I like compliments. But recently I've been getting compliments which are a bit odd.
For example, when I got my hair cut recently the hairdresser remarked to me how small my ears were. I suggested to her that perhaps it was simply that my head is quite large, but she wouldn't have a bar of it. My Smaller Half suggested that perhaps it's because the hairdresser is right next to the hospital so most of her clients are elderly people. Since the ears continue to grow throughout life (which is why Galapagos tortoises have such large ears), my own comparatively youthful ears must have looked like little rosebuds.
Mind you, that hairdresser was barking mad. She started to laugh to herself soon after she started cutting my hair and when I gave her an inquisitive look she assured me that she wasn't laughing at me, but was laughing at how awful my haircut was. What a relief!
Then she proceeded to tell me all about how nervous she was during her wedding because she was a virgin and was really nervous about consumating the union. Too much information, just cut the hair thanks!
Anyway, I got a bit sidetracked there, sorry. I was talking about compliments. This week, after I emailed him a picture of me and my Smaller Half at a recent wedding, my Wise Elder Brother mentioned how pleased he was to see that my nostril hairs were so well groomed. I'm pretty sure he was joking, but when it comes to my nostril hair you just never know. There are a lot of admirers out there.
Then, on Friday, one of my Esteemed Colleagues asked me if I was a fashionista. This genuinely caught me by surprise. Normally I look like I got dressed in the dark and slept in my clothes. But apparently my Friday ensemble was cutting edge - definitive proof that fashion moves in cycles. I suspect that my new shoes can carry most of the credit. I've had more people remark on those shoes than I have thumbs. And that's a lot for me (remarks, not thumbs. I have the usual number of thumbs).
Also, I have a rip in my jeans. This is the first pair of jeans I have ever owned long enough to have them rip. Until the age of 18 I grew out of my jeans every year. After that I boycotted jeans for the next 12 years because I thought they were uncomfortable and there's probably some kind of ethical issue concerning denim that I would have cared about if I'd been aware of it plus when I started working my arse got fat. But then in New York in 2005 I bought a great pair of jeans that I really like, but now the legs are coming apart. Anyway, ripped jeans are sometimes worn by fashionistas, so you can see how the confusion arose.
So if you see me moping around in the next two weeks, miserable because I have really buggered up the first two blocks of second year by being a lazy lump, why not shoot me a compliment? Something unusual, something unexpected. It could make my day!