The sun has finally made an appearance in London. I travel to work with my nose stuffed into a fat man's armpit on a daily basis, the office is an oven and I am having to suffer the sudden appearance of grey-white hairy man-toes everywhere (guys, having a pedicure does not compromise your masculinity, OK?)
I'm starting to come round to MM's way of thinking about summer. No, I don't have to run the gauntlet of sitting next to a (argghhh) model on the beach, which makes me feel reasonably fortunate in comparision, but my confidence is starting to suffer under the onslaught of young firm flesh on display. I am having a serious case of tanned-legs-and-taut-tummy envy. And what's even worse, what makes me want to weep with jealousy, are the girls prancing about in skimpy vest tops with not a hint of bra in sight - surely they can't all have had boob jobs? I don't think that mine have ever been that pert, even when I was a teenager.
The boob thing is a bit of an issue for me. I am rather unremarkably endowed in the chest department, always have been, and since breast-feeding two ravenous children they are nothing at all to write home about. So the bathing suit issue looms large.
When I was younger (pre-kids) displaying a flat chest in a bikini wasn't much of an issue. After all, when you have an enviably washboard stomach and pert buttocks, who cares? But now, with my stomach muscles on strike (and yes, I have tried sit-ups, and no, they didn't work) and my derriere resembling a three-week old windfall apple rather than a ripe peach, I wish I had the benefit of a Grand Canyon cleavage to act as a diversion.
So I guess I've got to give up the fight and accept that it's a kaftan summer for me this year.
I'm starting to come round to MM's way of thinking about summer. No, I don't have to run the gauntlet of sitting next to a (argghhh) model on the beach, which makes me feel reasonably fortunate in comparision, but my confidence is starting to suffer under the onslaught of young firm flesh on display. I am having a serious case of tanned-legs-and-taut-tummy envy. And what's even worse, what makes me want to weep with jealousy, are the girls prancing about in skimpy vest tops with not a hint of bra in sight - surely they can't all have had boob jobs? I don't think that mine have ever been that pert, even when I was a teenager.
The boob thing is a bit of an issue for me. I am rather unremarkably endowed in the chest department, always have been, and since breast-feeding two ravenous children they are nothing at all to write home about. So the bathing suit issue looms large.
When I was younger (pre-kids) displaying a flat chest in a bikini wasn't much of an issue. After all, when you have an enviably washboard stomach and pert buttocks, who cares? But now, with my stomach muscles on strike (and yes, I have tried sit-ups, and no, they didn't work) and my derriere resembling a three-week old windfall apple rather than a ripe peach, I wish I had the benefit of a Grand Canyon cleavage to act as a diversion.
So I guess I've got to give up the fight and accept that it's a kaftan summer for me this year.
Comments
This summer seems to have induced a vanity-anxiety attack.
(But I do count my blessings. I have very nice ankles and my collarbones are rather cute. So it's not all bad.)
Empire waist tops. Tight around the chest, loose and flowy around the tummy. You'll be hot. Promise.
Hey sugarmama - where do I buy one of these miracle suits?