Some school mums got naked in the lounge room yesterday. I wanted to strip and join them, but I was too shy. They go to the gym every day, they’re all skinny and toned. They tried to talk me into taking my clothes off. They assured me a bit of belly blubber didn’t matter. I just couldn’t. Let me explain … the mums have bought a salon-standard self-tanning machine. It looks like a vacuum cleaner crossed with a paint-gun. You pour a good slop of fake-tan goop into the paint-gun bit, turn on the vacuum bit and start spraying. They even have a pop-up tent/booth to do it in. They’ve been spray tanning each other for months as a cost-saving measure, with a dodgy $170 spray-tanner they got on eBay. It broke last week and they decided to invest in the real deal. The results were so exciting that one squealed “My giddy aunt!” as the other got to work. I desperately wanted a spray tan too, but I was physically (and mentally) incapable of letting friends see me naked. If someone’s going to judge my body, I want it to be a stranger I’m never going to see again. Not someone I’m going to run into in the playground. I’ve had professional spray tans and it’s quite something to be told to bend over so they can spray your butt crack. If you thought about it, you’d die a little inside. So you keep your mind blank. It’s a skill I’ve mastered after years of gynaecological examinations and childbirth. Pretend your legs aren’t spread, that a man who isn’t your husband doesn’t have his fingers up your clacker. Discuss the weather/movies/tennis with false cheer and pray it’s all over soon. Maybe if I did sit-ups for a few weeks and stopped eating roti and curry for dinner I could do the pop-up booth thing … Ooooh, I really want that spray tan (I don’t care how many Kamahl references Husband makes afterwards.)
TONIGHT’S MENU: Slack week, might just dig around in the freezer for something. Or sausages. Again.