Pubic Hair Dandruff and Wetsuit Woes

Pubic Hair Dandruff and Wetsuit Woes

Let me start by saying I know I have probably written this blog before.

But if I am foolish enough to keep doing the same stupid thing, then I can damn well use it as blog fodder.

We are in a heatwave.

I know this because I have talcum powder stains on the floor from my daily dousing between my thighs and busom.  Whilst I appreciate this makes me look like I have pubic hair dandruff, it keeps me from getting chub rub which makes me walk like a hooker after an all night booking.

I also know we are in a heatwave because of the many, many texts I have had asking me if I am enjoying sunbathing, as I am “lucky” enough to work from home.  Therefore confirming my suspicions that most of my friends and family don’t actually believe I have a job at all.

To confirm, I am still lily-white from my hours of working indoors; with the exception of my brown palms, which is the only place the fake tan seems to work.

It is as hot as hell.

Because it is as hot as hell, I have decided to take the kids to an inflatable water park on the weekend.  This decision was made after they demonstrated for a least a whole hour that they could get along in a loving fashion.  The moment I had parted cash and booked the session, they quickly resumed normal practice of teasing each mercilessly and trying to break body parts on each other.  They know once the credit card has been inputted, there is no way I am not getting my money’s worth.

When booking I noticed that wetsuits were a fiver extra.

That got my goat.

Either include it in the price or give them for free.

No matter how freaking warm it is, not many people are going to dive into a lake in Yorkshire without some form of bodily protection.  Not necessarily for the cold, but more to put something between your skin and the algae coated stream you will be bathing in.

So I refused.

The kids have wetsuits, so they were covered.

And I have Amazon Prime.

Yesterday I was wetsuitless and taking a stand against paying a £5 to hire one.

Today, I own a wetsuit and am £45 out of pocket.


I ordered a medium, equivalent of a size 10-12.

Usually this would be ok, but in the last month I have been mainly on a diet of carbs, which has added some serious definition to my stomach – in a rotund way.

But I was optimistic.

Positive mental attitude can help with anything…..


I needed to try it on pretty much immediately, if it was too small it would need returning and the next size would need ordering today.

So I tried it on.

In 27 degree heat.

Which quite frankly was a great big fecking mistake.

The terror you can feel in a dressing room when you get stuck in a dress that is too small and you don’t know if you will ever get out, is nothing on the sheer panic of being caught in cheap neoprene in the middle of a heatwave.

The foam material caught on my dandruff thighs, clung to my arse like a vampire on a fresh kill.  My whole body fought against the restrictive nature of the suit.  As it coiled around me like a cobra, I actually felt myself bloating in retaliation, trying to show the beast who was boss.

I had a moment where my arms were in, my legs were in, and I had a hump that the hunchback of Notre Dame would envy.  I employed a snapping like motion which I hoped would instantly cause the suit to fit to me perfectly, but instead made me contort as if having a seizure leading my eight year old to spring from the sofa to ask if I was ok.

Sweat pooled off me.  I felt like I was in a sauna with a tinfoil suit on that was shrinkwrapping my body.

But it was on.

Not fastened, but on.

My twelve-year-old son walked into the room, took one long, muttered ‘not again’ and legged it, as he knew what was coming next.

The eight year old was not as fast.

She hasn’t had the pleasure of helping mummy before.

She was eager to help.

In fact her words were,

“If I help will it stop your face being so beetrootified.”

She thrust her little foot into the small of my back.  I took in a breath that an escapologist  would be proud of.  She grabbed the lead on the zipper with all her strength, and she pulled, and I heaved, and she pulled and I sucked in every inch of fat I own.

Then as I started to see stars and the room went a little wavy, I heard a reassuring click and the fecker was on.  My vagina was slightly compromised by the excessive camels wetsuit toe, and my bra size dropped instantly by three cup sizes, but it was on.

My hands and feet were a slight shade of purple and sweat dripped from every open pore.

But, once again, I have battled a wetsuit and won.

And paid £45 for the experience…..

Roll on Sunday, where I get to replay putting it on – in public!




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