Crepey, schmapey, neck of napey.Posted: March 12, 2011
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.’
‘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.