I am Sort Out the Foofaas Mum

One must shave one’s legs. Not just to the knee. The WHOLE way up…

One must sort out foofaa. Not just front foofaa. ALL the Foofaa.

One must wear appropriate knickers. Comfy, not slutty.  Pretty but not Bridget…

One might even vajazzle. Is that still a thing? Was it EVER a thing?

One must paint toenails. When did one last paint toenails? 1998 by the look of them…

One should seriously consider a quick fake tan… must transform one’s corned beef trunks into radiant stalks of shimmering silkiness while singing “AAAA’m yo Venus, Aaaa’m yo fiya…Yo desiya!”

legs

*Not mine

Why?

Has one a hot date?  Is Him whisking one off  for a night of sizzling passionista and frolicking? Is The Him in luck? Has one been overexcited by the little splash of sunshine we’ve been treated to this week? Has one lost her fecking mind?

No. But one does have an appointment with one’s Nurse for a lovely Smear test and so OBVIOUSLY one must be ready no?

No?

Why? Do you mean to tell me that one’s Nurse is NOT going to judge the stubble on one’s legs or the length of the foofaa carpet or the dotted grayness of one’s cellulitically fablis thighs?

Is there NOT a section on her paper work, underneath “Try not to fuck it up this time you shower of useless incompetent Gobshites”, that she must tick to state the state of one’s state on a scale of “Meh to WTF?”

Does she not have daily moments of “What a fablis Foofaa specimin this one is!” to write into her diary and to tell her Nursey friends about at the Nurses’ Conventions over Pimms?

You MEAN that one’s Nurse doesn’t give a continental FUCK about the state or shape of a Lady’s Ladybits when one presents oneself for the 30 second swab?  That she only thinks “Another one done thanks be to Christ. I hope there’s a caramel digestive in the staffroom at breaktime. Did I switch off the iron? Christ I need a pee…” and such?

You mean she’s not thinking “Oh Jeeeeeeeeeeeesus love go buy a razor. THIS is an unusual one… Christ it’s like an alien. Is it ALIVE?  Must change tonight’s dinner choice…”

NO.

Because guess what? Your Nurse doesn’t give a SHITE about the state of your netherregions.  She only cares about getting you in the door to make sure that in light of the recent ABOMINATION that is the Smear Scandal, that you are as safe as possible.

So if you’re putting it off, suck it up and get it booked.

It’s not the worst thing in the world is it?

smearme

 

 

 

I am Space Leggings in Jim Mum

Two words.
NEVER AGAIN!

“Oooooooooh Lookit!” thinks Mammy in local chainstore for disposable clothing which shall remain nameless.

“Look at the spacey, funky, pinkly-purply gym bottoms that are fablis and reduced! Oh my! Down to €5? What a bargain. Oh indeed Mammy shall have to have these. Mammy is indeed still uber-cool and chic and young enough to carry these off. Mammy SHALL be fablis and fearless in Jim in these bad boys. What a bargain!”

Silly Mammy.
Silly Silly Mammy.

Off Mammy trots to Jim, rather excited about the wearing of the rocket-fuel bottoms. Mammy is so excited in fact, that it never crosses her silly mind to try them on at home first.

“Should you not try these on first Mammy?” says Mammy’s inside voice.
“Pahah! DESIST, you annoying wench! I know what size my arse is and these leggins shall look spectacular on it” answers poor, deluded Mammy.

When Mammy gets to Jim, she pulls on the bottoms. They go up to her knees before the bottom of the legs on the leggings decide that they shall not move. In fact, they will not budge above Mammy’s ankles. And any hope Mammy has of getting the material to cover her calves, is left wittering on the changing room floor, beside Mammy’s dignity and confidence.

When Mammy does get the top part of the bottoms to go over her arse, she is suddenly aware that while yes, her legs and nether regions may in fact be covered, she still has two problems.
1. The bottoms are so beautifully stuck to her calves, that the crotch part of them is NEVER going to make the journey to HER crotch.
2. When Mammy moves, the fablis pinky purply space pattern DISAPPEARS, being replaced by wonderful see-through white!

FAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK! thinks Mammy as she continues to bounce the bottoms up, trying and failing to get the crotches to align.

“FAAAAAAAACK!” shouts Mammy aloud as it dawns on her that this is as high as they will go. Thankfully, there is a drawstring on the top of the bottoms, (which were OBVIOUSLY designed for a giraffe with no ankles or calves and the leg circumference of a fricken table leg), and so Mammy ties it tight around her belly in the hope that at least the trousers will NOT fall off.

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And so off Mammy toddles into Jim, where OF COURSE, Mr Fucking Motivator has a lovely circuit of Squats, lunges and Bear Crawls lined up for us. YES. I said BEAR CRAWLS… where Mammy and her Jimbuddies have to channel their inner Bear Cub and crawl like fecking MOWGLI through Jim, arses in the air!

“Ooooooooh, cool leggings Mrs R” coos one of the lovely proper-legging-wearing wenches.
“Oooooooooh nooooooooo!” answers Me. “I apologise in advance for the certain showing of my Hoohaa at some point during the next hour Ladies” announces Mammy. (Better to pre-empt the disaster eh? At least then, I can look like I MEANT for my table-leg/giraffe leggings to split along the pathetic seam on my unfortunate arse and offer heart failure to my training buddy half way through my squat jump.)

“3,2,1… Go!

I swear to God Ladybelles, I honestly thought that with every lunge I would hear the rip. When we were stretching, I could HEAR the material screaming. I could see the colour disappearing from every part of my legs that were moving. I could only IMAGINE what see-through catastrophe was happening on my arse. My calves were crying by the end of the session as the fecking material was trying so hard to merge into my skin that I truly feared that I might live the rest of my life with the awful, suddenly not so cool pattern, embedded onto my corned-beef skin.

Surprisingly, the bastarding Leggings DID survive the wrath of Jim.
Not so surprisingly, they did NOT survive Mammy REMOVING them from her poor suffocated legs. In fact, they had to be scissored off when she got home. Yes. I had to cut them off my calves.

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Yes. I had to cut them off.

Lesson?

When you see leggings on sale seeming too good to be true, walk on by Mammy. They are indeed too good to be true.
And the next time I’m feeling guilty for spending money on proper gym bottoms, I shall remember that I am doing so for the good of my fellow Jimgoers, my nerves and my dignity.
And leave the funky, spacey, pinky purply leggings for the giraffes.

Traumatised I tell you.

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