The Joy of Fake Tan

So living in Ireland, a natural tan doesn’t come easily, actually it rarely comes at all. As a result every year thousands of Irish holiday makers head to the sun, to bask on beaches soaking up the sun goodness. They return home glowing from a couple of weeks in the sun bemoaning Irish weather and anticipating their next trip to a far off shore.

Now I haven’t done ‘basking on a beach’ in rather a long time, which was unfortunate as I needed a tan. I was going to a posh ‘Do’ and needed to look, presentable, well at least not have people recoil in horror at my pale blotchy skin squeezed into a frock which was at least a tad snug.

The dress had been acquired on holiday, it was bright red and the best thing about it, it was stretchy, oh yeah baby I could get into this dress if it was a size smaller than I usually buy. Unfortunately for me it also revealed, to the unsuspecting public, ever lump and bump my bra and knickers produced.

Not a problem I thought, when I get home I can get me some of that ‘Spanx’ stuff. I had never in my life worn Spnax, but I’d heard great things and assumed ‘Spanx’ could do great things for me too.

Once again I hit the shops with some enthusiasm. So I ventured into a posh Dublin store. I was sure they’d sell Spanx here, after all posh people too must have a need of such things, I’m sure they too have bits that spill over in an unsightly manner.

‘I need something to smooth out my lumps and bumps’ I declared to the older, slightly sour faced sales assistant.

‘Menopause stole my waist and I though I could maybe buy one here’  I was grinning hoping for a smile back. I failed. No smile.

‘I was thinking maybe Spanx’ I offered

‘Madam’ yeah she called me madam ‘We can so much better than Spanx’

‘We can ?’

‘Follow me to the changing room madam and I’ll get a selection of undergarments’

Oh feck she called them under garments. She walked very slowly towards the posh changing room. It looked as though she had her bottom clenched very tightly indeed, possibly in case of some anal leakage, wind perhaps.

There I sat on a velvet bench opposite a mirror that reflected my mother back at me, wearing jeans and converse, hair tossed and looking like the un-poshest person to ever cross their door.

‘Madam, this is a miracle worker’ she held out her arm with a black lacy all in one bra and knickers thingee with a reinforced centre to hold everything in.

‘it’s got a popped gusset for your comfort’

She was gone and I was alone with the miracle worker. I’d encountered popped gussets before and my experience wasn’t a good one, if I moved too quickly sometimes they would pop, in retrospect maybe I should have bought a larger size.

I unpopped my gusset and I stepped in, miracle worker do your thing, well, the old miracle worker seemed to have an objection to going up over my hips, it just stopped there. I took a deep breath in and pulled that bad baby up over my Buddha like belly, then I stopped to take a breath before I tried to stuff my massive DD’s into what I’m sure were B cups.

I’d broken into a sweat and not a menopausal sweat, the miracle worker was very hard work. So all I had to do now was to pull the poppers together the front and the back. I pulled and pulled until the miracle worker moved about on my Buddha belly. I tried and failed to pop the poppers together, grappling with the gusset I could feel them but I couldn’t see them.

Reading glasses that’s what’s called for here. Everything was much clearer with my ‘awl wan’ glasses. I could see the poppers now all I had to do was pull the two ends of the miracle worker together. SLAP I let the back one slip out of my hand which I was holding with such force that it slapped my arse with a very loud slapping noise.

That was it I’d had enough of the miracle worker and that sour faced shop assistant.

I rolled, the miracle worker down over my poor hips and released myself from its death like grip.

Oh I could breath and I’d finally stopped sweating, I felt like I’d been in a wrestling match. How do women wear these contraptions all day.

‘How’s madam getting on’  she was standing outside my posh mirrored cubicle.

‘She’s not’ I replied

Gathered myself together and made my way out of the posh shop. Headed to Penny’s where I purchased a €2 thong.

Why a thong I hear you ask.

Spray tan. I was on my way to get a spray tan (for posh do)  and was told that I needed to wear a thong. Please bear in mind I’d not worn a thong since 1982 and I’d never had a spray tan before.

So there I stood in a cubicle in nothing but a paper hat and a thong while a young woman, who was wearing a mask sprayed my entire body with some ice-cold liquid.

‘We’ll start at the back’ she was very enthusiastic and giggled rather a lot

‘You’ll be only massive’ now I should explain that’s a Dublin colloquialism for ‘You’ll look great’

‘Turn to the front we have to get everywhere’

I did as directed, she sprayed up and down and the icy cold liquid made me shiver. The she reached into the cubicle and raised my left boob with her hand and sprayed what can only be descried as a smiley face under it, then move to the right boob, holding that one up too and repeating the smiley face.

This confirmed that not only is my arse sagging but my boobs are too.

So I’ve got a posh frock and a tan, I’ve also got awl wan knickers that are very bloody comfortable.

The joy of a spray tan and Big Knickers..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Joy of Yoga

So with body changing at a rate of knots action needed to be taken and the sooner the better as far as I was concerned. I was missing my waist and had become quite obsessed with checking out other ladies (of a certain age) waists. It seemed to me that not everybody’s had disappeared as mine had.

I would love to be in  good physical shape, truly I would. I have friends who are very fit and are always taking on challenges like swimming for charity or running a marathon, I couldn’t even walk a bloody marathon, but I could drive 26 miles and that’s the only way I’m doing a marathon.

So for no other reason other than reading that Madonna and Meg Ryan both practised yoga I though I’d give it a go. I suspect they may do a little more than Yoga mind you.

Where to start, with the wardrobe of course. I hit the shops with some gusto in search of appropriate yoga gear, which means yoga gear that would cover me up and be very stretchy I was after all wearing stretchy jeans so I needed something even stretchier.

The young and very beautiful girl in the sports shop kitted me out, I felt amazing. I had yoga pants and long bright orange tee shirts, I even had orange yoga shoes, I didn’t even look particularly round, there was even a faint waist shape. All clothes should be made like yoga clothes, for these were magic clothes.

As I arrived at my first Yoga class I observed the other Yogis, that’s what people who practice the art of Yoga are called, so the girl in the shop told me. It has to be said my yoga gear looked very new, all these awl wans looked liked they’d been here before. I suspect I stood out like a sore thumb in ‘me gear’ I even had a new mat.

First task of the class was to learn how to sit, emm, I excelled at this, but usually on a sofa. Our Yoga instructor walked around her classroom checking that we were all comfortable and she introduced herself to us newbies.

I sat cross-legged on my new mat quite pleased with myself when the yogi beside me leaned over and suggested I take off my shoes..

‘We practice in bare feet it’s much easier that way’ she whispered

‘But these are Yoga shoes’ I said proudly as if I had one up on her

‘Yoga shoes, Yoga shoes I’ve never heard of Yoga shoes’ she grinned

Well that witch in the sports had sold me a rake of gear that it seems I didn’t need at all leaving me mortified. Yoga shoes indeed.

So shoes off, sitting cross-legged on my new mat I was breathing as directed I was stretching up and pulling my belly button in as far as I could and I though I was doing very well indeed.

That was until we were directed to stand and stretch and eventually arrive at the warrior pose. We were  holding the pose and stretching our muscles all at the same time, I was concentrating so hard I was sweating.

At this point I should explain, I am a lady of a certain age and have given birth a couple of times, let’s just say things are not as tight as they used to be. I was far too busy to do those bloody pelvic floor exercises, I though I’d have it laminated eventually. That was a joke by the way, I really should have just done the exercises.

Where is this going, well ladies just between you and me, I have a fear of farting. It’s true, terrified to fart in public. So here I am stretching things that haven’t been stretched in years, no decades and now my fear of farting has raised it’s ugly loud head.

So off we went again, stretching arms in the air and stretching upwards eventually and I’m not really sure how it happened we arrived at Downward Dog position. Oh sweet Jesus I had my buttocks clenched as tight as possible. There’d  be no trumpet noises from me, oh no not me.

With buttocks still clenched tight we arrived back at standing position, the stress was killing me, this was no relaxation class. My buttocks were so tightly clenched that I could have bounced a two Euro coin off of it.

Then the loudest trumpet noise I’ve ever heard in my life, the noise bounced off the walls and spread around the room and the whole building I would imagine echoing as it went.

I could see her growing red as the giggles started around the room and other yogies glancing at her. Oh the poor woman I felt her embarrassment and so relieved it wasn’t me. Actually I was thrilled it wasn’t me.

We all carried on as if nothing had happened, but something had happened, some poor woman was embarrassed and most probably upset. To be fair her trumpeting skill were first class.

‘See you all next week’ Yoga instructor beamed

She won’t see me I’m off to practice with YouTube I can’t be arsed with all that relaxing stress, I’ll simply buy some appropriate under garments to give me a waist, or maybe just spend my days in my Yoga pants.

The Joy of Yoga or maybe not.

 

 

 

 

The Joy of a Good Photographer

I’m not a big fan of the ‘Selfie’ possibly because I need my glasses to take one and I still manage to cock it up. Fortunately eldest child is a photographer, not sure why I said that the truth is he takes sports photos. Not of me naturally, I’m probably the least sporty menopausal woman you’ll ever encounter. My idea of sport is being able to balance a cup of hot chocolate on my stomach while flat on the sofa watching a Cary Grant film. This is a skill I’ve perfected over the years.

Eldest child went to college to learn how to take photos, well there was other stuff on his course but the truth is he loved taking pictures. Again not of me, that is until he needed some pictures for a project of ‘older people’ it seems in his world menopausal equals older.

‘I need to take pictures of awl people’ this was a statement made at me.

‘Ask your grandmother’ well I thought I was being helpful

‘Ah shur lookit mam you’ll do’

So I was to be recorded in a project titled ‘Old People’

He erected massive lights at various angles around a chair in the living room. There were light reflecting things and tripods and cameras,  cameras which I can confirm cost more than my car. He twiddled knobs and checked his computer then adjusted lights. I must confess I was very impressed it all looked very complicated.

‘Right do you want to sit there’ pointing at the chair

‘Oh wait should I brush my hair or some lipstick’ I asked as any would be model would

‘Ah for what, just sit there and look at the camera would ya’

So I was to appear in the old person project lipsticksless.

I did as I was directed, sat and looked at the camera, shur lookit I was looking at the wrong camera.  Not only that I was talking which seemed to irritate the Irish Lichfield.

When I finally figured out which camera I should be looking at, he’d changed cameras and oddly I could sense his frustration with me.

So then I was asked to stand behind the chair, then beside the chair, then on the chair I obliged as I was sure this would be my one and only modeling job.

I sat and smiled till my poor face ached, he scratched his head and sighed rather a lot.

‘What are you doing’ he demanded

‘What do ya mean what am I doing.  I’m modelling’

‘You look like a grinning corpse’

‘Well if I’d be allowed to put some lipstick on I’d look different’

That was it, he wasn’t impressed with is old mother. It seems he’ had enough of me and my antics.

‘You’re not taking this seriously’ he declared

At this point I started to laugh and the best shot of the day was me looking like a menopausal Chinese woman.

I never did make it into the old people’s project.

The joy of a good photographer ..

 

 

 

 

The Joy of Sons and Lego

Now before you panic, I’m not going to witter on about the joy that children bring into ones life, that goes without saying. I’m not going to bore you with stories of cuteness or amusing anecdotes. Oh no ladies not me. I’m going to share my horror stories with you in the hope you too can relate.

My children are adults, tall young men, which was a particular surprise to my husband as we are both on the ‘shorter’ side. At one stage he demanded to know ‘why are they still growing’ as they towered over him at 15 and 11.

Somewhere around this time the older one became infected with hormones and attitude, the like of which I’d never encountered. I recall my adolesent  years being spent trying to find a cure (there was none) for greasy hair besides washing it daily and camouflaging my rampant acne. While listening to Janis Ian, singing Seventeen, which only made me fall into an adlosent depression.  Then Joni Mitchell sang about real love. She sang of the sweet anguish of life and love, that I was sure one day I would understand. Yep that’s how old I am.

Like all parents we tried to give our boys what we never had, maybe we over did it. The one thing I gave our boys just as my grandmother gave us was the lecture about ‘the poor children’

‘What poor children’ the youngest would challenge me when he was five or six

‘I’ve never seen any poor children, bring them here and they can play with my toys and eat my vegetables’

I never did produce any poor children for him.

I traipsed around rugby and football clubs on the weekends only to banned by both of my sons. It seems it’s not very sportsman like to shout abuse at the enemy (the opposition)  when they take out your son because he has the ball. Charging onto a field umbrella in hand shouting ‘Mere you ya little scut’ at a seven-year old is not the done thing.

As each birthday passed I subjected them to my Martha Stewart obsession, it lasted several years.  I baked and made cards I threw parties and invited everyone from immediate family to school friends and occasionally neighbours. I would occasionally, when funds permitted, hire a clown or a magician I wanted them to remember each passing year with fondness, and I worked bloody hard at it. My home was full of Lego,  plastic pirates, bikes and footballs even a skateboard, which the eldest went everywhere on.

As they got older they didn’t want any parties, or me for that matter making cakes and decorating the fence at the front of the house with giant balloons. So it was time to hand it over to them. They could tell me what they wanted and I’d try to oblige.

Yeah, sixteen rolled around for the eldest, acne had taken hold and then there was the adolescent moustache had appeared on his upper lip. His voice went up and down without warning and he was a decidedly awkward teenager.

‘Well sixteen’ I declared as he and his friend arrived home from school and stood in my kitchen, in retrospect they both looked a tad awkward sorta sheepish.

‘Well, what do you want for your birthday this year’ there I stood and waited for the ‘game for the Playstation’ or maybe ‘new phone’ possibly ‘some speakers’

‘Would a stripper be out of the question?’ he asked

‘Huh’ that’s all I could muster.

What the hell was going on here, my beautiful innocent child in his catholic school uniform asking. me, his mother, for a stripper.

‘A stripper ? A stripper ? like a Lego stripper’

‘No’ he wasn’t even embarrassed, unlike me.

‘A stripper, like a real stripper, stripper’

‘yeah’

Ok the truth was I had no strategy for dealing with this situation. I’d no idea I’d have to deal with this at all.

‘You’re both too young to go to a strip club maybe you should wait until you’re both older’ There I’d sorted that or so I thought.

‘If money is the problem I can contribute’ his pal offered, who by the way was also in his catholic school uniform.

‘Let me understand this, cause I’m not sure I’m understanding this at all. You two, want me to hire a stripper for you. Where would this young lady ‘perform’.

‘Here’ eldest piped up

‘Here HERE in my kitchen’ I was pretty sure that Martha Stewart had never had a stripper in her kitchen.

‘Or inside’

Inside was the room the boys spent most of their time in and the floor was covered in cars and Lego. It was a kids room and now the eldest wanted to turn in into a ‘strip den’ I’d have to get a pole and a builder, even worse I couldn’t believe the thought crossed my mind.

‘Leave it with me’ sez I

They both disappeared upstairs and I stood there in my Martha Stewart apron bewildered. the two of them were probably in his room downloading porn from the internet and while smoking weed all while in their catholic school uniforms.

How did this happen how did he grow up so quickly, what had I done wrong, of course it was my fault. I didn’t notice that we were changing together, my facial hair growth matched his, my hormone imbalances were as wild as his.

So being the adult I needed to come up with a solution for the birthday dilemma that I was now faced with.

Guess what.. you won’t guess so I’ll tell you..

Lego do a Strip club. Who knew, you do now.

The Joy of Lego and children.

lego 1

 

 

 

 

The Joy of Pregnancy

Calm down ladies, I’m not talking about me, that ship has sailed. But as a woman in her fifties I have  friends who are of a similar age with daughters who are about to make my lovely friends ‘grannies’ and I can’t wait.

Recently I was asked by a friend’s daughter if I remembered being pregnant and giving birth. Seriously, my sons were born in the 90’s, my eyesight may be failing and I may be sagging in all the wrong places, actually there’s no good place to sag, but my memory was just fine.

‘Of course I remember’

‘Well’ she asked all doe eyed

‘Well what?’

‘Tell me what’s it’s going to be like’ she was almost pleading

‘Ask your mother’ sez I

I wasn’t getting into this, I had sons and was happy enough I wouldn’t have to deal with the anyones pregnancy. If I was ever a grandmother I could just show up after the child arrived and shower it with pressies, that’s what I was good at not giving pregnancy advice.

‘Did that, all she said was that it was the most wonderful stage of my life, giving life’

‘Oh and you want me to tell you differently’

‘Tell me the truth’

Ahh this was a question I shouldnt have been asked, because I was told the same thing over twenty years ago. My mother painted a rosy picture so much so I had visions of myself being this perfect mother, lying in the long grass eating figrolls while breast-feeding my beautiful baby. Alright that was my dream. That of course is not how it went.

‘About what ?’ I could sense how anxious she was

‘The birth’

‘That’s only part of it, right at the end for a couple of hours if even that’ I was reassuring.

I didn’t want to panic her, should I tell her the truth, would I have wanted to know the truth when I was first pregnant.

Nobody told me about the massive hormone imbalances, the mood swings, I could go from laughing to crying in a second and sometimes I didn’t even know why I was upset.

Like an ejit I read a book called ‘The Bridges of Madison County’ I cried for days, telling anyone who listened that ‘awl wans can fall in love too’ my entire family though I’d lost my mind. I blamed the hormones.

Now in my fifties I can again blame the hormones for my mood swings and get away with it. Well there has to be an upside.

Should I tell her about the massive clothes that’s needed, even  then you need massive and I mean massive knickers and bras, MASSIVE.. Let’s not forget the paper knickers and pads I was told to buy, but had no idea why, but it seems no baby was born to a mother who didn’t have paper knickers. Or the frocks that have so much fabric I looked like a mobile advert for Laura Ashley curtains.

Should I tell her about the hair growth, I had no idea that it grew so rapidly during pregnancy, I had to shave my legs twice a day during the summer, towards  the end of my pregnancy I had to get my sister to shave my legs because I couldn’t bend over to do it.

Or if I abandoned my shaving routine and opted for tights that was just as bad, as my tights would roll down over my massive Bump. then they’d end up all wrinkled around my ankles just above my comfy but ugly shoes, which I also had to buy as my feet got so fat I couldn’t wear my normal shoes. Maybe I won’t mention that.

Ahh maybe I won’t tell her.

Maybe I should just warn her about the cravings, oh the pickles, jars of them I went through, or the smells that made me feel dizzy, maybe not.

It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to mention the flatulence that was so unexpected and so loud that it frightened the bejesus out of me and the people around me. Nope, I’ll let that take her by surprise too.

I might leave out the intimate examinations carried out the gynies, sometimes they were just short of having a Davey lamp and going in up to their elbows, while assuring me that this ‘won’t hurt’, and that it’s all perfectly natural,  my arse it didn’t hurt, oh yeah it did, sorry.

‘Well, tell me’ she urged

‘Look it’ll all be fine, I promise’

‘I know it’ll be fine, but what happens before fine’

‘Take the drugs, all the feckin drugs they offer and ask for more, shur lookit I did it twice, it’s a bit painful at the end that’s all some pushing and it’s all over’

‘I’m not buying it’ she glared at me as though I’d lie to her. Is omission a lie after all.

‘OK OK .. the worst part was after he was born, he was perfect I kept counting his fingers and looking at him and trying to figure out why the hell did this child have red hair’

‘His red hair was the worst part ?’

I had to tell her the truth, it wouldn’t be fair on her, so I told her the worst part for me was afterwards.

‘I was so naive that I didn’t know babies had to be fed every four hours, that how naive I was’

‘That’s it’

‘No, the worst part is having to stand up out of the bed to go to the loo. That was the worst for me’

‘Yeah ok that’s enough’  she protested

‘No No No not that, the worst part is standing up and your vacant belly falling down around your knees like an apron so you can no longer see your paper knickers, and your boobs are so big and heavy that you might just fall over, and you’ve just dispatched your husband to collect your size eight jeans and tee-shirt to go home, that’s the worst’

Maybe I went to far, she visibly paled in front of me.

 

The Joy of Pregnancy

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Joy of the French

For those of you who know me you all know I love France. I travel there, usually to Paris every year. I love that they love their food and have created the most amazing cheese in the world. Wine, they drink wine every day, they are in a sentence indulgent and simply elegant.

I could talk about their love of art and fashion but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because I’m envious of the French, their simple elegance and the fact is they can eat as much as they like and not gain weight. Which is  something I find particularly bloody annoying.

Why am I talking about the French. Well I’ll you why, I recently encountered a young French woman in a hairdresser salon.

So picture this I show up in my converse, jeans rolled up over my ankles, I’d read somewhere that this was fashionable, turns out not on 50 something women, a white shirt that was stretched over my ever-expanding boobs. The buttons straining to keep everything intact.

Out she floated, I sware she floated, in a black long sleeve tee-shirt, a pair of black skinny trousers (she hadn’t rolled them up) and flat red shoes. She looked amazing, elegance oozed from every pore. How, I don’t understand how. If I’d showed up anywhere wearing that people would ask if I’d been to a funeral.

‘You are here for ze makeup’ read her part in a French accent

‘Ahh.. no.. just a wash and blow dry’ sez I

‘But you can have both’ French accent

‘Ahh.. I’ll think about it’ sez I knowing full well I wasn’t going to.

Besides I was sure I’d end up looking like a middle-aged transvestite. It happened before a few years ago got all gleamed up even had a sparkly frock. Caught sight of myself and I swear to God I resembled a short slightly round aging transvestite.

‘But it will enhance your beauty’ French accent

For feck sack ‘beauty’ what was she on about. At fifty something I was simply a rounder, hairier and heavier awl wan than I was thirty years ago.

‘All womens are beautiful’ French accent

This was not true, I’ve met women who are, as my grandmother used to say  ‘Plain, god love them’

‘Look you are young and beautiful at this point I just doing maintenance’

This confused the poor young wan altogether, she did that beautiful head tilting that only the French can do, mind you she did have a confused expression.

‘No.. No we will enhance your beauty’ French accent.

‘I just came for a blow dry’ sez I wishing she’d just feck off with herself.

She didn’t, she even offered to do it free of charge. Now this could mean one of two things, I’m very sad and pale looking so she feels sorry for me or she needs the practice on some awl wans. I was going with the latter.

I am one of those women who buy make up and the like in Boots, I usually see what’s on offer and that dictates my ‘beauty routine’.

My make up doesn’t last very long, those hot flushes and sweats encourage my make up to run down my face and neck and settle into my cleavage. When most women get to the end of the evening and do their cleansing routine they clean their faces, oh not me, my cleansing routine centres around my neck and cleavage.

My younger sister has recently introduced me to something called ‘Primer’ it’s like an undercoat for your make up, it sorta fills in all the lines and makes your face look a bit smoother than it actually is,  it bloody works. My makeup now stays where I put it, on my face. On the flip side when I look down now my poor boobs look decidedly pale.

I have not idea how hairdressers make your hair look so shiny and bouncy but they do, it’s something I simply can’t accomplish on my own. I always watch them but I can never replicate what they do.

So there I sat with my bouncy hair waiting for my new French friend to arrive to ‘enhance my beauty’. What class of an eejit was I to agree to this, but shur lookit I could wash it off when I got home, no harm done.

She stood between me and the mirror as she examined my poor face.

‘We need do something with your eye browns’ French accent

‘My eye browns?’

‘Qui your eye browns are grey’ French accent

‘My eye browns are grey’ this was news to me. So I took out my reading glasses and low and behold she was right. My eye browns were grey.

She once again stood between me and the mirror and worked away, she massaged my face with something cool and soothing. She worked away on my eye browns and blended colours on my eyelids. Finally she applied lipstick with a little brush, I’ve never done that and thought it was a bit silly and giggled as she struggled to ‘out line my lips’

She stood back and did that big revel thing that they do on the telly, the only thing was I didn’t have a before picture. But there I was in all my glory. I hardly recognised myself. My eye browns were now ‘eye browns’ beautiful and neat. There were no bags under my eyes.. Oh dear god I looked like I did years ago, but with bouncy hair.

‘You look like a beautiful French Woman’ French accent

‘Ah go on would ya’ I couldn’t believe the transformation.

Now I just need to figure out where she got those trousers and shoes.

The Joy of the French

 

 

 

 

 

The joy of a Hot Stone Massage

Before I start rambling on about my massage experience I think I need to explain that I’m not one of those women who is, let’s say, high maintenance.

The sad truth is I file my own nails and it takes me about 3 minutes. I don’t frequent the local nail bars, it seems that people spend an age getting their nails done, well not me, 3 minutes and I’m out the door.

A while ago I found myself at a wellness in the Czech Republic. A couple of hours from Prague, high up in the mountains the setting was beautiful. The building itself looked like it’d been used in a 1960’s james Bond film. Seriously I expected the staff to be wearing ski pants and smoking Marlboro cigarettes. They weren’t of course.

The people I travelled with were at a conference which left me with some free time to explore the surrounding area.

Now why would I be out traversing hills and gazing at lakes. Me. Naw. I decided as I was at a Wellness centre I was going to try a massage maybe. This was something else I’d never done. So approached the receptionist asking if I could book myself in for a massage.

She smiled and handed me a menu. I kid you not a ‘massage menu’ well I’d no clue, so I asked would she suggest a massage for me.

‘Hot stone is good’

Hot Stone it was so.

I was despatched to the bowels of this 1960’s film set where there were several long corridors with cold stone floors and I could hear myself walking as though I was alone down there. The final corridor was lined with green doors which were very obviously changing rooms.

The young man, sitting behind a desk at the very end of the corridor pointed me to my assigned door and told me that ‘Helga’ would be there soon.

I know what you’re thinking, the very same as I was thinking. Helga would be Scandinavian with perfect english and would of course have very deft hands that would massage all my aches and pains away.

Well we were both wrong. Helga as it turns out was not Scandinavian at all, I’ve no clue what she was or even if she was a she, she had tiny fingers which I doubted were deft at anything at all. She was an older lady dressed all in white, she even had white high heels on. A massage therapist in high heels. I was in eastern europe so I accept that women do almost everything in high heels.

Her uniform was incredibly tight and looked like it’s been stretched over some industrial support underwear.  Her, not so natural red hair was back combed until it stood still, I’m sure she took it off at night.

‘Ruskie’ she shouted at me.

‘Ahh..english..I speak english’

She tutted at me, seriously she tutted out loud at me! Besides I don’t look Russian.

‘Undress’ she directed me. I was feeling decidedly uncomfortable.

‘Everythings off’ pointing her very short little finger at me.

I did as requested, ‘everthings’ I took off, except me drawers. There wasnt a chance I was going drawerless.

So wrapped in about twelve towels I followed her into the ‘treatment room’ there was a bed which I’m sure had been there since the war, the first one. Beside the bed was a vat with hot water and some smooth stones in it.

I struggled with all my towels to get up onto the treatment bed. It was a feat but I managed it.

‘OFF’ she shouted again.

I’ve no idea how she did it but in a second all my towels were gone and just one cover my dignity.  Thankfully.

Her short finger massaged the back of my neck and shoulders, I kept my eyes closed so I could pretend that Helga looked like my imaginary Helga.

I shouldnt have been worried, I opened my eyes only to see Helga’s massive breasts above my head. I couldn’t see her face,  they were so enormous, even worse I couldnt figure out what feat of engineering had them suspended just above my head.

So the stones were next, out they came, she ran a scaling stone up and down my arms, I was far too scared to complain so I endured the scalding. My legs and then torso.

Wellness my arse, I was having a nervous breakdown while being tortured by an Eastern European who clearly doesn’t like westeners.

She draped me in a towel and then places several very bloody hot stones in a row on my chest and proceeded to wrap me like a little mummy.

‘Sleep’ she growled over her shoulder as she left me alone in ‘treatment room’.

Sleep ! Sleep ! What the bloody hell did she mean Sleep. I was cooking like a feckin Christmas turkey. I was hot on the inside, due to my lady age, on the outside due to the hot stones. I couldn’t move, cause I was wrapped up like a mummy,  all I could feel was the sweat running down my torso. Oh God I was going to die.

I could see the headlines ‘woman from Dublin cooked alive in a wellness center’

I could hear my neighbours saying ‘shur she looked grand before she left’.

Oddly I could feel myself dozing off.  The terror of the lego haired woman was subsiding and sleep was enveloping me. Oh this was it, I’ve felt so relaxed in my life. Then just then as sleep took me over, I jerked, like I was falling from a great height.

Shit, the stones hit the floor with a great crash, they were all over the floor, I struggled to get free to retrieve them, unfortunately only managing to roll myself off the WW1 bed onto the stone floor too.

Oh I could hear her footsteps on the corridor, this was it, my terror returned as I lay helpless on the floor.

Why the hell was I so scared, I was a fifty something woman, I’d just tell her to get over herself and if that failed I could take her, if I ever got unraveled. Who was I kidding I couldn’t take her. Not sure Conor McGregor could take her.

There they were the white high heel shoes just in front of me face.

‘Hello’ I managed from me humiliating position.

She didn’t speak just grabbed me under my arms and hauled me back up on the bed. She was shaking, I though I’d upset her. She started to undo my towels and pat me down.

‘Ok wes finished’ she couldn’t even look at me, she was still shaking.

Feck she was laughing, the witch was laughing at me.

Next morning I went for a walk in the hills, a little less humilitating.

The Joy of a Stone Massage my arse..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Joy of Stretchy Jeans

Getting older catches up on you quite unexpectedly. Sometimes you catch up with people you went to school with and you’ve not seen in a while and for some reason ‘they’ look so much older than you.  It’s a fact everybody is getting older except us.

That’s not quite true, my recent realisation that I too am getting older came with a phone call I had from my sister. There’s a year between us and mostly our conversations are around work and children. But a recent phone call took on a new twist she declared, much to her amusement that my brother-in-law had discovered ‘stretchy jeans’ and was beside himself with happiness. He simply couldn’t understand why he hadn’t known about them before now.

‘He’s in there now’ she told me ‘stretching and doing those squat things, like a teenager’

I had a visions of my brother-in-law dancing like a Cossack in his kitchen in Limerick. Which I’ve never seen him do so I’ve no idea why this image popped into my head.

I decided that stretchy jeans were the answer to my problem. I wanted girlie jeans and I too wanted to be able to the Cossack dance in my kitchen. I’d spent far too much time on my bed trying to get the zip up on my jeans. That was all fine when I was younger and a size 8 now that I’m much older and not a size 8 the effect was not the same. Now I look the same sideways as I do front ways, this was a disturbing discovery for me but a fact I had to deal with, however I may have found the answer ‘stretchy jeans’

I took myself off to Arnotts, I decided instead of going through dozens of displays pulling and tugging on jeans, in various shops, to see if they were actually stretchy I could just ask an assistant, they’re always nice to me in there. They didn’t call me madam like they did in BTs, they’re all quite posh and well, I’m not.

‘I want stretch jeans’ I declare to the juvenile assistant.

‘We’ve got Mom jeans’ she beamed at me.

What the feck are ‘Mon jeans’ I’ve never heard the like in my life.

‘My mam wears them all the time and she loves them’ she was pulling at straws as I’m sure my face had registered a vacant expression.

‘Let’s have a look at them so’ I mustered up as much enthusiasm I could, I suspected her mother was younger than me and if they good enough for her then they’d be good enough for me.

‘Oh they’re great, they’re high waisted so no muffin top, and they lift your bottom’

Lift my arse, where were they going to lift it to. I mean it’s not like it falls down around the back of my knees when I get undressed. I don’t have to tuck it neatly with my jacket underneath me when I sit down. All I want are stretchy jeans so I too can do the Cossack dance.

She handed me a pair of ‘mom jeans’ in the right size I didn’t even have to tell her, she was better at her job than I thought. I shook them open looking inside for any evidence of some sort of lifting equipment, but could see nothing at all.

Well firstly I didn’t have to lie down to put on my ‘mom jeans’ they slipped nicely over my hips and the zip glided up with me having to encourage. There I was in my stretchy ‘mom jeans’ with no muffin top and a perfectly pert arse. I’ve no idea how they did it must be some sort of magic or something.

The big test would of course be the Cossack dance. But I waited until I got home, so in my kitchen in Dublin I stood in my new ‘mom jeans’ flicked on YouTube and fired up some Russian Cossack dancers. Oh dear God they were shouting and clapping their hands and I swear they were on strings, they were bouncing up and down legs flaying about and occasionally in a squatting position throwing one leg out after another.

Oh dear oh dear I couldn’t do that at all, I could have tried but I feared it would result in an injury to myself. So I did one squat and I have to say my stretchy jeans wear amazing. It felt like I was wearing yoga pants, I was free to move whatever way I wanted. So after my one squat I moved to the sofa with a mug of coffee and confident mood.

The joy of stretchy jeans.. Continue reading

The Joy of Stretchy Jeans

Getting older catches up on you quite unexpectedly. Sometimes you catch up with people you went to school with and you’ve not seen in a while and for some reason ‘they’ look so much older than you.  It’s a fact everybody is getting older except us.

That’s not quite true, my recent realisation that I too am getting older came with a phone call I had from my sister. There’s a year between us and mostly our conversations are around work and children. But a recent phone call took on a new twist she declared, much to her amusement that my brother-in-law had discovered ‘stretchy jeans’ and was beside himself with happiness. He simply couldn’t understand why he hadn’t known about them before now.

‘He’s in there now’ she told me ‘stretching and doing those squat things, like a teenager’

I had a visions of my brother-in-law dancing like a Cossack in his kitchen in Limerick. Which I’ve never seen him do so I’ve no idea why this image popped into my head.

I decided that stretchy jeans were the answer to my problem. I wanted girlie jeans and I too wanted to be able to the Cossack dance in my kitchen. I’d spent far too much time on my bed trying to get the zip up on my jeans. That was all fine when I was younger and a size 8 now that I’m much older and not a size 8 the effect was not the same. Now I look the same sideways as I do front ways, this was a disturbing discovery for me but a fact I had to deal with, however I may have found the answer ‘stretchy jeans’

I took myself off to Arnotts, I decided instead of going through dozens of displays pulling and tugging on jeans, in various shops, to see if they were actually stretchy I could just ask an assistant, they’re always nice to me in there. They didn’t call me madam like they did in BTs, they’re all quite posh and well, I’m not.

‘I want stretch jeans’ I declare to the juvenile assistant.

‘We’ve got Mom jeans’ she beamed at me.

What the feck are ‘Mon jeans’ I’ve never heard the like in my life.

‘My mam wears them all the time and she loves them’ she was pulling at straws as I’m sure my face had registered a vacant expression.

‘Let’s have a look at them so’ I mustered up as much enthusiasm I could, I suspected her mother was younger than me and if they good enough for her then they’d be good enough for me.

‘Oh they’re great, they’re high waisted so no muffin top, and they lift your bottom’

Lift my arse, where were they going to lift it to. I mean it’s not like it falls down around the back of my knees when I get undressed. I don’t have to tuck it neatly with my jacket underneath me when I sit down. All I want are stretchy jeans so I too can do the Cossack dance.

She handed me a pair of ‘mom jeans’ in the right size I didn’t even have to tell her, she was better at her job than I thought. I shook them open looking inside for any evidence of some sort of lifting equipment, but could see nothing at all.

Well firstly I didn’t have to lie down to put on my ‘mom jeans’ they slipped nicely over my hips and the zip glided up with me having to encourage. There I was in my stretchy ‘mom jeans’ with no muffin top and a perfectly pert arse. I’ve no idea how they did it must be some sort of magic or something.

The big test would of course be the Cossack dance. But I waited until I got home, so in my kitchen in Dublin I stood in my new ‘mom jeans’ flicked on YouTube and fired up some Russian Cossack dancers. Oh dear God they were shouting and clapping their hands and I swear they were on strings, they were bouncing up and down legs flaying about and occasionally in a squatting position throwing one leg out after another.

Oh dear oh dear I couldn’t do that at all, I could have tried but I feared it would result in an injury to myself. So I did one squat and I have to say my stretchy jeans wear amazing. It felt like I was wearing yoga pants, I was free to move whatever way I wanted. So after my one squat I moved to the sofa with a mug of coffee and confident mood.

The joy of stretchy jeans.. Continue reading