That’s what I call comfort.

that's what I call comfortSummer 2013. Off to France for a family holiday. The boss of the holiday village is a straightforward Dutch guy. Pensionado, builder, fond of rough language.

Boss says: why are you stressing about so much, relax, woman, you’re biking, swimming, walking – why for x sake? So I tell him why I need to get so much exercise. Parkinson’s. My god, he says, fight, baby, fight, you look so bldy well, sporty and all that. I cry. With his 66-year old builder’s hands of sandpaper he wipes my tears away. I realise that I don’t even know him.

The holiday comes to an end. We’re a bit more relaxed, I put on some weight, I’m nicely tanned. I even decide to wear a dress rather than the cut off jeans. Dress is just a little too tight and a little too short. Have to pop by the boss to arrange for our departure. He looks admiringly at the dress, particularly at the breast-zone and says: Wow, you’ve become, a real Hot Chick. (Okay, he phrased it like a builder would, but I couldn’t possibly publish his exact words.)

For readers who don’t know me: I was 47 at the time and a little, just a little bit wrinkled.

Hot Chick. That’s what I call comfort.

@MarietteRobijn We always enjoy your sense of humor! Thanks for sharing, Mariette. (@MichaelJFoxOrg) 13 januari 2015