Big Knickers, Botox and BMI.

I bought myself big knickers last week and it's life changing. Flicking through facebook, where they obviously targeted me as in desperate need of whopper pants, I saw an ad saying Sloggi knickers were on sale and I clicked on the link. Up came photos of beautiful slim young women wearing huge beige knickers. Grandma pants. But oh my did they feel tempting as I hitched up my always slipping down boy shorts, or adjusted my not quite wide enough to fit everything in lacy jobbies. A gazillion choices of height, width, stretchiness, fabric but ALL looked like they actually fitted a proper middle-aged arse. So I ordered. They arrived looking just as horrendous as I feared but OH MY GOD are they comfortable. No slippage, no having to pull up, down, to the side or out. Just pants that fit. I am converted.

And you know what? I'm 54, bang in middle-agedom so why were big pants an issue for me? A bit like letting the grey grow, or swapping my sky high heels for sensible ones. A mental milestone.

Noone's going to see them, and if some lucky man does manage to lure me out of my 6 year hibernation into carnal activity, he will most likely have had to work so hard to get me there that he won't give a damn what I'm wearing. COMFORT. Something men have had in their nether regions their entire lives. Like every single day, can you even imagine? And if their nice stretchy, cotton, breathable boxers feel a little snug they have zero qualms about having a good old pull, scratch or tug to reinstate ultimate cosiness.

Embracing middle-age - not something anyone really looks forward to. It sneaks up on you, you're aware but in denial for a few years, and then boom - you can no longer pretend that the extra spare tire, the constant desire to nag and moan at the world, or your inability to remember why you entered the laundry room isa passing phase. It's your new reality and you find yourself embracing the little quirks that drove you utterly mad about your mother and now suddenly they seem like sensible solutions. My mothers illogical habit which infuriated me for decades is hanging small plastic bags on a door handle to use as a bin to avoid using the real bin with it's proper big black bin liner. WHY OH WHY? Literally zero sense, I catch myself regularly slipping a bag on a door handle every so often.... a genetic trait I could have done without.

Talking of genetic traits, I've been relatively lucky in the skin department, a dash of English rose, a lifetime of factor 50 and enough extra kilos to add natural plumpness that must be healthier than a filler. I dabbled with botox in my 40's but gave that up after seeing way too many expressionless over filled line free faces on women of an indeterminate age. Sure it takes your lines away, and yes you look 25, but only because 25 year olds are also injecting themselves full of the stuff so they all seem to look older and pretty much everyone from 20 to 70 looks the same. Of course not everyone has overdone the botox, I'm sure tons have it and I don't even notice, that's how good it is (or not?), but here in Monaco, there are some frightful faces popping up whether you're in Carrefour or the Hotel de Paris. Enough to make me want to research for a different solution as I realised that the dark lines infiltrating my jawline and undereyes weren't going to disappear no matter how many facials I had or water I drank.

So I underwent a torturous facial peel last year, figuring that one big face Karchering would erase a few lines and a lot of sun damage and I would emerge looking fresher but still resembling me. All the dermatologists and surgeons I saw recommended fillers (and a face lift to be honest), but I have enough of my own natural filler, albeit in the wrong places, to want to add some other substance into my face. So I went for the peel - not a 'normal' peel - this is the deepest, strongest peel that exists and it left me looking (and feeling) like a Chernobyl victim for a few weeks and that is no exaggeration. I am enjoying my fresher skin, not so much the teenage zits that seem to accompany it but am hopeful they will pass. Not sure it was worth the pain and agony though, not to mention cost. The after care was non existant, I looked radioactive for 3 months, and although it worked, I can't say I'd recommend it - well at least not to anyone I actually like.

I've given up on the body and I can't even blame that on being middle-aged. I've spent god knows how much money on spas, camps, retreats and fasts in the past 30 years. Every single holiday I took in my 30's involved locking myself away in some godforsaken place to be starved and have my bits pummeled off. I'd lose a few pounds - not as much as everyone else, or as I hoped, but in the same way that a gambler keeps returning to the casino, I'd go back a year later hoping to finally hit the jackpot - the holy grail of slimness. My Dad would tell me what a waste it was as I'd only put it back on - sure I would, but it was a brief reset, hitting the pause button on my steady weight gain even if it was just for a few months. Each to their own when it comes to diet, I can't tell you how tempted I am to punch some skinny young masseuse telling me how she did keto/paleo/intermittent fasting and the 2 kilos she gained last summer just melted off. When you know that there is not a single fat person in her entire extended family. When she just sometimes 'forgets' to eat.......

I'm accepting myself. Because life's too short to not enjoy the odd mini egg, or partake in way too long lunches with your equally middle-aged girlfriends. I eat relatively healthily, my blood pressure and test results are always spot on and so as long as I can still slip into an XL in a 'normal' clothes shop, then bye bye BMI. You won the battle, I surrender. I will undoubtedly still go on the odd fast at a spa, but more because I enjoy the mental and physical reset. The bags full of too small clothes stashed in the cellar will finally be given away and the teeny knickers chucked in the bin. You can't beat it, so you might as well enjoy it 😀