After my adventures in the countryside, I decided it was high time for a trip to Sandton City. I was coming down the escalators, when I spotted SA celeb, Marc Lottering. Mr Lottering was in classic celebrity disguise: dark glasses. Only snag is: sunglasses are less effective when your trademark is an Afro the size of Lion’s Head. A bizarre thing happened once I’d spotted him – it was like a celebrity spell had been cast over me. I started rushing towards him. All I could think was that I just HAD TO get a picture of us for Heat magazine! Normally, I can think of nothing more lame than:
This is me and Amor Vittone in the Centurion Mall!!!!
Great pic! Thanks for sharing!!! If you look closely, you can see Amor’s cellulite on her left thigh, which proves the point we made in our Feb. edition. How awesome is that??!!!??
Normally, I’d be like “who gives a cr*p if you saw Amor in Centurion?” But here I was, trying to pluck up the courage to ask Marc Lottering to pose while I grinned beside him. Fortunately, he saved me from myself because he practically ran away as soon as he spotted that demented, starstruck glint in my eye…
Eventually, I got a grip and continued my shopping. It was at my next stop – the Clicks till points – that I had a disturbing realisation. My young, vibey cashier wanted to know if I was keen on hearing a Zuma joke. I nodded and he proceeded to ask me what the President’s surname was, when spelled backwards. I’m going to blame my response not on Lady-of-Leisure-mush-brain, but on the hideous realisation that J-Z may well be our very own Berlusconi. My response was: “Um, what is Zuma’s surname, again?” Can you friggin’ believe it? The cashier looked at me strangely. He was probably thinking he’d rather have AMUZing old J-Z in the house, than this ditsy housewife. I couldn’t really blame him. Nonetheless, I still thought I could leave the till point with both my mouthwash AND my pride. So I did what any ditsy housewife would do in that situation. I started babbling about polygamy. But instead of telling the cashier I thought it was an archaic practice designed to subjugate women, I started spewing some neo-liberal B.S. about preserving African customs. WTF? I am pleased to report that my cashier promptly set me straight and told me he thought polygamy was “an excuse for infidelity” before telling me I should sign-up as a spin doctor for J-Z.
I decided to hide my humiliation amongst Woolworths’ shoe racks. And that was when I came across this advert.
I realise this sounds about as sexy as an ad for granny pants, but I confess that I got quite excited about it. After being told by various personal trainers that I “pronate” or “supinate” or “overpronate” or whatever, I finally went to see a professional to uncover the mystery of my disobedient feet. He put me on a treadmill and made little videos of me running and walking. His prognosis was as follows: I don’t pronate, I don’t supinate. I just have VERY broad feet. So I’m a perfect candidate for Woolworths’ “extra width”, “added cushioning” shoes – along with South Africa’s arthritic geriatric community. Super!