Crouching Tiger, Hidden Bikini Line

I really need to shave my legs. My nails are chipped and my eyebrows have gone rogue. My last few days at the beach had me in a crouching tiger hidden dragon position as I made my way to the water in a desperate attempt to hide my bikini line.

I stood at Aunty Suzie’s wedding kicking myself that I hadn’t gone and got myself a spray tan. I’ve never had a spray tan but at that precise moment I wanted one, needed one. And really white teeth, I needed really white teeth. Here I was in fancy pants Sydney looking so not fancy. I hid my manky nails as much as possible and wondered how I’d managed to pack absolutely everything for my children but forgotten my own deodorant, perfume, and body lotion. I borrowed G’s. As I stood chatting to the ex PM’s wife I wondered if she could smell my very manly roll on deodorant. At one point someone got my smell confused with that of the woman next to me and asked “what are you wearing?” .

“Rexona Sport” I giggled.

I wondered in that moment if this was the beginning of letting oneself go. Or had I gone, never to return.

My neighbour went out for drinks recently. A group of women, mostly mothers, possibly all over the age of 35, some of them over 50 (!) got together over a few cocktails at a bar in the city. When the suggestion was made to move onto a club my neighbour declined, she decided she was too old. A club full of sweaty bodies shouting over the top of each other wasn’t in her plans, but after some gentle coaxing she decided to go. I squealed with delight at the tales she came home with. The swingers who thought my neigbour was very nice, the men who had approached her and her friends, but my favourite involved a young girl my neighbour met at the bar.

As she watched the girl open her purse to pay for a drink, she noticed that as she pulled out her money her knickers fell out onto the bar. My neighbour had to know more, did she always carry an extra pair in her purse?

Her new friend, somewhat embarrassed, explained they were for later, you know, incase she got lucky. My neighbour who loves a chat and is a highly likable person with an inclination towards curiosity, required further explanation. Her new friend obliged.

If things were to get, shall we say, intimate, the knee to chest spanks that she was currently wearing to hold everything in, would be removed and replaced with the lacy, much smaller pair of knickers in her purse.

Genius.

Any woman who has lived through the Bridget Jones granny pants situation will admire the forethought and practically of my neighbour’s new friend at the bar.

I giggled with my neighbour over the size of purse I would require to fit my spanks into, maybe I’d be the only girl at the nightclub with a suitcase?

But I recognized the girl, the moment. A moment from so long ago. A time where I worried about knickers matching my bra, a time where I thought more about legs being freshly shaved, perfect bikini lines and regular appointments at salons. For a brief moment I felt sorry for G, and then I thought about his own personal grooming regime.

G never thinks about getting a spray tan. G doesn’t wax. G’s eyebrows look the same all the time, G gets a $5 dollar haircut from the man on the corner, and if I had hair in some of the places G has hair we would both be requiring therapy.

In the final week that G and I were back in Australia I thought about getting a haircut but I also thought about other things, things like appointments for my children with ENT surgeons, mail box redirection, and council rate payment confirmation. It was more important in my mind to squeeze in one last dinner with a friend and one last trip to the beach, than a haircut or a beauty appointment. Somehow 15  years of marriage and a house full of children has changed my priorities, my time management. And I think sometimes I get it all the wrong way around. Like today. I planned to finally go and do something about my rogue eyebrows this afternoon, until the phone rang with a desperate plea.

“Mum, I’m so sorry but I left my trombone at home. I’m sorry, I know it’s a pain but could you pleeeeease bring it to school, we’re so close to the concert and if I don’t have it I can’t practice.”

I should make her go without it, I should learn how to pluck.

I will get back to matching knickers and bras, I may have momentarily let myself go, but I haven’t gone. Yet.

Anyone else?

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