1 day to go
This time tomorrow night I’ll be waiting for the stroke of midnight, my cue to start Moonwalking along with 11,999 other bra-wearing folk. Shit! Shit! Shit a brick! I mean, woohoo!
We had a bra decorating party last Saturday – Dirty Dancing, Chinese food and a sea of sequins, fluff and taffetta. There was booze galore but nobody drank much as our hands were too busy with scissors and needles and glue. Conversation was minimal; just random bursts of song and swearing when thumbs were stabbed.
I tried to channel all the skillz learned for my Brownie sewing badge circa 1986. Thankfully Claire had earlier dyed all our bras a lovely shade of fuschia pink, so mine looked pretty cool already as the lacy bits stayed white. It took me three hours just to sew one bit of frill along the bottom and a squiggle of silver across each boob. Check out them highly accurate stiches. Brown Owl would be proud!
Here is the finished product, nestled lovingly against Gareth’s engineering textbook. Some serious engineering going on in that bra,too.
Since Saturday I’ve been in state of Wardrobe Panic. I’d been so focused on walking the 26.2 miles that I totally ignored the do-it-in-your-bra bit. During training I wore a long-sleeved top with my boob-crushing grubby ye olde Enell sports bra underneath. The bra above was supplied by the Moonwalk folk and Einstein here didn’t bother trying it on until Sunday night and discovered that it isn’t supportive enough to tame my girls.
Well, DERR! That’s Australian for DUH, btw. Why the hell would a frilly bra be suitable for an 8 hour walk? Of course I panicked for a couple more days until it was too late to order a different bra online or go shopping in Edinburgh. I’ve come up with an eleventh hour solution with a second bra and a large pot of Vaseline but really, I am tempted just to wear it as a hat:
I feel like a twit writing this, but I had a total Fat Girl Freakout on Sunday. When I signed up late last year, I thought the Moonwalking in your bra was such a fab way to raise money for breast cancer research and I was pretty cool with my body these days so bring it ON. But the wave of panic started on Saturday night – looking at my bra, looking at my colleagues, comparing my body to theirs, feeling larger and wobblier by the minute.
The panic grew overnight then on Sunday afternoon in the shower, I just started bawling my eyes out. I felt so sick to my stomach, the thought of my bare arms and bare belly out for all the world to see. For my work colleagues to see. I felt like a fraud; like I’d been disguising myself as a Normal Person just like them and now they were going to find out I was a wobbly-armed mess.
I thought about how there was something noble about a scar from a surgery or a stretch mark from bearing a child, but what if your impefections are just your own bloody fault; the result of too much chocolate and chips and whatnot? For those ten minutes under the shower I felt ashamed and angry, thoughts racing through my head that had not surfaced for many years.
After I had my good old cry I towelled off, got dressed and tried the pink bra on again. I took photos from a bazillion different angles and just looked at them on the computer for ages. I calmed down after that. You’ll be alright, ya dork.
90% of the time I live and breathe that bit of my silly book where I go on about embracing all my lumps and bumps. But I guess embracing said lumps in everyday life is different from having to parade them around town all night long. Like I said, I feel like a goose even writing about the Freakout, but I like to be honest; not just with you but with myself. This feeling-good-in-your-own-skin thing isn’t always smooth sailing. I still have my little moments but thankfully they’re fleeting these days.
Really, I can’t wait to get out there tomorrow with my mates in my beloved Edinburgh. The big night is finally here and I think it’s going to be a hoot.