2015-08-11T12:40:00.001-07:00

The UK love breasts. It could be the climate or possibly something in the water, but around every corner, there is a display of cleavage or breasts. For those who have spent too much time out of the country or avoided the water, life with Non Page 3 Girl breasts can be challenging. But a few weeks ago I decided I was going to take control of my own breast destiny and seek enhancement; I bought my first push up bra.

Obviously a push up bra can only do so much and cannot perform miracles. However my push up bra was an absolute wonder; friends wondered where these breasts had come from, the postman wondered which way to look and Husband wondered where the breasts had gone when the bra was removed.

So was this going to be a short lived phenomenon or could my push up bra change my life?

This simple piece of underwear brought with it some obvious advantages. A whole new world of wardrobe possibilities had opened up. The low cut items that I had avoided for fear of offending innocent bystanders now displayed a neat cleavage. Tops that had gaped open displaying a clear view to my navel were now filled with my voluptuous bust.

But while the wardrobe possibilities were exciting the attention that my improved breasts were attracting was a little disturbing. My breasts had now been welcomed into conversation; they had become a topic of discussion. With this came a very strange experience that was not dissimilar to being pregnant. Just as people have an overwhelming desire to rub a rounded pregnant belly, they now had the overwhelming urge to cup my breasts. Both men and women alike grasped, poked and prodded without invitation. Was this what the world was like for those endowed with Page 3 Girl breasts?

Other drawbacks were also starting to emerge. The simple act of folding my arms was uncomfortable and no longer sent a defensive message. This act now plumped my breasts, defined my cleavage and warned others to defend themselves for fear of having their eyes poked out. Other basic tasks, such as reaching for items, bed making and carrying packages were considerably hindered. FOF suggested that I may have to adjust my driving position in order to be aware of other road users. Is there a future for my push up bra?

Maybe it is just a matter of finding some balance. Perhaps my push up bra should only be worn with items of clothing that need to be filled. Or maybe my enhanced breasts should only be allowed out on special occasions. Both of these options could cause confusion (there one day, gone the next) and may actually exacerbate the novelty factor leading to more group discussion and more touchy feely situations. So maybe I should only wear the push up bra on special occasions, attending a function with people I have never met before. But then do I have to take a mental note of who they are, to spare them the confusion next time we meet?

Am I making this more complex than it needs to be? Wearing a push up bra has been a life changing experience. This must be why it is named the Wonder Bra; I am left wondering where to from here. I think I will raise the issue at the next group breast discussion.

If thriving on the adrenalin of being under the pump, surviving on four hours sleep, saying yes to requests for help, are signs of being a stress junkie; then this is me.

My stress optimum performance relationship goes way back to my High School days. At 15, I started an after school job as a deli girl. I could work up to 25 hours some weeks and while the money was great the effect on my homework was amazing. The less time I had available for homework, the better the results. I discovered the benefits of time management and multi tasking at this young age. I was able to plan a project while slicing ham, write an essay during my tea break, and revise for exams while wrapping cheese.

Obviously I put myself in this situation not just out of necessity but also for the buzz. Why else would I have decided to get married while working full time, attending uni part time and building a house? It was sheer madness but it was fabulous. While most brides treat themselves to a few days of luxury in the days prior to their wedding, I spent the day prior to our wedding penning a 10,000 word essay, packing the tent (we spent our honeymoon camping) and looking for nail polish, lipstick and shoes.

And while the whole new mother thing should have been enough stress to give me a long term buzz I added cloth nappies, making my own bread and a curly coated border collie to the mix. My mornings were a whirlwind of nappy buckets, flour and vacuuming and somehow both Sons learnt to talk, walk and toilet train amongst all of this.

However there have been times when stress has been damaging. In the dark days of working at WP my life had become a tornado. While I had developed some strategies to juggle home and work, such as walking the dog at 5am, doing Son’s readers during the school run and speed shopping during my lunch time, things were spiralling out of control. In true junkie fashion, I ignored the offers of help, and when Mum suggested taking some of the ironing, I smuggled it out of the house and travelled with it in the boot of my car. As the dark side of stress took control, the smallest issue could be enough to tip me over the edge (crumbs on the floor or a sniffing nose). Some innocent call centre operator copped the full barrage when they called me about mobile phone plans one evening.

But there was a lifeline. It came in the form of our relocation to the UK. The dark side of stress was lifted from my shoulders and a new stress buzz was waiting. I had four weeks to pack, complete all unfinished projects (one entire room not even plastered), paint the house, install a sprinkler system, complete the landscaping, find tenants, sell two cars, re home two guinea pigs and two budgies and transport the dog. Not wanting to be completely self-indulgent, I generously shared this stress buzz with Mum and Dad. Husband missed out as he was already in the UK.

Today, having recognised that I am in fact a stress junkie I feel better equipped to manage and enjoy the buzz of stress. Sons do their best to offer a little stress taster every day and Husband surprises me with unexpected stress treats (lost golf clubs on a recent trip to Portugal springs to mind). But like any true junkie, I just can’t wait for the next big stress buzz – Christmas!

I have been through a disturbing few weeks. I blame it on Mother Nature.

Most of the time, Mother Nature has done the right thing by me. When Eldest Son chose to be born in the back seat of our car she sprinkled Calming Dust over Husband’s head, enabling us to make it to the sanctuary of the hospital car park. And following the birth of Second Son she sprinkled me with the Two is Enough Dust. From that time on new babies no longer brought on waves of gushiness. I now greeted new mothers with ‘you poor thing’ and third time mothers got the ‘was it planned’ treatment.

As Second Son passed through each milestone I went through a celebratory and purging phase. Nursing bras were binned. Bassinet, baby bath and steriliser were handed over to You Poor Thing or Was It Planned friends. A turtle step sat proudly at the base of our toilet and I had great delight in wiping up misfires. There was a celebration after my final day of kinder duty and overwhelming joy when waving both Sons goodbye at the school gate. I was happy with my lot.

But then one November day, whilst a small child was screaming hysterically in a Tesco trolley, I decided that I wanted one of those – another child. Maybe there was a full moon looming or maybe I was having an out of body experience. I took a moment to regroup but during laps up and down the Tesco aisles my mind was busy planning a new addition (or possibly two) to our family.

Upon sharing this with Husband he set about diagnosing what could have triggered such a moment of insanity. Theories included the recent spell of bad weather, too much sleep or the possible onset of menopause. We both concluded that it was due to excessive exposure to Sons of CF and Daughter of FOF. Ranging in age from eighteen months to three and a half, they were at that really adorable stage. So the remedy was simple – cut all contact with these small creatures.

However, as days went on the left and right side on my brain debated the extra child pros and cons. Was Mother Nature ill or on a career break? How could she do this to me? I am an intelligent, sensible person. Both Sons can boil their own eggs (but choose not too), select their own wardrobe and hairstyles. We can now holiday with adjoining hotel rooms and dine in restaurants without a kids menu. Our household could not cope with two testosterone raging Sons and a new baby.

And with this thought Mother Nature kicked back into action. With the wave of her wand I found myself in the middle of a mock WWE showdown between Second Son and Eldest Son. One was in a head lock, the other had blood streaming from his nose and I was squawking about the blood staining the sofa. After banishing them both to opposite corners of the kitchen I felt relief. Harmony had been restored. The I Want One of Those thoughts had turned to I Don’t Want Anymore of These.

This week my own mother labelled me a nut. While others have loosely thrown the word about, my own mother actually telling me so shook me. What had made her come to this conclusion? Had I always been a nut? Why did she wait until I was 10,000 miles away to tell me?

Apparently it was the message I had left on her answer machine that triggered her nut accusation. Naturally I thought this to be quite harsh and asked for other nut examples. Trimming the Christmas tree while we were moving house on Christmas Eve (2 points). Honeymooning in a tent (1 point). Camping with a baby in cloth nappies whilst pregnant (3 points). Moving into a house requiring commercial quantities of Detol to eradicate the odour of cat pee (2 points plus bonus points for allowing friends and neighbours to carry our unpacked belongings across the street). Exposing my true self to the world via this blog (she rested her case).

These may reflect traces of nut but why should I be singled out as the only nut on my family tree? Husband recounts his early days with my family. Dad took him aside and warned him of the six month grounding I incurred when Mr BMX brought me home late and the time he took Future Doctor aside and ruthlessly chopped a pair of sheep’s testicles in half with his meat clever sending a message about the dangers of doing the wrong thing. Then there was the time Mum bought me seven pairs of knickers, each printed with the individual days of the week and the fact that I then matched my knickers with the calendar. His favourite Griffiths Family nut trait was our singing of Happy Birthday; out of time, out of tune and very, very loudly in order to encourage our dog to join in with painful howls of despair.

He describes his first exposure to my extended family as extraordinary despite me fore warning him of the important facts. Nana Wallace was totally blind and there was a good chance of being served a cup of coffee containing a tea bag. Aunty Jean would serve you a mountain of mock whipped cream, despite the fact that you were eating something savoury. Most of the males were called Bill and the majority of the family were hard of hearing. After an afternoon of people yelling Billy, Brenda’s Bill, Lorraine’s Bill, Big Bill and Little Bill Studd on top of the family catch phrase of ‘want a bit of cream love’ he politely announced that they were all nuts.

So am I actually nuts or do I merely contain traces of nut? As strange as it may sound there are rational reasons for most of my quirks. Arriving at work in my slippers was due to the fact that my beautiful patent shoes were getting ruined whilst driving; I just forgot to pack my shoes that day. Writing a Mr Men story during my chemistry exam was because I was not permitted to leave the exam within the first hour; my Mr Pipette and Mr Burette story actually earned me a pass. Setting my alarm for 4am in order to lay out the Easter egg hunt is out of necessity; the dog will eat the eggs if laid the night before and Sons set their own alarms for 5am. And relocation from the sunny shores of Australia to the long dark winters of England was a no brainer; love.

I am who I am. I am me. If this makes me nuts then steer clear if you suffer nut allergy.

I have never understood the whole New Year Resolution thing; why wait for the start of another year to change something about ourselves? Surely if you have decided that something needs to change why would you delay it? I have only ever made one New Year Resolution. It was made following persistent nagging by Dad to make some form of public declaration on the stroke of midnight. In desperation I blurted out that I would abstain from chocolate for the entire year. However, I think he was actually looking for an explanation of my whereabouts on the infamous Mr BMX date. Having a bit of a stubborn streak, that New Year Resolution actually became two fold; give up the chocolate for a year and to never divulge my whereabouts on the Mr BMX date.

In the lead up to the New Year I prefer to take time to reflect on the closing year, celebrating achievements and happy times and putting the darker days behind me.

Simple things brought me great delight during 2007; my first successful crop of tomatoes since moving to the UK and the most glorious display of daffodils nodding in our front lawn. Husband and Both Sons celebrated the discovery of a ready made Spaghetti Sauce that put an end to my inedible homemade recipe. We soaked up the carnival atmosphere of the Tour de France as it passed by our doorstep and our Aussie flags hung with pride after reclaiming The Ashes.

There were moments of drama such as Eldest Son sustaining two broken arms during a daring five brick high bike jump and £8,000 fraudulently charged to my MasterCard. Some days were spent in fits of laughter; our family day out with FOF wading through six inches of mud at the height of summer, CF and wife of CF spending hours trying to decode his secret identity in this blog, Little Acorn reading out passages of Captain Underpants to the Mothers Day diners at our local Thai, and the much talked about nocturnal noise incident with the neighbours. Both Sons managed to keep themselves and others amused with snow and ice themed activities. They rolled a giant snowball down our street and dragged me out to assist when it became stranded in the middle of the road. An ice making experiment caused CF much angst when he realised that Husband would unknowingly drive into the carport and skid uncontrollably into the garage when he hit the brakes. And I could only laugh when, boys being boys, they accidentally set off the fire extinguisher in my office leaving computer, printer, fax, laminator and black carpet in a beautiful frosting of white powder.

Some incidents unleashed the green eyed monster within me and left some people shaken, others stirred and a few stunned. Audi felt the force of a tornado when someone neglected to tighten the oil pump in my car, leaving me stranded 10 miles from home late on a bitterly cold February day. British Airways ducked for cover when my Golf Boys found themselves in Portugal without their golf clubs. But the best was saved for last when in early December the car park attendant at House of Fraser copped the angry walk, the wide eyes and a mouthful of loud Aussie abuse when he held me and other motorists in a 45 minute Car Park Gridlock caused by a faulty gate. (Thank you to all my friends who kept me calm with amusing text messages during my detainment.)

But unfortunately these minor scraps are put into perspective when I reflect on the darker days of the year. My heart was ripped out when my niece was born into this world and was denied a single breath before passing into the heavens. I was deeply saddened by the sudden passing away of WP friend and was angry with the cruelty of this world when my gorgeous friend had to endure a nasty course of Chemotherapy. These dark days remind me of the importance of family and friends and the strength we draw from them and they draw from us.

In 2007 I have laughed and cried with friends and family. Met family in far off places, made new friendships and re-established old friendships. I am entering 2008 with a New Year Resolution to only buy Free Range Chicken (Jamie Oliver asked me to do so) but more importantly I want to send a New Year Message.

Please laugh often and love with all of your heart.

Inside My Handbag