I feel pretty, oh so pretty
THERE IS a wonderfully funny story doing the rounds on the Internet at the moment about an unfortunate woman's attempts to pamper herself with a home waxing kit.
For those who have not read the email, all I can say is that I've yet to meet a woman who has not crossed her legs in sympathy as tears of laughter rolled down her cheeks at the story.
Those of us who have read the story really should have learned from the experience, but alas the search for beauty knows no sense and as I started to prepare for a friend's wedding this week I found myself up close and personal with the evil that is self waxing strips.
You see, I'm going to town with this wedding. Since becoming a mammy I've kind of lost of my ability to make an effort with anything- and I've rather embarrassingly gone to a stupid amount of functions wearing my trusty black trousers with whatever dressy top I could get out the door wearing before the wee man attacked me with his slabbery kisses.
Generally when you think of me and how I've looked at weddings or parties in the last two years the words "bush", "dragged" and "backwards" spring to mind.
So I pretty much decided this time would be different- for a number of reasons. First of all, this is the wedding of my very glamourous and elegant friend who generally hangs about with very glamorous and elegant people.
I already know she is going to look stunning (Gavin, you are a terribly lucky man), so I figured I couldn't show myself up by going along sporting my usual bin -woman look.
The second reason is that myself and himself get to dump the wee man in the care of my beloved mammy and stay overnight in a lovely hotel in Stranorlar. This means we get some "us" time, where we don't have to refer to each other as mammy or daddy, fight over who gets up in the night for dummy duty or be faced with the gruesome sight of two over-tired parents struggling to change a damp baby at two in the morning.
It is definitely true that himself has truly seen me at my physical worst over the last two years. From the gloriously unattractive sight of me in labour to the pyjama-ed zombiefied mammy that I transform into within five minutes of getting through the door in the evenings, I am far from the blushing bride he married four and a half years ago.
So I'm determined to look half respectable this weekend so he is proud to call me his wife when arrive at the church together on Saturday.
And that leads me back to the story of self waxing strips. You see, while I'm going to town on this wedding, my budget is not perhaps conducive to the full pampering experience.
I'm treating myself to a wee eyebrow shape and a french manicure at Natural Touch on Friday and I'll saunter down to Streaks Ahead on Saturday morning for a wash, cut and blow dry.
But everything else is pretty much down to me- and it sure isn't a matter of slapping on some lippy and heading out the door any more.
For the last three nights I've been plucking, waxing and tanning my poor neglected body to within an inch of its sorry life. And trust me, anyone who tells you waxing doesn't hurt is talking through their bikini line!
There is something exceptionally undignified about sitting in your bathroom, leg up on the toilet seat, applying warm wax to your person and then ripping the hairs out of your body. It's not big, it's not clever and it is not advisable when you have a toddler running about- unless you want his first complete sentence to be largely composed of expletives.
The joy of waxing is closely followed by the joy of exfoliation- which is somewhat akin to slowly peeling a few layers of your own skin with a cheese grater in the name of high fashion.
Exfoliation is, of course, a precursor to that other joy that befalls women in the run up to any big event- self tanning. Picture the scene, you are now a hairless wonder- your skin red raw from all that scrubbing and its time to slap on some foul smelling cream and hope against all hope that you don't end up looking like you've been randomly attacked with some orange paint.
And much as you try there is no way to escape the fake tan aroma- short off getting in the shower and scrubbing some more- except that by now you are down to your last two layers of skin and in serious danger of exposing some bone.
They do say no pain, no gain however and I hope that come 12 noon on Saturday I'll be looking my finest. I've garnered a lovely little vintage dress from Ebay with matching heels and a lovely hat which I'm more than a little besotted with. There is not a pair of black trousers in sight and with the wee man safely with his granny from first thing in the morning, there is a minimal chance of a snotter or slabber attack before I get out the door.
So I'm hoping my efforts will pay off. I'm hoping himself will be impressed that his wife is still there underneath the daily mammy costume. I'm hoping as we watch Nora and Gavin say their vows, and promise to love each other come better or worse, than he'll squeeze my (manicured) hand and be glad we are together.
And I hope, as the music plays at the reception, he can stomach the smell of the fake tan as he leads me across the dance floor.
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