Status: Defuzzed.
Sticky.
Mood: Even
stickier.
Home front:
Bristling with anticipation.
Immediate outlook: Ball
shaped. Possibility of explosions of mad joy spilling onto streets, or epidemic
of dejection, round about 1am.
Alcohol consumed: Two
Zorba-sized glasses – and counting.
Right, must get my soccer brain plugged in. I know it’s here somewhere,
probably hiding under the pile of old ‘National Geographic’ magazines I saved
all those years ago with noble intentions to using them to enlighten No.1 &
Only as he grew into manhood (turns out, he only ever turned to them to
cut out photos for a mood board he had to make for school – but it’s something,
I s’pose).
Football’s not my thing, but not joining in the national obsession
tonight would probably mean divorce, and possibly deportation, so I have to
feign enthusiasm – even if I still don’t know (or care about) the intricacies
of the off-side rule.
The Other Half knows I don’t do footy, but am expected to join in when
the shebang kicks off at 11pm. Might as well, not much chance of getting any
sleep during the game anyway. It's summer, windows wide open, all Greeks getting ready
to watch in living rooms, on balconies, etc. Prepare for inevitable sounds of
cheers, groans, colourful curses, shouted advice to coach or ref in Recife and
more. Likely to be fireworks and car horns if Greece get the ball in the net or
even win.
Have ingratiated self with OH to compensate for lack of soccer expertise. Sunday lunch like Mama makes it served
up, family favourite Macaroni Pie made for tomorrow AND ironing done (can hear my inner feminist having a hissy fit as we speak). Even managed to sneak in a
brief ironing lesson for No.1 – he ironed a whole T-shirt, pair of jeans and
ragged shorts. Am uber-domestic goddess and super-parent (shame I also had the
urge to throw iron at OH’s head).
Prepare for tonight’s likely invasion of male hormones – and the week
ahead, with a bit of hair removal. Summer’s here, limbs and more on show. Must
not resemble Yeti in a bikini when we finally hit the beach.
Armpits easy. Whip out the trusty Gilette disposable and OH’s can of
foam and bish-bash-bosh, clean as a
whistle – except where I nicked that mole in my haste to get finished. For
legs, however, want something smoother and longer lasting. Enter box of
pre-waxed strips sitting patiently in bathroom cabinet. What they don’t tell you in the adverts, or
even on the side of the box, is that summer – the time you most want to be
smooth and hairless – is the worse time to use them. But am smart, can see that
wax might get gooey in 30 degrees heat, so bung them in the fridge til I need
them.
Spread towel on kitchen floor, strip from waist down to saggy, greying
Marks & Sparks knickers, and begin. All goes well as I take the strips out
and plaster them to my shins. Cat sits a safe distance away, blinking like a Buddha
and waiting for the human show. Move along animal, nothing to see here.
First leg covered. Time to rip off the strips, and every trace of
unwanted here with them. Check box : “Grasp
firmly between thumb and forefinger and tug sharply against direction of hair
growth”. Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy. Try to tug sharply. Instead of a clean rip
and removal of plastic covered with carpet of hairs, hear a ‘slurp’ and look
down to see sticky strands of good like honey bridging gap between leg and
strip. Gloop. Yuck. Hairs all still firmly in place, gloating at me from
beneath the melted wax.
Inventive if nothing else, I plaster the strip back in place, throw open
freezer door, grab bag of frozen peas and clutch against sticky strip. Stephen
Hawking would be proud of me. Hold
firmly til peas start going mushy and leg goes numb. Grasp, tug and…. Voila! Result. One strip of goo covered in
hairs. Repeat 15 times til both calves hair free, smooth and dotted with tiny
bleeding pores. Reach for special oil to remove sticky residue – but cat beats
me to it and rubs up against good spattered legs, leaving more hairs than I’ve
removed.
Bottle of olive oil, three showers and an exiled cat later, am finally
smooth and goo-free, ready to cheer on the Greek team (of football supporters,
not the actual national team) when they meet Costa Rica. Will be perfect hostess,
offering drinks, snacks and entertaining assorted menfolk with intelligent
enquiries about game (“Why do goalkeepers
wear different coloured shirts?”… “Why aren’t the strips simply big versions of
national flags?” “When is a foul not a foul?”…) . Anything to avoid
actually watching 22 men in shorts running around a field trying to herd a ball
into a string vest stretched between two posts.
Wincing as my jeans chafe against the thousands of little blood spots on
my calves, but armed with a bottle of red and a family-sized bag of crisps, resign myself to
evening of balls and boys talking balls.
Just hope they win.
Joyous Greeks are a noisy lot, likely to keep me from my much needed beauty sleep until at least 3am if they win tonight – but there’s nothing sadder or more misery drenched and conspiracy-minded than a defeated one.
Joyous Greeks are a noisy lot, likely to keep me from my much needed beauty sleep until at least 3am if they win tonight – but there’s nothing sadder or more misery drenched and conspiracy-minded than a defeated one.
