A few days ago, I squeed out loud.
This was purely instinctual reaction, brought about while I was decluttering my girl friend’s bedroom, sorting through her two daughters’ clothes with her. She held up her baby’s bathing suit, which is the same as one of Isobel’s for this summer. They’re going to be twins.
*clears throat*
Hi, my name is Terra, and I am a girl.
Summer has seemed to hit in Vancouver in the way it typically does, suddenly the sun is shining and it’s warm enough for my neighbourhood to become a walking billboard of tits, ass, and what not to wear. With astonishment every year, us Vancouverites accept this gift, get a little used to it, and then it leaves for a few weeks.
Talk about anticlimactic. We should know better, yet every time, we get teased a little, over-excited and then, “is that it?” *Insert that’s what she said joke, here*
Today, I bit the bullet and unpacked our summer clothes.
Isobel has grown just enough that the two pairs of shorts she wore last summer now officially fit, as do her sandals, tshirts and so on. Everyday, she lives in any one of her (I swear, it’s now up to) 25 dresses, so I’m thinking she’s pretty covered for summer wear.
My body magically redistributed itself in the past 10 months, begating bikinis with tops too small and bottoms – even more so than last year – too large. I’m going to need to remedy that, but I’m not exactly sure what type of bikini bottoms go with hips that are prepubescent at their apex and European at base camp. Funny thing is, I’m the exact same weight as last year. Same measurements, even. Just, well, different.
My shorts from a few summers ago are still too loose, and I still have (as I have for three years, now) an inkling to buy some denim, rolled-cuff short shorts, since I guess my thighs aren’t too bad to behold and they’re fucking adorable.
I’ve jumped into summer, both metaphorically and literally, since I was actually caught walking around in clothing that showed all of my tattoos today. Without a coat or hoody.
I figure, might as well jump into this seasonal development with both feet.
So, since my hair grows at a ridiculous rate, tomorrow’s been elected as the time to get down to some root-erasing. But you cannot merely go from gothy dark with strawberry blonde and fiery red roots to rootless without preparation – and a hair dresser and aesthetician.
Enter my amazing ability to multitask, once every decade.
The eyebrows, in preparation for tinting, needed some…clean up.
Since I was there, it made sense to give myself a facial, since I was seeing my pores really closely.
After the kid was in bed, a bubble bath made even more sense, since tomorrow might mean shorts – especially if we’re BBQing at the beach as planned, where I’ll be wearing one of those ill-fitting bikinis from the collection You’re a mom, you shouldn’t be wearing this shit anymore. (I love that design house.) Why? Because I never shave my legs, but shorts require smooth and shiny stems.
Once I was all blissed out, what happened? I washed my face. Again. For the second time in one day.
Piling my drippy hair in a messy bun at the top of my bobbley-looking head, I toe-walked through the apartment, considering painting my toenails.
It’s obvious what’s happened: I had a rather severe girl attack. It’s like I don’t even know me. Should I be seeking medical or psychological attention?
