Before I launch into this, I just want to apologise to any family members that find this post a bit much. In my defence, the blog is meant to be a memoir of the trials and tribulations of being pregnant – warts and all. And that is what it shall be.
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve clapped eyes on the Notorious V.A.G.
(Stolen from the hilarious ‘101 things to call your lady garden’)
It is now 100% obscured by my tremendous gut. Trying to catch a glimpse of it from above is like sitting behind a member of the All Blacks in the cheap seats at the musical ‘Cats’. You can crane your neck and strain around them all you like – but you’ll only ever get a fleeting glimpse of side fluff from Mr Mistoffelees.
This has posed a problem which I’ve been brushing under the (excuse the pun) carpet for the last couple of weeks: how to maintain an orderly bush.
I desperately don’t want to have to go through a bloody Brazilian wax in my third trimester.
How is this girl going to give birth if she can’t withstand a Brazilian wax? I hear you ask.
Well, to that I say: I have pretty much no option other than to squeeze this infant out in eight weeks time, but I do have the option of whether to lie like a basking walrus on a slab, have hot wax poured on my nethers and my pubes wrenched out by a thin-wristed, nineteen year old beautician. I really feel like I deserve a break at this point – don’t you?
Veet, by the way, is not an option. They don’t recommend putting the chemicals so close to your unmentionables during pregnancy.
I’ve been thinking around this problem for a while and come to the conclusion that a blind shave is the only way to go. I did consider asking Jake to assist but eventually decided I needed to harvest dignity where I could in the run up to the birth – because heaven knows the reserves will be depleted after it.
I commenced the operation in the bath with my Venus. The whole thing felt dangerously precarious. Ideally I would have had an ear piece on with someone shouting directions from below, but alas, it was down to me and only me to complete the mission.
The ensuing twenty minutes delivered tension to rival any ‘red wire / blue wire’ bomb disposal scene you may have seen in a Hollywood film. In fact, if you find yourself watching a scene with a heavily pregnant woman blindly shaving her muff in the bath whilst staring at the ceiling, praying – you’ll know the producers of ‘Speed 12’ took my idea on board.
When it was all over, I was quite chuffed with the unseen results. In my mind’s eye I now have a beautifully coiffured lady rat. In reality, it is probably a mess. Not dissimilar to the grounds of Glastonbury on the Monday morning, or a hairless cat donning a toupee.