Perfect ‘bikini body’ — what a load of bolleaux

IT’S just days away from our beach holiday — the one where I will drive 800 miles to a campsite in the south of France with two kids in the back chorusing “are we there yet” — but all I keep hearing about is how I should be worried about my “bikini body”.

Forget getting lost in France with stuttering schoolgirl French, or trying to remember to drive on whichever side of the road that my brain isn’t used to, or hoping my new car, which is actually the same age as my kids, doesn’t break down somewhere far away in 40 degree heat, or that the sat nav starts talking to me in a foreign language, or there is a traffic jam from Le Havre to Toulouse.

No. As a woman, I am instead supposed to be preoccupied with “problems” like hairy legs, bikini line deforestation, armpit stubble, and general appearance-based imperfections. Like scaly feet, dry skin, and untoned body parts that have not seen the light of day — any light, any day — for a very long time. From my uncoiffed head to my unpedicured toes, by typing “bikini body” into Google, I am forcefully reminded that (a) it is essential for any beach holiday to possess such a thing and (b) the one I possess in reality does not match the criteria.

Oh dear. Should I cancel? Sorry kids, the trip is off. I don’t match the specifications. The golden toned buffed shined waxed smooth lithe supple specifications, the ones involving taut skin that in no way resembles cottage cheese that has been left in the fridge all winter.

Instead, I realise that I “suffer” from “problems” like dry skin, old skin, flaky skin, flabby skin. Especially flabby skin. Or fat, as it is known. Who knew you could “suffer” from these things? I always thought you suffered from stuff like cancer, or schizophrenia — I had no idea how much suffering I was enduring, and consequently begin feeling very sorry for myself.

Of course once I’ve done the route planning, packing the camping gear, checking under the bonnet, fitting a roof rack, wondering if the bicycles will fall off the back, and how to say “I think it’s the alternator” in French, I could always spend the equivalent of another secondhand car on getting myself beach ready. No, not novels, fancy snorkelling equipment or a posh deckchair; instead, spray tanning, head-to-toe waxing, and swimwear that has been designed to “flatter” and “support”. (Although isn’t that what your friends are meant to do — flatter and support?)

Or I could just could remind myself what a load of joyless old bolleaux the very idea of a bikini body is, and get on with the good stuff. Like driving on the wrong side of the road in scorching temperatures for days on end. Woo hoo!