Help, My Underwire is Trying to Kill Me & Other Tales of Womanhood

Pictorial representation of underwire

Let’s cut to the chase.
Bras are a huge deal for women, especially women who are a little chesty and can’t afford to go commando for fear of the ensuing awkward wobbling. Also, if you are the least bit sporty or lead an active lifestyle, those babies need to be caged, to stop them accidentally falling into someone’s soup or getting caught under your elbow when you lean over a desk…
We all know how it goes, average day at the office, droning through the chores of the day with an eye on the clock hanging on the far wall. Life is made up of similar days of drudgery and boredom from which you try to squeeze fun and laughter. You are engaged in a serious activity, explaining real grownup forms to a colleague, when you raise your arm and faaaaaacckkkk.
Your underwire has worked its way out its protective enclosure, and jabbed you right in the sensitive flesh of your underboob.

Pepper

It was years ago when I realized I probably wouldn’t do very well in the “landing men who take me seriously” department. The year was maybe 2006, I was still mop-skinny; thin body, big head. To make things worse I actually had on this weave at that time which had been put together by a hairdresser who maybe was a carpenter in her previous life… Anyway, the weave made my head look much bigger, is the point I’m trying to make.

Dear BFF

The stereotype is that all married women have to watch their single friends for fear they’ll try to snatch their husbands. The belief is that us single girls are mortally envious of the “luck” our married friends have,  and will do anything to make that luck ours. 
In actual fact, mami, I’m the one pulling up tired excuses to avoid being around you and your darling hubby.  I always knew he was a wild one but he made you happy and i figured marriage would calm him down some. 

Vaseline

I flash back quickly to that day.

We had gone on a road trip, and ended up in a little hotel in a quiet area, small city on the outskirts of a big town. The heat was doing our heads in and the constant airconditioning provided by the hotel was pure bliss. Nothing like vaseline, or body lotion of any kind had touched my skin in weeks. But of course, such skin-peace was ill-fated; soon I began to feel dried out, and it was embarassing going out because I had only packed short things but those short things showed off my white, scaly skin.

He woke me up one morning and asked if I wanted to come run errands with him. I said no, because 7am was an ungodly hour for me on holiday. So I slept, stretched languidly across the crisp white sheets, rolling cat-like from time to time, flirting with the idea of waking up, but never quite sealing the deal. Some minutes before 11 I decided I was ripe enough for a bath, and unhurriedly went about cleaning myself. When I was done, I made the bed because I could already hear him say, when he would eventually come back, “You can’t make bed?”  and I chuckled a little because I already knew  him that well. I settled in to watch Big Bang Theory, and was laughing softly when his call came in. How was I doing, what should he bring back to our lair for my breakfast, small talk. Looking down at my reptilian skin later, I texted him to buy me a little tub of vaseline, and even after I pleaded and he argued that he wouldn’t just randomly come across vaseline sellers where he was, we sort of left the topic open-ended.

I threatened him with the classic, “You think you are doing me, you are doing yourself because when we go out I’ll embarrass you with my whiteness” and I smiled as I typed that, because I wished we were in the same place so I could watch him laugh, and soak up the twinkle in his eyes until it passed…

He came back bearing food, which was great enough. Until he pulled out a tiny tub of vaseline. It was a brand I hated, but I really hadn’t expected him to buy any at all. I jumped up and down in excitement, pinned him to the wall and made kissy faces at him while he tried to push me off.

“Are you this cheap, you shoulda just told me all it took is vaseline. Jeez, I wouldn’t have wasted all this time and effort.”

I come back from my reverie and focus my gaze on the tub of vaseline. I’d thrown it in a seldomly used handbag, and there it was…

And I guess, really, I miss you.

Yours,
@MsMeddle

Zero Plus Zero Equals Blog Post

So I’m sat at the old plantation (aka office) today, when I hear my phone ring. I peep the caller ID without breaking eye contact with the old man before me, because old people are all sorts of annoying when they feel in the least bit abandoned. It is a strange number, one of those that makes you wonder if there’s a new network in town you have not heard of. I don’t know what makes me pick up the call, but I do.
Me: Hello?
He: Hello… Joy? How are you? 
Me: I’m fine…?
He: Why did you just push me aside, ehn? In fact, I’m so angry with you. 
Me: *scanning the mental voice recognition database, finding no match* Err… Why, what did I ever do to you? 
He: Why would you just forget about me… Do you even know who’s on the line?
Me: No, I don’t. 
He: Can you imagine. It’s Great.