It is officially T minus 9 days until I will be pants free for 15 days in Bali. This is impending doom slash so exciting it gives me intense tummy cramps just thinking about it.
Impending doom because it means a one way ticket to bikini city which is nerve wracking for most of us. I’m no sperm protein shake swilling-carbless bar eating-10 pack o’ ab’s-gym bunny kinda girl and I wasn’t born with a body like Kate Moss, I work far too much and enjoy eating as a general pastime. Squeezing these E cup fun bags into a little Lycra number is a task in its own. I’m fine down the bottom half, size 8 off the shelf, no ass, wee chorizo legs, boom! I am good to go. But finding a bikini top is so much harder and takes longer than separating Hundreds&Thousands sprinkles into their colour groups.
None of this frilly triangle string bikini bullshit, I need some support up in here if I don’t want my neck to get skinned from the sheer weight of these fat all natural mammaries. I haven’t squashed myself into a bikini since last summer, but I did find my perfect underwire-puppy strapping apparatus and you best believe I cleaned the store out and bought the bikini in every colour I could get my hands on.
So with all my two bikinis and awkward little body, I am going to do 1,000 sit ups (approx) the day before I get on that plane and get a really good spray tan. Coz brown fat looks better than white fat right?