A man and woman should NEVER have been put on this earth to be together. I’ve turned into a crazed paranoid lunatic. It could be a mixture of schizophrenia and delirium that’s causing me to doubt everything my man says.
Last night I convinced myself he was with another woman and ended up driving around the areas I could possibly see his car, trying to track him down. I even thought of purchasing a tracking device to attach to his car. I am seriously losing it, and quickly. So there I was in my baggy house pants, a nasty washed-out T-shirt I found in a big walk goodie-bag at least 5 year ago, patent leather slip-slops at least 1 size too big for me and hair in desperate need of a GHD. Imagine this: a grown woman stalking her own husband. I felt a bit like a spy in a spoof movie driving round at night looking suspiciously at any car that I passed. I finally found his car and kept a stalker-esque distance, following him into unknown territory for at least 45min, until his car finally stopped in a parking space outside a dodgy 70’s inspired block of flats in an area I wasn’t too sure where it was, it could’ve been anywhere in the southern suburbs (all the areas look the same to me anyway). I slowed down and waited for him to get out of his car. By this time I stuck my head below my steering-wheel with my spy-eyes peering through the gap between the top of the steering wheel and my dashboard. I squinted hoping this would focus my sight, and summon “eyes of the hawk” like Marshall BraveStarr.
As his car door opened, I felt the overwhelming urge to let out a Tex Hex-like cackle and shout into the sky “Gotcha Sucker!” like Eddie Murphy in Bowfinger. Only when he finally revealed his foot as it made contact with the pavement, he was wearing green fabric covered pumps with a kitten-heel. Is there more to this double-life than my already demented mind had initially conjured up? Do those shoes look familiar? Are they from my collection, or has he been secretly stashing his own collection is this flat with his other transvestite buddies? Has he? – hey, wait a second! He shaved his legs as well! . . . A more forceful squint revealed his entire outfit as he eased out of the driver’s seat. By this time my forehead had melted against the top of my steering wheel and my chin hit the hooter, causing him to turn round in a graceful spin locking eyes with me at such a distance. I felt my body numb from bruised forehead to unmanicured toes, and the colour drain from my cheeks (okay maybe I’m exaggerating here, since I never have colour in my cheeks). My eyes were fixed on the sight before me, still squinting, I saw my “well thought-out plan” foil right before me. My hand moved toward the ignition and I turned the key, slowly put my car into gear, pulled away with the greatest of elegance, passing the car I THOUGHT was my husband's. I had been following the wrong damn car all along.
Of course, it didn’t help that I wasn’t wearing my glasses, and what looked like my husband in a dress (through squinted eyes), was in fact a woman in a dress!
Last night I convinced myself he was with another woman and ended up driving around the areas I could possibly see his car, trying to track him down. I even thought of purchasing a tracking device to attach to his car. I am seriously losing it, and quickly. So there I was in my baggy house pants, a nasty washed-out T-shirt I found in a big walk goodie-bag at least 5 year ago, patent leather slip-slops at least 1 size too big for me and hair in desperate need of a GHD. Imagine this: a grown woman stalking her own husband. I felt a bit like a spy in a spoof movie driving round at night looking suspiciously at any car that I passed. I finally found his car and kept a stalker-esque distance, following him into unknown territory for at least 45min, until his car finally stopped in a parking space outside a dodgy 70’s inspired block of flats in an area I wasn’t too sure where it was, it could’ve been anywhere in the southern suburbs (all the areas look the same to me anyway). I slowed down and waited for him to get out of his car. By this time I stuck my head below my steering-wheel with my spy-eyes peering through the gap between the top of the steering wheel and my dashboard. I squinted hoping this would focus my sight, and summon “eyes of the hawk” like Marshall BraveStarr.
As his car door opened, I felt the overwhelming urge to let out a Tex Hex-like cackle and shout into the sky “Gotcha Sucker!” like Eddie Murphy in Bowfinger. Only when he finally revealed his foot as it made contact with the pavement, he was wearing green fabric covered pumps with a kitten-heel. Is there more to this double-life than my already demented mind had initially conjured up? Do those shoes look familiar? Are they from my collection, or has he been secretly stashing his own collection is this flat with his other transvestite buddies? Has he? – hey, wait a second! He shaved his legs as well! . . . A more forceful squint revealed his entire outfit as he eased out of the driver’s seat. By this time my forehead had melted against the top of my steering wheel and my chin hit the hooter, causing him to turn round in a graceful spin locking eyes with me at such a distance. I felt my body numb from bruised forehead to unmanicured toes, and the colour drain from my cheeks (okay maybe I’m exaggerating here, since I never have colour in my cheeks). My eyes were fixed on the sight before me, still squinting, I saw my “well thought-out plan” foil right before me. My hand moved toward the ignition and I turned the key, slowly put my car into gear, pulled away with the greatest of elegance, passing the car I THOUGHT was my husband's. I had been following the wrong damn car all along.
Of course, it didn’t help that I wasn’t wearing my glasses, and what looked like my husband in a dress (through squinted eyes), was in fact a woman in a dress!
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