The Thass

Thass

noun

1. the area of one's body including (but not always limited to) the thighs and ass. Usually named as such when it becomes difficult to define where the ass ends and the thighs begin.

2. a merger that occurs when the ass and thigh realise that life is better as one.

3. an allergic reaction to excessive binge drinking, binge eating and a lack of exercise.

Ah the thass! A stickler of most women since the beginning of time, and an area that most have been too afraid to talk about for centuries. But I'm not sure where this fear lies. You see the thass is like a shoe fetish, or an affinity towards hot men who are just total wankers - every women has one, most are just afraid to admit it!

So if you haven't already gathered what the thass is, it's the merger and acquisition of one's thighs by one's ass that occurred not long after puberty, after the discovery of all things covered in chocolate, and after our inability to find the time (and desire) to hit the gym!

Let's be realistic. We all, including me, desire to be just a little bit thinner, a little less partial to a junk food binge and an all round healthier person. And that's great - we should all aim to be the things that will make us happier and fitter, and able to lead slightly longer and more fulfilling lives; but what I have discovered is that the only women without a thass are the miserable, skinny bitches that don't eat, don't love life and don't long to live a fulfilling existence. So why are we aiming to lose the thass that clearly makes our lives so much more exciting?

You see the thass is in fact a great thing. Ever wondered how much more numb your ass would feel after sitting on hard surfaces for prolonged periods without the thass?

The only reason no woman really likes the thass because they feel it's unnatural, and most women spend years and plenty of money trying to get rid of it. But here's the gist of it - it ain't going anywhere so why not embrace it?! If you think about it, we used to live in caves, hunt for our own food and hit each other on the head for entertainment. We now have lavish houses, a Woolies Food Store or a Waitrose, and we've evolved (if only slightly) on the entertainment front. We've come a long way over the years, so why not embrace changes like the thass?

The logic I see is this. If all women would just admit to the things they think make them so different to the other women in their lives (ie. the wanker affinity or the thass) then we would all realise that these things are just natural. If we are all accepting then does it not become the norm?

Let's just think of it as evolution. I mean it makes finding a comfy chair easier.

You know you're a Londoner when...

It's only been 15 months but my word I'm far too adjusted!


Situation #1:
The sun is shining, it's glorious-looking weather. It's 28 degrees and not a cloud in the sky! You're drinking Pimms in a beer garden with your friends after work. You're wearing sunnies at 10pm!


Reality: It lasts for one week. That was English summer, and I seem willing to accept it and wait 51 more weeks for a repeat performance!


Situation #2:
Haytch..
...as in H(aytch)&M
...as in A,B,C,D,E,F,G,Haytch...


I've started saying it without noticing.


Situation #3:
I'm just grateful when it doesn't rain.


Situation #4:
I've taken to brown sauce like a fat kid to cupcakes.


Situation #5:
I call it brown sauce (?)


Situation #6:
I'm content with taking day trips to the sea. DAY trips! And not because I want to spend THE DAY at the beach...but because it takes A DAY to get there!


Situation #7:
I get mild withdrawal symptoms if I miss the weekly after-work trip to the pub!


(Not so much a situation as a real medical condition)...


Situation #8:
I start all conversations off talking about the weather.


Example A: "Great weather we're having today - typical London summer's day!"
Example B: "Awful weather we're having today - typical London summer's day!"


I actually fear that I am not capable of starting a conversation without weather chat...


Situation #9:
A typical night out ends with a kebab or a curry... (why not eat a 3 course Indian meal at 3am?). Most bits of "The Kebab" which turn up floating around my handbag the next morning as the only reminder of its existence!


And lastly, the most grating of all...


Situation #10:
Crisps. They are now longer chips but crisps. Urg.


Mildly annoying situations at the least, but I feel like it's stripping away at my roots without me noticing. At least I still have biltong, and boerewors, and simba chips, and creme soda...even if I have to live in London!

Ginger Invasion

The other day there were a lot of gingers about. And when I say a lot, I mean it was like a ginger invasion. Being "orange-haired" myself I would notice these things. It didn't help that this day was followed by a 4 day trip to Ireland. Where there are more gingers. Much more. Like the same ratio as blondes to brunettes in Scandinavia. In short, in an environment when I was surrounded by my "peers" (note the LOOSE use of this term) I felt alienated. Like most normal people must feel when surrounded by gingers. This gave me faith - maybe there is hope for me yet! Maybe I haven't been sucked into the foreign world of gingers...maybe that attempt at a brunette makeover I gave myself is sinking in years later!


They say that ginger-ness skips a generation...since neither of my parents have been punished with the curse of the "jaunge" (said with dramatic French accent). But how do we get it to skip all future generations? Hitler tried (albeit unsuccessfully), hair dye just doesn't seem to cut it (although I have placed all my eggs in that basket), and even Eric Cartman's attack on the soulless ginger kids only turned him ginger too! Is society safe? Probably. The conversation that surrounds me on a daily basis has proven that if we can't physically destroy the globe's ginger population, you can at least scare it into submission:


Colleague #1: If two gingers hooked up would one or both spontaneously combust?


Cap'n Carrot: No (read: probably yes, but I am not willing to test that theory)


Colleague #2: Do you try to tan in the hope that your freckles will one day join together to form a tan?


Cap'n Carrot: No (read: hell's yes - it's not ideal being see-through)


I think the only calming thought I have is that my children won't be ginger due to the generation-skipping thing (and I console myself with the fact that I probably won't last long enough to have to counsel the grandchildren on the traumatising future that awaits them!)

Middle age

I have frownlines. Wrinkles. Permanent lines embedded in my forehead for all the world to see. This does not an impressed woman make.

Ok so this may not seem like a big problem for some, except when you take into account that I'm only 22. 22 and middle-aged it would appear.

This new discovery has been confounded by the fact that my concealer now fails to cover the sleep-deprived, late night drinking black rings under my eyes that would pass for two very impressive black eyes. Racoons would be jealous of this natural ringed look. Chavs would welcome me into their estates as one of the family. What these developments have taught me is that I am definitely prematurely aging. Gone are the days of the tellers at Sainsbury's asking me for ID when trying to buy booze.

I have now noticed a pattern. The new found need for afternoon naps (not so popular in the work place), the creaking bones, the early bed times, and falling asleep on public transport (in no way related to the quantity of alcohol consumed beforehand). So basically I'm falling apart and battling to put myself back together. Something needed to be done about this.

So this weekend I went searching for industrial strength concealer. The kind of stuff I'm going to need a trowel to plaster on, and a pick axe to chip off. I fear this is all I can do to cover up the mistakes of my mis-spent youth (that I enjoyed every frikkin' minute of). Alas, after much searching online and in store it would appear that these products don't seem to be made for translucent Irish skin (the curse of the ginge I tell ya). Another plan will have to be made.

I am attempting to institute new dead pan facial impressions to ensure that no further wrinkles gather on any other part of my face. I must look like the crypt keeper - a non-smiling, non-frowning crazy person who has aged before her time. Not the best look when still relatively new to a country and looking to make friends. Sigh - sacrifices will have to be made.

Now I must admit I haven't been handed life's golden attributes. I'm not the skinny, busty blonde girl that the guys fight over. I'm that average-sized, translucent ginger with freckles. Imagine a gecko. With a ginger wig. So why do I need wrinkles as well?

Welcome to the quarter life crisis...

So how have I successfully brought myself to the point where I can laugh at the trivality of the situation and as such broadcast it to all the world for the laughter to multiply? Tequila.

You see I took myself out to Clapham for a couple of drinks with friends last night and after a few pints, much laughter and the opportunity to sport a top hat (don't ask) - I headed to the bar to buy my round, when some lovely guys (not at all bad looking) bought me tequila. Tequila makes everything seem better. Usually because it erases all memory of bad times.

Oh, and then the bar man, not believing my age, asked to see my ID.

Bliss.

All is restored.