Down South

**WARNING: Graphic detail**

We’re now closing in on February, over 1 month after we all made those horrendous New Year resolutions.

So, now comes the time when we ask ourselves if we really need to lose those extra jiggly pounds that have accumulated around the waist and hugging the face as an extra neck pillow.

For me, yes, yes I do.

It has come to the point where I can no longer see what I need to see in the shower.

I was in the shower this morning, and honestly, my work colleagues are lucky I made it in at all.

I can no longer see my toes without stretching my feet out in front of me.

My boobs, which probably weigh the same as 3 pug puppies (each), are dangling around like a wet jumper on a washing line!

As winter is, sort of, coming to a close and I have made it through the lurgy without calling 999, I no longer have an excuse not to shave and groom myself.

To my horror, my legs looked like untamed rugs and my vadge looked like a static cat!

I can just about shave my underarms by creeping my nose into my pits to have a good look, or to use the white tiles as a background to see where I guide my razor.

We have actually got a little old lady seat in our shower, so shaving my legs is easier. I don’t need to worry about slipping down in the bath or bending down like a fucking flamingo. I just rest a leg on the seat and shave as appropriate before I lose the feeling in my supporting leg.

Shaving in the crevasses of my nether regions is a whole other story!

My tummy is so flabby that I need to move it to one side to get a glimpse at what lies beneath.

We’ve all see those floor signs; ‘slippery when wet’ – could not be more accurate when dealing with my love chubs and hefty boobs in the shower.

It can be extremely difficult to handle and not to mention, dangerous, when wet flab slips through my fingers with a smacking sound causing immense tension on my razor-holding-hand, so much so that the Mission Impossible theme tune creeps in my head.

My bikini line is non-existent, it hides in the chub lines of my thighs, nice and warm. Getting to those parts means crouching like a crab, spreading my inner thighs, pushing my boobs under my pits so I can bloody well see what I’m doing and bending my neck as low as I can to attack those pubes! Once I have achieved the above, (without one of my boobs slipping away from me and nick the nipple with the razor tip), I am completely out of breath!

Parting the pubes like the red sea, I have to psych myself up with every attempt and run the razor across gently, breathing out with pride afterward.

I can see my reflection in the shower doors and it makes me want to burst out laughing. But in the position I’m already in, I find that I’m just getting wobblily and the laugh resounds in my throat like trapped air.

I’m laughing at my own panic.

At this point my heart rate is rising, I can feel it in my neck. I’m starting to black out.

I feel like a dying spider; thinking my body will be found in this position and sent to the papers. It’ll be all over the socials; ‘death by flabby vadge shave!’

Oh and FYI, farting in the shower is just as bad as farting in the bath. At least in a bath, you have a few seconds to prepare yourself with bubble contained smells before they pop, but in the shower, it lingers around with the hot steam for what seems like forever!

Well, the tension in my body during the contortionist shaving manoeuvre, made me fart lots of nervous farts. In my opinion, a razor should never meet my vadge, especially when I’m too fat to see it. I am so used to getting waxed, but times are hard.

However, after this traumatic experience, I might just have to break the bank for a wax next time!

You might not know this but I am also quarter German so, as well as having a crooked nose, I swear that is why I have stubborn hair growing in all different places at a young age.

I have little hobbit feet in the winter with hairy toes, I get ingrowing hairs in my pits, I have little wispy bits on my chin and a few persistent hairs on my top lip which like to announce their tenancy during the application of my foundation.

Coming in to the bathroom after I have groomed myself is like walking into the fantasy world of Thing from the Addams Family.

Once I am all smooth and dry, with the dressing gown flowing behind me, I make my way over to the moisturiser feeling like a Disney princess who has lost a stone in weight. I’m about to call upon the woodland creatures, humming a simple tune, when the cap on the moisturiser bottle comes off with a splat into my hands.

Great!

Now I am decanting layers of cream around my body, getting it on my dressing gown, in my eyes (somehow) and in my fine hair (which has already dried and gone static), - when my long-haired cat decides to say hello!

Nooooo!!!

She rubs up against my legs purring away, making an announcement that she has done a poo and it needs to be dealt with.

All I can do is stand there, cringing, urge to kick her away ever growing, feeling gooey and covered in more fucking hair than when I started!

If I ever hire a personal trainer and they ask me what my weight loss target is, I don’t think ‘enough to see my vadge in the shower’ will be an appropriate answer.

Wiggles and Giggles x