Help, I’m Allergic To Being a Girl!

Today’s post has been written by my lovely twitter buddy, Sophie.

Clothes shopping makes me break out in a rash. Change rooms that make me want to run, run for my life to escape the bleak lighting that heralds the demise of my thighs. 18-year-old shopkeepers that blandly ask “is there anything I can help you with?” then toss hideously inappropriate selections over the door. Teeny tiny, weeny peeny options that make you feel like the big girl.

Worse still, clambering about trying to get the foul garment off, they open the door slightly prematurely, and your bottom protrudes from the knickers that used to fit before you had 4 children. Then, as you regain composure, re-dress and slightly haughtily exit the change room, the 18 year olds eyes sparkle with knowing : “Hah-hahh, your bum doesn’t fit in your un-deeees”. No sale.

In one of my infrequent quests to be golden and glamorous, I went for a spray tan one day. Why do they make you stand there so long before they come into the room?! Nude save for the ill-fitted paper g-string, there is too much time to look. Look at the boobs that have slid downwards, look at the thighs that have lost their elasticity, look at the upper arms that have added a flap to the undersides of themselves as if in preparation for flight.

So just before you do take flight, in comes the 18-year-old with her gun (it may as well be) to spray a little confidence all over you. So at that juncture, as the golden hues of stinky liquid fill the booth, you do actually begin to feel better. Until the final assault……………she asks “did you want me to do underneath your bottom?” Slightly paler, you weakly offer a deflated, whispered “yes”.

The thought of a girls lunch makes me quiver in my boots! I regress into a monosyllabic mess as I try to navigate my way through conversations that invariably lead to the mobiles being whipped out to show picture after picture of little Popsy. “Oh, her arm is in a different position in that photo, how divine!” come the shrieks. Rash appearing.

A networking event? Oh dear. I start with confidently registering my interest (bravely behind a computer) but then as the days go by, I start a little routine. It really is bad timing. I don’t actually have a business card. And what exactly IS it that I do? And sorry? You need me to stare admiringly at your business card and think of an impromptu, witty, erudite comment to keep this conversation going? And by the way, your avatar seems to be fifteen years old. Ah. Can’t make it. Weeping rash.

And so it seems ladies and gentlemen, that I am allergic to all the things I should be genetically predisposed to. As a remedial tactic, I have invested in a cream that makes me believe that my name is Tom (boy) – when I apply the cream, I don’t need to tan up for an event, I adopt a knock about humour that relaxes me and everyone else, I make people remember me rather than a card and I shop online………oh and glare at 18-year-old girls (but possibly not for the same reasons as Tom).

You can follow Sophie on Twitter @BIG4Bellarine


Imperfection Is Beauty

When my lovely friend Renee sent me this quote, I had to post it, it’s so me!

(I’m not really an “inspirational quote” blogger, not sure of my niche, but it’s definitely not inspirational!)

I am trying to accept my imperfections.

There is more madness in me than genius.

The Saint thinks I’m beautiful.

And I’m definitely ridiculous, several times a day.

Thanks, Marilyn. You get me.

What Would Madonna Do?

I should start by saying that I don’t think I’m THAT vain.

I get my hair done.

I shave my legs.

I pluck my eyebrows.

I moisturise, but I am not obsessed with my wrinkles, and can’t be arsed to fork out a huge amount of money on anti-aging creams.

I try not to leave the house without make-up on. Mainly out of courtesy to the local community who are easily scared.

I’m reasonably low maintenance. I mean, who isn’t post-children?

However, as I get older there are certain things creeping into my regime that I hadn’t bargained for.

I now pluck a grey hair from my brow.

I cover the grey lash with extra mascara, or get it tinted in summer.

I de-fuzz the Tom Selleck tash which my peri-menopausal hormones have bequeathed me.

But yesterday, the first day of September, the 1st day of spring, I discovered my first grey hair. And it wasn’t on my head.

Oh.dear.lord. I was not prepared for this.

When I told The Saint he smirked and kindly proffered “Well, you might as well shave it all off now”. Mmm, NOT HELPING.

Once I had recovered my breathing. I thought about the future. Getting old, gracefully. Or NOT. What would Madonna do?

I envisage her having a “vagina styler” who suggests tints or merkins.

Sadly, I have no funds for such a person in my entourage.

Or maybe she is smooth and hairless? I have a huge fear of Brazilians – waxing, not the people – so this is not an option for me.

Then I was reminded of this fabulous poem by Jenny Joseph Warning

And now, I know exactly what I shall do when the grey takes over down there.