Fifteen years on...

I have swapped a night with my colleague, and worked Saturday night instead of Sunday.

It is different. Although it was much quieter than any other nights, probably because everyone is out having a fun time, I get to see chicks coming in wearing the Saturday night fever clothes. It was freaking 10 degree Celsius, about there, and for the sake of fashion, some had sleeveless tops! And there I was, three layers of clothing, two of which were long sleeves, with the heater on in the pharmacy.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Woman, there is a serious wardrobe malfunction here. Where is the hot chick that went to Modesto's, Brannigan's or White Roof, if I remember the names correctly (pre-senile symptoms) and pours countless shots of neat tequilas down her throat? Where is that ciku that wears heels like it's an everyday thing? What happened to those glorious puking sessions in the pub toilets and on the side street longkangs? What happened to those beautiful long manicured nails and smooth hands?

Look at me now. Throwing on anything comfy, that means tracks and sweaters and runners. On a good day, a pair of jeans and perhaps the boots. Even then, I can't walk for more than three hours in them! My idea of having fun today is a get-together dinner with friends and yak the night away. Tea of coffee to follow. Or perhaps a slice of tiramisu. The last I puked was because I had gastro, and I can't even stand a glass of red now, for I might get a headache. And sleepy. My idea of red now, will now be in the cooking pot for a good stew. Steak and escargots? Forget it. MacDonald's please. Fortunately nails I still have them, but not as long, always chipped, rough and dried up cuticles, plus wrinkled hands and fingers.

Woman, you seriously need to buck up and do something. 40 is the new 30. Not there yet but close. Gotta do something about those clothes. Sigh...

Solution? None whatsoever yet. Reason? Chin chin chin chin.

Money is the root of all evil. Fashion, in this sense.

*BIG SIGH*