My relationship with Christmas

Oh, hello there, Mr Blog. (Yes, my blog is male, at least, it is in my head.)

I’m sorry for neglecting you recently, but the good news is I’m currently sat on the train home for christmas, which means no more assignments or work for a few weeks. Hallelujah!

Speaking of Christmas, I have never had such a love-hate relationship with anytging in my life, not even Marmite.

Of course, I love Christmas. I love that it brings everyone together, we can eat a feast and start drinking at 9am without being called an alcoholic.

I mean, let’s face it, that was the exact reason Bucks Fizz was created. It wasn’t for the taste. Us Brits just enjoy a bevvy as soon as we wake up. It’s culture.

What I don’t like about Christmas is the few weeks running up to it. Work goes mental, because for some reason Christmas also means maccies.

I seem to work more and have less money, because I’m a perfectionist when it comes to gifts and I will spend a small fortune making sure I get those presents right.

There’s also the social life, and I have recently discovered I drink too much. I am oopma-lumpa small, so it’s beyond me how I can manage a good 7 pints on a night out. And everytime the word ‘pint’ is mentioned, I’m like: ‘Fuck it, it’s christmas.’ This is bad for my bank, and probably my health.

Not really related, by knid of is, why do people sexualise Santa? He is literally a mythical fat man with a beard. There is nothing sexy about him. He brings gifts to children. So innocent, so pure. Yet, the amount of Santa lingerie is disturbing. Is there something I’m not getting?

And someone, please tell me, why everyone waits until the Saturday before Christmas to do their shopping? I went to the Trafford Centre the other day with Ian and his family, and we could barely even move, it was so packed.

The highlight of that day has to be the guy that works at Millies Cookies trying to show off. He was making me a Cookie Latte (Highly recommend. 10/10 sugar. 10/10 coffee.) and tried to flip the cream thing in the air, but it landed on the coffee and it spilt everywhere. And he just looked at it for a few minutes, not even blinking.

Maybe he was absorbing what had just happened. Maybe he was contemplating walking out and never coming back. Either way, I found it hilarious. Ian felt bad for him, but I couldn’t help but laugh, because that man was literally me.

I realised he probably thought I was laughing at him, so I pointed at the cup and said: ‘same.’ In some sort of attempt to make him feel better. I still don’t know what I meant by that.

I’ve also started taking a lot of pictures of baths, which is a weird hobby. (Baths full of water, with bubbles and candles. I don’t just take a picture of an empty bath. I’m not 100% crazy.)

So, the picture to go with this post is my ‘festive’ bath with my light up reindeer and christmas trees. I just thought I’d let you know what that’s about before I leave.

This may well be the last time I write before Christmas. So have a great holiday, get drunk and eat lots.

Problems with being a curvy girl in a heatwave.

Thanks to Twitter, the whole world knows that the UK is feeling the power of the sun for the first time in forever.

With an average temperature of 25 degrees, us Brits don’t know how to cope. Water companies are struggling, hosepipes have been banned and the constant complaining will continue for the next fortnight if the BBC’s predictions are right.

Let’s face it, the only weather this country is ready for, is rain. If it’s hot, we shut down and if it snows, we shut down.

But I feel like my battle against the sun is justified for two reasons:

  1. I am ginger, which means if I leave the house without layers of sun-cream I will become Darth Mauls adopted cousin. And if I do leave the house with protection, my freckles will decide to flourish and I have way too many of them for that to be a good look.
  2. I am a ‘curvy’ lass.

I’m a size 12-14, which I think is an awesome size to be, unless it’s hot.

Being this size means I have big boobs. Which I mostly appreciate because it means when I wear a low cut top I don’t get ID’d, but it also means they sweat a lot. The underboob seems to be the ultimate sweat hot-spot. And if that’s not gross enough, it means I’m forced to wear low cut tops to try and air them out. Which automatically makes people look at my chest, and leaves me feeling self-conscious.

I also have a big bum, which I actually hate with a passion. And it’s not because it looks bad, because I know people have operations and dream of having a bum like Kim K. I think it looks decent, but it’s so impractical. At work I accidentally knock things off of shelves, when I’m in crowded spaces it feels like I’m pushing into people when I’m trying to move between them and I can not wear short shorts without half of my arse hanging out. In this weather, I have to wear shorts (I’m a Tomboy, no way would I touch a skirt) which means my arse has free reign to the wind. Now, I’ve already talked about the low cut tops I have to wear, now imagine a short girl, showing boobs, legs and bum. It looks like I’m dressing for attention, but I’m not. I JUST SWEAT TOO MUCH.

And that leaves my legs. I have large thighs, which are probably the part of my body I’m most self-conscious about. I have to admit, if it wasn’t for the heat, I wouldn’t shave simply because I’m lazy and nobody ever see’s my stumps of legs. But having large thighs also means, more sweat. So I sit somewhere, and my legs kind of inflate as they always do when I sit down. If I’m sat there more than five minutes I will leave a huge patch of leg juice on the chair, which is v embarrassing. Not only that, but I end up with a huge rash on my thighs from where they’ve been rubbing together. And yes, there may be cream to help with that, but add that to shaving and that’s another 45 minutes added to my day just so I don’t overheat.

But despite these problems, I went home to explore the lakes and enjoy the sun. Even though the lakes aren’t actually lakes and I burnt the sausages on the BBQ, I loved the weekend and I couldn’t have been able to do it without the burning ball of gas in the sky. So thank you sun, you hot orb.

PS: The photo at the top is an old one, my hair is no longer blue.