fake and bake

Oh my god.  I don’t believe it, the big day is here and as I look down at my hands I can only shake my head.  They’re bright orange.  I’m not talking a subtle fake tan glow here, they actually look like I’ve been kneading radioactive poo. Gutted. Lay in bed surrounded by a haze of lager farts and morning breath, I run through a mental itinerary for today.  First I’m seeing mum so I can model tonight’s outfit and get her stamp of approval, then on to my nans for a quick cup of tea and a catch up on the family gossip.  I love the way that despite being house-bound she still remains the font of all knowledge when it comes to everyone else’s business – Don Cole, Mafia Nan.  I fancy dinner at our favourite café, Chester’s, but I’m going to have to work my magic on the ‘Bank Manager’ for that.  Sometimes I regret giving total financial responsibility to my husband; he’s tighter than a squirrel with his nuts in winter!  But if the finances were left to me, we’d probably be homeless so I have to be grateful for small mercies.

Later as I sit at my boudoir inspired dressing table and look at its contents, there appears to be more of me on its surface than there is in the super suck-in knickers I’m wearing.  More fake tan, fake eyelashes, fake nails and what women wouldn’t be complete without her chicken fillets.  And so begins the transformation from Quasimodo to Esmeralda.

What is it with these nylon covered bungee elastic garments? They are modelled by wafer thin girls who don’t have an ounce of additional flesh and are wrapped in the promise of a smooth, svelte figure.  However, I feel that the over-priced and hideous apparels lead us girlie's into a false sense of security.  Why do we pay ridiculous amounts of money to look like a bag of spuds tied in the middle?  I mean think about it - where is all this extra pulp expected to go?   Wearing these torturous undergarments may provide a visual inch-loss but in my experience everything gets thrust in a downward trajectory and I end up having knees the size of watermelons – not a good look at 31.

What ever happened to Au Natural? Oooh yes, that’s right…AGE!  I know I’m not the oldest book on the shelf but it does have to be said that good old gravity is working its mysterious magic on more than one area of my boobly body.  In fact if I’m honest I have no recollection of when things started to go…south.   That’s life.  After donning the freshly painted electric blue nails (to match the dress, of course) I realise that I am going to have to some how attach the goddamn eyelashes without gorging my eyeballs out with the newly acquired talons.  It’s at times like these I seriously want to win the lottery so I can hire someone to stick the mothers on.  I mean take that advert with J-Lo shaving her legs with a Gillette razor.  Shave ‘her own’ legs! I don’t think so - I bet it’s been year’s since the women wiped her own arse let alone shave a leg…(clap, clap) ‘Wipers’…(Coming to America – Eddie Murphy)

After applying another layer of fake tan, on goes the slap.   Big and bold is the theme, and as the handbag I’m taking is the size of a credit card Id’ better put on extra thick layer.  All done up like a dogs dinner I turn to see where my significant other is up to and he’s looking as dapper as ever.  Kitted out in uber pointy shoes, shirt and pants that embrace his bottom in a mouth-watering way, he’s my pocket-sized George Clooney and so I lean in for a sneaky kiss.

Dress on, shoes on and a surrounded by an atomic mushroom of Issey Miyake my husband and I await the cab that will take us to his (football) presentation evening. The word WAG unfortunately springs to mind but I don’t think either of us fit the criteria; him playing for a ‘vets’ team and me looking like Dawn French and the only hob-nobbing we’ll be doing is dunking them in a brew when we get home.

Wish me luck…

Hugs and kisses

Miss Piggy x