House of Fling…

A Highland Fling, you say?

No. No. Not a Highland Fling. Though it will make your skirt fly up.

A romantic fling, then?

No. No. I’m in what you might call a romantic long haul. Right, Mr. G, honey? Of course, that could make your skirt fly up, too?

Aside: Mr. G, honey is shaking his head. What is she talking about now? I can read his mind. That’s what happens when you’re in a romantic long haul.

No. Today, I had a little spring fling — a  fling of the self-indulgent variety. I was hoping to put it off until May because I #amwriting, but I had a moment of clarity yesterday. A moment when I realized I was…I was…I was…looking a little like a hag-in-waiting.

It was a long, hard winter of shuffling around in socks and yoga pants — not the cute kind, socks and sweats, socks and mitts and boots and coats and hats and long underwears. We’re still doing it every other day.

So this morning, I hied myself off to the House of Fling and had my eyebrows waxed and tinted, some random threading done, ouch! — don’t ask — and a mani/pedi. It took three hours for me to no longer look like Mrs. Bigfoot.

And as I am hooked on OPI, my toes went with their signature color of I’m Not Really a Waitress red, but the fingers had a little fling of their own with the soft and sheer Bubble Bath. Have mercy!

That’s how the Northern Girl marks the coming of spring.

House of Fling, baby.