I'm beginning to think it wasn't such a good idea to spend the month in which I turn 50 in the company of 15 undergraduate women. All these slender waists and slim thighs and firm butts and oh, the perky boobs, perched up above flat tummies like a couple of cupcakes piled high with frosting. My boobs look more and more like dead flounders. Out at dance clubs til the wee hours of the morning, these Lovely Young Things then show up all bright and yes, perky, goddamn perky, at 8:30 breakfast while I, I of the are-those-boobs-or-are-they-dead-flounders, I struggle to stay up til 10.
Our student apartments here in Ireland adjoin a conference hotel that seems largely to cater to busloads of German retirees who, in between bouts of porch-sitting, shuffle around in sensible trousers and clunky shoes. Not a perky boob among them. I think I'll just hang out with the Germans in my free time. Sensible and clunky with lots of porch-sitting--sounds about right.
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