Crepey, schmapey, neck of napey.

Today’s blog is dedicated to the ever-deepening, three-pronged rivulets that are slowly forming in my cleavage.

Oh, take that disgusted look off your face. No-one talks about chest crepes, therefore, I must.

Getting older is so unbelievably disappointing, and it never ceases to disappoint in terms of new crappy things that happen to your body.

My cleavage used to be, along with my luscious, long hair, one of my chief selling points.

Unfortunately, my once gorgeous, pillow valley, is slowly becoming yet another part of my body to hide.

Imagine a giant crow’s feet imprint in the middle of your chest. I have that.

I’ve always had big boobs. No small French nips for me. Men love them but the trouble comes when they scrunch together during the night. As I roll over into comfortable foetal position, they lollop on top of each other like soggy pizza dough discs. Weighed down by mammary and memory, my skin crinkles into submission.

I reckon I can still just about get away with a low-cut top at night (with the right lighting and a slash of make-up), but during the day, when I catch sight of this silvery road-map to age, I sigh deeply, and yearn for the smooth, milky skin of my youth.

Scrounging around for a crepey breast image, I came across this nifty product: The Intimia breast pillow. It looks like a slender baby sling. You wear it when you sleep, and among other things it’s supposed to reduce breast wrinkles. And in the interests of fairness, I also found the Chest Wrinkle Terminator.

Who’d have thought there was all this crazy stuff out there for the concertina-d breast plate.

Should I invest?

And what if I ever get a man into my bed again?

‘Oh hold on darling, let me get my strap-on.’

Stony silence.

‘Don’t be silly, it’s not what you’re thinking, it’s much more disgusting!’

*hoists contraption over shoulders, never has sex again*

Sod it, I’m off to Halter Necks R Us.

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4 Comments on “Crepey, schmapey, neck of napey.”

  1. Wayne says:

    Why on earth be so bloody hard on yourself. Yes, you’re getting older, yes you live in Hollywood, the comparables are abnormal – you are wiser, mature, beautiful and clever and should celebrate it – OR MOVE!!!!!!!! What the hell are you doing there if it makes you feel sooooobad.

    Come home and get married or suffer forever in unreality.

    • This IS my home.

      Getting married isn’t like going to the shop and buying a product off the shelf. It’s not easy: it isn’t in LA, and it wasn’t in London.

      And I don’t think geography has anything to do with the way I’m aging either. Most women of a certain age will identify with this post – and that’s what I try to achieve with my writing.

      Hollywood Spinster is an alter ego – a snippy, snarky, honest look at what it means to age in a town where youth is everything. It’s also part of my campaign to reclaim the world ‘spinster’. And an honest look at what it means to be single and over 40. Hopefully there are some laughs along the way too.

      Am I desperate? Sometimes, fleetingly, yes I do feel desperate – although there’s nothing wrong with checking out a hot man’s body!

      Mostly though, I love this town and the unique, crazy opportunities it offers me. I’d rather be getting older and alone here than wondering ‘what if?’ back in England.

  2. […] shoulders, voluptuous boobage, crepe schmapey chest things and a kind of rising muffin, that seems to be spreading from my hips […]

  3. Emily says:

    You are hilarious. I love this! Don’t listen to humorless troll dudes. This is great commentary on aging and the various contraptions that we’re supposed to put up with.


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