Exhausted with Germaine Greer

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I am feeling husk-like. I am tired and want to spend the day in bed.
Sadly, life is not like that and I am stuck to the house awaiting a parcel from India which should have been delivered yesterday, which was asked for 2 months ago, and is now stopping me from lying by the pool and improving my tan.

Actually I am lying, what is really stopping me is the book I am reading. I have started on Germaine Greer. I cannot remember the name of the book; I have relegated it to the shadows of the kitchen for the moment.

An earlier moment of relaxation in the hammock led me to start reading the weighty tome. During the first introduction my 6 year old came and asked me to do her nail varnish. Argh! I have failed, I have reared a babe. Later, she came back having done her own lipstick and I gave up on Germaine wondering where one does stand as a woman and where the hell she is coming from? Is it all an excuse not to orgasm and never shave? Depressing stuff, wanting to pluck extraneous hair from one’s bikini line or wear red lipstick. But I made myself a heady coffee, adjusted the lift on my bra, took a deep breath, slid my feet into my gold sandals, shook the pine needles out of my voluminous and very feminine skirt, inhaled deeply, sucked in my belly, smiled and threw the book into a corner. Seems the best way forward. I will go back and question my every thought, orgasm and smile, but for now, my attention is diverted.

Life here is busy. They have ever such late nights. We were at a party last night in the local cool place to be. Interesting to see what cool is when you are hovering around 50. Not quite what it was at 30, but fun. Outside, manouche jazz, good food and lots of drinking, smoking, very brown people all heavily wrinkled. It was a trip and gloriously, I was a brown wrinklie, too. Ah, the joy of approaching 50. I realized the other day, at another of these cool events that I am 18 months away from the big one. Ah well. I have taken to corsetry and as long as you don’t sit down it is fine. If I sit down, there is a necklace of bosom meeting my descending chin.

But on the other hand, I read on the BBC, (and it must be true because it was there,) that runners live longer. On one hand, mad relief that I have found something else to keep me paying my taxes and cooking three meals a day but on another level, why do I want to live linger? It can be such torture, being me. Actively prolonging the experience seems somewhat masochistic.
Not drinking, not taking drugs, not smoking and not eating anything with a face is health by omission, it is not particularly pro-active. Running, by contrast, is highly proactive and really challenging. It takes a great girding of the loins and sports bra to head off into the hinterlands of Camberwell and the south of France. But then the rewards are palpable and there are not many experiences one can drape with the word palpable.

Yesterday I achieved an ambition: I ran to the Pont Romain. I have been building up to it since getting here. It was harder than I expected, but fantastic once I got there. A beautiful Roman bridge over a river. It was not until I ran back that I saw it was uphill all the way there. I had to walk through the last vineyard as I ran out of puff, but this morning I woke feeling sore all over and knew it was worth it. So much for no masochism.