From yeast-riddled gussets to calamine-daubed cleavage welts, Lucy Sweet ponders the array of afflictions that conspire to make our summers SUCH FUN.
Summer is in full swing, so as well as looking like a very cross, hot, undercooked quarter pounder in an aquamarine thong, you may also be experiencing inconvenient summer ailments. So rest your piña colada on your second belly and peruse all the manky things that happen to our bodies when the sun shines. Hot! And yeasty!
Thrush is an enduring female summer accessory, like espadrilles and 20 cans of gin and tonic in your handbag. Last week I had occasion to go to a high street chemist because I had a burning vag of Satan. In my experience, you can paint your wagon with Canesten all you like, but the only thing that really blasts it is a pill. So, hoping that the 25-year-old manchild behind the counter would recognise its scientific drug name, I confidently asked for fluconazole. Blank look. “I think it used to be called…Diflucan?” The penny dropped. He then went on to (loudly) ask me whether my partner needed some too, and gave me a packet with THRUSH TREATMENT written on it in red. He may as well have hired five giant thrushes to sing Thrush Hour by Jane Wiedlin.
Apparently 8 out of 10 mosquitos prefer the taste of female blood. So not only do we have to endure low pay, polo shirt-clad men called Phil trying to chat us up in bars, lack of affordable childcare and mid-length culottes, we also get bitten to shit whenever we venture into the beer garden. Isn’t nature wonderful? Complete your summer look by scratching yourself silly and having angry, seeping lumps the size of ping pong balls all over your body. Then, as an encore, die of malaria. Sexy!
Why not enhance your cleavage with a raging firepit of hellish hives? Whenever the sun shines, some skins like to celebrate with a hideous display of welts worthy of The Singing Detective. So, like the Singing Detective, one thing to do is douse yourself with aqueous cream and do a song and dance routine with some doctors and nurses before slipping into a depression punctuated by vivid, feverish hallucinations. Or you could use calamine lotion, and be the person at the BBQ who smells of calamine lotion. YOUR CHOICE.
“Not only do we have to endure low pay, polo shirt-clad men called Phil trying to chat us up in bars, lack of affordable childcare and mid-length culottes, we also get bitten to shit by mosquitos whenever we venture into the beer garden. Isn’t nature wonderful?”
While this affliction isn’t restricted to women, it can produce some alarming makeup issues. That smoky eye looked great when you left the house and now you look like Joan Crawford in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?. No amount of powder is going to disguise your blazing red clown nose, and what’s that lipstick shade? 07 Crusty Snotter? But it’s not all bad. The bewitching combination of clicking the back of your throat, snorting, hacking, wheezing and necking Piriton straight out of the bottle will attract attention from one and all, as you’re quietly led out of the conference/cinema/funeral by security.
Under boob sweat rash
Some boobs peek upwards, like a curious child in a sweet shop. Some venture out to the side, like puppy’s ears. Others gaze ponderously at the pavement, like a pair of dismal teenagers who don’t have any money for the bus. The latter type of boob is particularly prone to sweat gathering and rashes. Summer maintenance involves lifting the girls up and wiping that stuff off with the back of your hand every hour, unless you want to get angry red spots, an itchy, burning bra and a sweat map of Uzbekistan on the front of your t-shirt.1475 Views
Lucy Sweet is a writer and incorrigible lard arse. Her nursery school teacher said she would never be a proper lady, and she was right.