If only… If only I had a fashionable disease
A fashionista desperately trying to find a proper, fashionable illness
As a first-class fashionista there is no need for me to visit the gym and work out. Tottering around on my wedges from stores to hairdressers to beauty parlours, all the while carrying bags of clothing, utensils and beauty-products, is weighing me down. Down, really. You should see the heavy lifting I do on a daily basis. But I don’t let it get to me. ‘Onwards and upwards,’ I tell myself, keeping my head held high. Occasionally stopping to have a buffappuccino.
Oh come on, don’t tell me you don’t know that is a cappuccino with buffalo-milk? Were you hoping to be served by Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Since you are not a fashionista like me, I shall spare you from my tsk-ing. Nor would I roll my eyes — never –, not at you or anyone else for that matter. Rolling my eyes is far too trashy for me, in public that is. Mark my words: it won’t be long before a buffappuccino is available at Starbucks. Needless to say, by that time I have moved on and shall not be caught drinking something that ordinary. Ordinary… just thinking about it gives me the heebie-jeebies. Yes, nowadays it is not considered unfashionable to say ‘heebie-jeebies.’ As long as you pronounce it ‘haybay-jaybays.’ Onwards and upwards.
If only… If only I had a fashionable disease. I want one with every fibre of my being, since there is so much going on about fashionable diseases these days. Or fashionable disorders as those are sometimes referred to, such as autism, ME, FM, burn-out, bore-out, but I cannot seem to find one. Let me assure you that I have looked everywhere: department stores, pharmacies, health and beauty centers, finding none whatsoever. Then it hits me and I know the perfect place to find myself a proper illness au courant: at my GP’s.
Never ever have I seen this man wear something other than a dark green buttoned-up shirt. Dark green is such an unforgiving color, I cannot for the life of me figure out why he would wear something that dreadful. It doesn’t suit his complexion. At. All. Personally, I am one for bright colors. As usual, he comments that I am fashionably late and I need to repress a giggle. Explaining my situation to him, he just looks at me. The doctor doesn’t even do a polite nod, and after a nerve-wrecking minute of silence he asks me if I want to lie down.
‘Yes. Yes, I would love to. I would love to lie down. That is what people with ME do, right? They lie on the sofa or in bed all day, because of extreme fatigue. Yes, lying down is a great idea.’
But I never even get the chance to place my butt on the treatment table. Instead, he merely suggests that I take a relaxing stroll around town. He even tells me to spend a day in the park, before he ushers me out of his out-of-date office.
I know better than that, he can not fool me. I am not going to find a mysterious malady when going for a walk. The people in the park all seem rather normal to me. Does he think walking a dog or throwing a frisbee is contemporary? This is getting me nowhere, and I feel like crying my eyes out, tearing my hair, gnawing at my skin. Alas, it is of no use, being hysterical is so 2016 — I can not be bothered.
By now I realise there is only one option left and that is to get myself pneumonia. This is not trendy, but a classic and elegant disease all the same. Thankfully, it is relatively simple. I take a hot bath and subsequently stand in front of an open window without toweling off or getting dressed. It will be the death of me, a very fashionable death. But first things first: I need to make sure buffappuccino is served at my funeral, and find myself a chic coffin. Too bad orange is no longer the new black.