Finally, after naming this whole blog after me, and sharing really personal stories about how we met, and showing pictures of me on the internet without my express permission, she has handed over writing duties to me for the day.
Firstly, a disclaimer. I’m a prosthetic boob, so if there are any typos or spelling errors, I’m really not interested to know about them. Typing with a silicone nipple is not what you’d call easy.
So, today, we’re off on holidays. Some people called house-sitters are coming in to look after things while we’re gone, so she’s put away my box in a cupboard so that they don’t get freaked out. Normally my box sits on top of the chest of drawers, because I need to be ready for action at any time of the day or night. On weekends at home she sometimes gets around without me (it’s ok, I have good self-esteem and know that even the closest couples benefit from some time apart) but as soon as there’s a ding-dong from the doorbell or she realises she needs to do a chocolate run to the IGA, I’m straight out of my box and into action. I suggested that we could advertise my box on Airbnb to see if any interstate or international travellers might want to rent it out for the duration, and I even prepared the ad. She wasn’t keen.
I’ll admit that packing for a beach holiday with me is not easy. I can’t swim, but I get a bit excited in the water and am pretty keen on diving out of her togs whenever the moment presents itself, so she has to keep me safe for fear that I’ll flop out into the pool and have to be fished out by some poor, unsuspecting Thai pool boy who absolutely does not get paid enough for that sort of thing. Because of me, here’s the decision-making process regarding swimwear:
I did suggest to her that I could learn to swim and hang out in the kids pool with Hugh and his friends, and I even found this perfect little monokini in his toy box that I think would render me socially acceptable. She didn’t seem to think it was a good idea. She might have mentioned something about children and nightmares and scarred for life.
Anyway, I’m as keen as mustard to get out of here and get on that plane, so was waiting excitedly to get my tropical gear on and get out of here. Then she brings out the bog-standard beige bra. Aged care home for the terminally bland, we’re ready whenever you are.
Oh my god, she seems to be putting on some sort of hideous, beiger than beige arm sleeve thingy now. This is getting worse by the minute. How can I be a cool international jet-setter with her looking like this?! Lymphoedema? Never fucking heard of it, love. Same as you’ve apparently never heard of tropical holiday style.
Although, now that I get a good look at it, I’m thinking that this, combined with a bit of a subtle lean forward so that I peep out the top of her shirt at the check-in counter, and maybe an off-hand mention of the big C word, might just get us the upgrade I so richly deserve.
I’ll keep you posted.