The Hunt For Red October

I’m not going to lie to you, I was a late starter to the world of self-maintenance.  That’s not to say I’m averse to hygiene, more I was naïve in keeping up with the times.  While my sister conspiratorially discussed VPL with her college friends (which to me sounded nasty and possibly warranted a prescription of antibiotics), I ‘folded’ my knickers into my drawer!  Those bad boys doubled up not only as a chastity belt but as thermal insulation #WinterIsComing after all.

When my elder sibling bestowed her wisdom and finally managed to cajole me into that sparse flesh coloured sling shot, I was less Sisqo Thong Song and more crab with constipation!  I spent the whole night hobbling sideways wondering why you would voluntarily give yourself a wedgie.

Gradually under the close mentoring of my kin I begrudgingly began to understand the importance of the right underwear, but this then gave way to the next phase of my apprenticeship into ‘womanhood’ – grooming!  Not that kind of grooming mind, I don’t fancy appearing with the wrong ‘uns on Crimewatch – rather the continual maintenance we are shamed by society to uphold.

Men have it easy.  They can pay zero attention to their body hair and not one eyebrow will be disturbed, yet I forget to trim Terence (the spider’s leg that refuses to stay within the twin bat caves of my nose) and the hubby starts singing ‘If you let me stay’.

I’ll credit the male populace with some bravery, I have heard of the odd one or two attempting a form of ‘man-scaping’ but the most they have to worry about is snagging the turkeys neck.  They’ve never had to go on the search for red October heavily pregnant armed with nothing more than a cheap Bic and a mirror, uncannily resembling Kevin Costner’s Frank checking Rachel’s car for explosive devices.

To top it off, you have to do just that – strap in your balls.  Personally, I’d prefer to let Barcardi and Coke run free, like free range hens giddily discovering their pasture, but unfortunately my boobs are a mischievous pair and turn into sugar fueled squirrels when they’re off the leash!  Thankfully as Shakira herself confessed, my breasts are small and humble so I don’t require a hammock.

Bras are a perplexing contraption.  I’ve lost count of the times I’ve wandered bewildered through rows of underwear praying for Morpheus to turn up and reassure me “the answers are coming”.  There’s just too much choice for someone as clueless as me.  I made the mistake of trying one with pads in once – it looked as though I’d got the Mitchell Brothers stuffed down my top about to headbutt each other!

Finally after years of warbling China Black’s Searching, I’ve found my staple supplier of undies – Primark!  Not only do they fit like baby bear’s porridge, not too big, not too small, just right!  They’re value for money!  No need to feel an ounce of mummy guilt as I headily fill my basket – hoorah!

Thanks to my latest obsession (Peaky Blinders) I recently got an itch to be a little more daring and low and behold what did I discover when shopping to replenish my drawers, but lacy bralettes!

Usually I’m a creature of habit but I’m pleased to report this is the first time such a bold move has paid off.  I even had a pleasing portion of side boob going on – for a good few minutes I felt like Bad Gal Ri-Ri herself.  Well, until I attempted to do the Rude Boy dance moves and put my back out and quickly realised Rihanna is cut from the same cloth as Highlander; there can be only one!

Alas, whilst I dream of one day possessing the body to wear attire befitting a Bond girl, it might be more realistic to manage my expectations and aim for the level of Stiffler’s Mom instead.