Today sees the hottest temperature ever recorded in Britain, nudging past 40 degrees.
And with that comes a very real awareness that all is not right. Just how the hell are we going to survive if things continue this way?
We need to take a good look in the mirror and face things head on.
That’s right, we need to talk about boob sweat.
Swiping up on Instagram and all I’m confronted with are glass skinned, golden-tinted, perfectly shimmering beings.
With a glow that exudes only from precise high points, rather than a sweaty forehead-to-toe free-for-all.
Yes, I could repurpose some sanitary pads, or even bother to lift them up one by one and swipe some antiperspirant on the bits that don’t see daylight – but in an act of what the Scandinavians might call ähfůkit – I’m just embracing it.
I’ve always been a bit conscious of my boobs. Even as a teenager they wouldn’t have gotten away with being called pinky and perky (more like darky and droopy!), but I’ve come to a comfortable-ish place with them now.
Granted I work from home, so perhaps my new found gung ho attitude wouldn’t be quite as unwavering if I actually had to address clients/customers/co-workers, but there has to be one silver lining to the earth being on fire – and that’s my boobs living their best loosey-goosey life.
Who’s with me?
Title photo credit – Trophy Wife Barbie