I have a dear friend whose opinion I trust greatly, but when I asked her what was essential to take to the hospital (given that we’re less than nine weeks out and haven’t organized a blessed thing) this is what she replied; “get multiple pairs of large, high-waisted, size twenty underpants. They come in beige.”
Is she serious? I might be thirty-one weeks and haven’t been able to see my toes for a good three now, but I am still squeezing myself into my treasured g-strings. Admittedly they’re starting to feel a bit like dental floss up my clacker, but I have just returned from seven years spent dancing in New York City. Dancers don’t wear full-cheeked underpants. Most of them don’t wear underpants at all. Ain’t no way I’m putting on utilitarian granny panties a second before I absolutely have to…and even then I’m still considering other options. Which brings me to the issue of bikini lines. Again, too long spent undressing on the side of stage to allow myself to get unruly in the downstairs area, which is now completely invisible to me unless I stand in front of a mirror shift the peanut out of the way, lift my heels off the ground slightly, bend my knees and tilt my pelvis forward at a largely uncomfortable angle. Let me tell you folks, when I see it that way, some pruning is now quite necessary. I don’t care if I’m doing a dry shave in the car on the way to the hospital, I refuse to be the owner of an untamed, unruly, terribly unattractive nether region at a time when more strangers are looking at it than if I’d taken up that job at the strip club.
Back in NYC, I’d skip off to the salon, hand over my twenty bucks and have every hair within a thirty-centimetre radius ripped out of me in less than seven minutes. (I’ll upload a story about it, if you care to read more explicit details). But here in Oz, the wax specialists are as laid back as the lifestyle. It takes a good forty-five at least, which is way too long for them not to make small talk and honestly, I have no interest in swapping stories with someone who has more intimate knowledge of my nether regions than either my husband or myself. It’s why I don’t mind that I won’t know which midwife I get when I give birth. They’re professionals. We’ve both got a job to do. I’ll do mine, they’ll do theirs, but we’re not going to be catching the same bus home.
I’ve also written in my diary (because I’m lucky if I can remember my own name at this point) to get my eyelashes tinted a week or so before I’m due. Call me vain, but I am a red head. We don’t really have eyelashes. We have blunt, stubby, utilitarian hair follicles that do the job Mother Nature designed them for and not a thing else. It’s a given that pictures will be taken immediately after the event – maybe even during it, if I think it’s necessary for posterity – and I figure eyelash tinting is a fairly easy way of making my appearance less dragon like. As a redhead, when enduring periods of exertion – maths exams, long runs, labour – I don’t sweat delicately and get a rosy hue to my cheeks. I sweat rivers and my face turns into a blotchy, mottled mess that takes a good half hour or so to dissipate. So here I am having just endured twelve hours of labour, (average time for first time mothers apparently) starving, (they reckon you can’t eat during labour, but they don’t know me that well yet) excited beyond my wildest imaginings and wanting to preserve the moment without looking like a badly cared for tomato – bruised and blotched with a clammy exterior. And so a good eyelash tint it is. Maybe even a facial while I’m at it. Facials seem quite extravagant to me, I’ve only had about two in my life, but they’re brilliant, I can see why rich people make them a part of their beauty routine. If I were rich, I’d have a massage once a week and a facial once a month.
Tomorrow I have to head into the city, so I figured I would make use of the excursion and force myself to buy some of the less savoury maternity items – breast pads for leaking, sanitary pads for bleeding and circus size underpants for holding it all in. but not in beige. I refuse to go beige. What’s the point in tinting my eyelashes and waxing my nether regions if I’m going to spoil it all with a pair of oversized beige underpants. One thing would be certain…no danger in the peanut having a sibling too soon…it would certainly act as an effective contraception.