Lean in and I’ll share something with you.
I’ve never seen the appeal of the chest rug. Nup. I like my homo sapiens clean shaven and well tidy. Not just on the all important shoulders and back, but also on the chest area. I like to plant my face onto that fresh clean ground that smells of Nordic pine and a whiff of cinnamon and picnic without a rug.
Luckily for me, my Englishman is not a hairy beast. At least, I didn’t think he was until the other night when I had something of a late night time ‘surprise’.
I’d been working late and was bleary-eyed and weary. I made my way to the bathroom where I peeled my disposable eyeballs off and put them in their solution. Then I wiped off my fuchsia smile and my black-eyed sparkle, because it is essential that no matter how tired a girl is she MUST clean her face before bed.
I’m not sure what happens if you don’t go through the cleansing step, at the very least, let alone the other toning, moisturising steps. Maybe all the free radicals team up with the not-so-free radicals and wage war on your smile lines? I always imagine free radicals as Scottish warriors at the Battle of the Boyne. All woolly and wild-eyed, and ready to knuckle down and make a mess of the battleground…my face.
I grabbed the toothbrush and shovelled plaque around my pearly whites, smiling as I remembered Mum telling me that she couldn’t chew gum.
‘Oh no,’ she said in reply to me suggesting she chew gum to relieve the pressure on her ears as the plane takes off. (Grandma’s doing Europe right now, but that’s a whole ‘nother blog post!)
‘I can’t chew gum. It sticks to my false teeth and makes a hell of a mess.’
Insert image of my poor 75 year old Mum wandering around Austria with her teeth stuck together.
I ran some frizz defying stuff through my locks and smeared a generous hopeful dollop of my latest face cream (the surprisingly brilliant Caroline Lorinet skincare range full of something called Sea Buckthorn oil..I’d not heard of it either until now and it’s the bomb!)* and then bumbled down the hall way into our bedroom.
My Englishman was already in bed. Surely he would be awake enough for a wee cuddle?
I slipped beneath the duvet and reached out to stroke his chest gently…every exploratory finger flirty and ready to..
But wait. Back that bus up. Silence the Marvyn Gaye …
My fingers were swallowed up by warm fur.
Masses of it.
Confused, I pulled back and went back in under the duvet where the wild things are, and stroked his chest. Still furry.
And then the chest rug bit me.
Bloody cold cat!
So what say you on the good ole chest rug? Yay, or nay or purr? And should a hirsuite man wax it clear?
* You can read more here about the brilliant Caroline Lorinet range. (No this is not sponsored content, it’s actually cool stuff).