I have a confession to make. I am glad its winter and my swimmers can go back into the drawer until next summer. Not that it was much of a summer, mind you; and not that I am much to look at in my togs, either.
But it’s not my choice of swimwear that‘s the problem, or how I look in it.
It’s my lack of ability to tame my…well… my more personal and yet oh so public areas of my body.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve tried bleaching, waxing, creams and razors (I may have lied about the waxing, I’m simply not that brave!) and still it persists, like a scene from George of the Jungle. And like George, my husband emits a similar howling cry when he sees me. My sisters have threatened to whipper-snipper me one day, but as I have patiently pointed out to them over the years, if it offends you, don’t look.
As a teenager I plucked my eyebrows, and they have never grown back. How does that work? I have also been shaving my legs since Adam was a boy and my regrowth grows stronger and more virulent each passing year. How does that work?
Let’s not mention menopause when my chin suddenly sprouted enough hair to rival any adolescent boy in long pants, and my morning routine consisting of standing in front of my mirror until the foliage subsided, and the sink became blocked. Tweezers became my closest confidante.
You think I exaggerate? Women of a certain age have all sorts of mysteries to them. Once, a friend of mine wore a dress to a shopping centre, feeling very girly and fresh. She even rang me with excitement, as it was unheard of for her not to be in her beloved jeans or trousers. She told me that as she walked along, she noticed a slight discomfort. What’s this? After a mere 5 minutes of window shopping, her pain increased “down there” and she hurriedly made her way to the shopping centre toilets.
Once inside, she peered down with dismay, to see her hairy-bits had actually formed a knot, yes, I‘m serious. Tangled beyond help, she had to sit there and unravel, and trust me, you don’t want to know the rest, suffice to say, she’s never worn another dress since.
But I digress. It’s not just the taming of the wild things; it’s the cellulite legs and general lumps and tummy rolls that I won’t miss seeing. Winter becomes a time of snug trackies and long shirts covering all unnecessary flesh; with dinner parties and stews and casseroles, duck fat potatoes and hearty roasts and chocolate cake. Hang on! Isn’t that how I got my lumpy legs and rolls in the first place?
Still doesn’t explain the excessive hairy bits though.