture?
I slowed down and contemplated my own dog-walking ensemble. From top to bottom it was: Gilligan hat in lime green, mauve T-shirt, a pair of tomato-sauce red terry-towelling gym pants with GT stripe on the outside legs (they're a 'size 14 girl', but my two daughters wouldn't wear them). And on the feet, a pair of red ecco sandals with velcro straps that I snapped up for $3 at the Salvo's store in Ulladulla (had to put that in - what a bargain!)
Accessories: mongrel dog, grubby lime-green leash and one bag of steaming dog poo.
As I dragged my heels (and the mutt), I wondered how it had come to this. The thing is I no longer set out to impress anyone with my appearance. That's not to say I don't care. But it is to say I don't worry. It's a middle-age thing.
As I turned the corner, the gorgeous young thing with a voice like a fishwife (thank god she wasn't perfect) walked straight ahead to the main road.
At the same time, a middle-aged bloke in a 4WD drove past and towards the main road and almost veered into a light pole. And it wasn't because he was horrified by my outfit.
In ya dreams, mate!