Stainless women and George (or Brad)

Now really, I don't understand how some women can stay stainless all day long! For I can never manage that. In the morning I get out of bed, visit the toilet, take a shower, put on a clean shirt, go downstairs, look down at my shirt and there it is! The first stain of the day. If I am wearing a black shirt, it will of course be a white stain. If I am wearing a white shirt (if I dare wear white, it takes a lot of courage, because I know myself by now and white is a challenging colour to wear if you are prone to getting stains), it will be a black stain or indeed a red, green, yellow or purple one. And how did the stain get there? No one knows. Certainly I don't. Otherwise I would have done something to prevent it from landing on my, what was a, clean shirt. But there are women, in fact I know some of them, who can avoid stains. No, really! Maybe they have some invisible bubble around them, preventing the stains to reach them. Or maybe they have a washing powder that I haven't found yet, that leaves some anti-staining layer behind. Stains magically disappear, even before they reach the fabric. I know someone who has a black labrador and takes him for walks in the fields and woods opposite our house. If ever I do that, my legs disappear up to my knees in the mud, the dog disappears up to his or her ears in the mud and then the dog jumps up to me out of sheer joy, and I return home unrecognizable, all covered in mud (but with a very soft skin). But not her! No, she can wear crisp white trousers, a crisp white shirt and crisp white shoes and she will return spotless! I have asked her how she does this, but she merely laughs and shrugs her shoulders. "Can't help it." No, I bet she can't. I also know someone who says: "Oh I've been working in the garden all morning, phew!" (wiping the non-present sweat of her forehead, stainless people never sweat). But I knów how shé stays stainless! She has a gardener and her idea of working in the garden is standing there and pointing where plants have to be planted. There's no trick in that. I could do that. But I don't have a gardener. I have to do it all myself. And we have quite a large garden (about 7000 square meters). Well, allright, hubs occasionally does some gardening too, but his gardening usually includes something quite loud, like a chainsaw or a sit-on lawnmower. No hard graft there. Not like me. My hands actually touch the earth, the trees and the plants. Leaving them all black and with all kinds of thorns in them. And then I wipe my forehead, I actually dó sweat, and leave a nice black stain all over my face. Which brings me to Brad Pitt. Or George Clooney. I can see you frowning there. "Whát brings her to Brad or George?" Well, there is a televisioncommercial, in which a family is having a nice evening together, looking all lovely of course, and suddenly the doorbell rings. Mother opens the frontdoor and guess who is standing there? Brad Pitt! And he needs to use the telephone, internet or the loo. I really don't know what this commercial is about, because every time the mother opens the door and Brad Pitt is standing there, my brain switches off and I disappear into my own daydream of opening the frontdoor and look! There he is! Mr George Clooney himself! And there I am! In my baggy jeans (because my jeans always end up baggy for some reason, nothing like the incredibly well-fitting crisp white trousers of my acquiantance) and my stained shirt with black smudges all over my hands and face, my hair peaking and curling in all different directions. I always try to gather it all in a nice ponytail, that is the most practical option when mucking out the stables, riding the horses and digging up plants, but during the day lots of hairs escape the elastic band and go their own way. Usually I don't agree with what my hair has planned for that day, but shaving my head just seems too radical an option. With this image in mind, one of my New Years' Resolutions was: Making More Of An Effort To Look Nice! Well, that's the one resolution I simple can't keep! It is actually physically impossible for me to be a stainless woman. My mind wants me to stay clean and fresh and stainless. But my body doesn't work with me. I just can't do it. I fear nothing will ever happen between George Clooney (or Brad Pitt, beggars can't be choosers) and me. The mere sight of me will probably be enough for them to run away and try the neighbours' house. And there the stainless acquaintance in the crisp white trousers and the stainless shirt and the very neat ponytail and beautiful make-up, will open the door. Because that is were she lives. And she will go off with George ánd Brad. You'll see!