It started with a single bottle. Perched precariously like a magpie eyeing your sandwich, it wobbled as I opened the bathroom cupboard. I lunged to catch it – an act of bravery not seen since I last tried to rescue a dropped Tim Tam mid-fall. It pinballed between my hands before doing one last somersault and landing on the sink with a dramatic clatter, like it was trying to warn the others.
Too late.
The rest followed in a cosmetic landslide – serums, creams, scrubs, toners, exfoliants, and a mysterious jade roller I swear I’ve never used but keep just in case I suddenly become the kind of person who does. It was like the skincare gods had declared war, and I was being pelted with overpriced regret.
There I stood, ankle-deep in products I’d bought in moments of weakness, usually after too much wine and a late-night scroll through Facebook.. “This one reverses sun damage.” “This one plumps.” “This one tightens, lifts, brightens, hydrates, and whispers kind things to your pores.” All promises. All lies.
As I bent to pick them up, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Always a gamble. I studied the terrain like David Attenborough encountering a well-loved habitat under threat. My ears? Stretched from decades of hoop earrings and crazy dancing. My décolletage? Speckled with sunspots that had clearly unionised while I wasn’t looking. My boobs? One slightly higher than the other – the unrequested souvenir from breast cancer surgery. Not dramatic enough to fix, but just different enough to look like they’re in an argument.
I took a deep breath, braced myself, and looked further down.
And that’s when I saw them.
Two round lumps. Nestled behind my “Crack de Julie’ like forgotten dumplings. For a brief, terrifying moment, I wondered: am I… growing testicles? Is this some sort of bonus round in menopause no one told me about?
I turned sideways. Nothing. I bent over – regrettable, considering my flexibility peaked in the '90s – and tried to get a better look. My boobs flopped forward like two nosy neighbours blocking the view. Finally, I reached behind with both hands and had a feel.
Just me. Me and gravity. Turns out the “testicles” were my own bum cheeks. Sagging. Collapsing into each other like two sponge cakes that hit the cold. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both – while also swearing a little, because I’m still Australian.
Right. That’s it, I thought. Time for action.
I cracked open the coffee scrub I’d been saving for a special occasion – which apparently is today, the Day of the Betraying Buttocks – and marched into the shower like a woman possessed. I exfoliated like I was trying to sandblast my way back to 1997. Coffee grounds flew everywhere. The bathroom smelled like a café explosion. I emerged victorious, reeking of ambition and vaguely caramel undertones.
Then came the moisturising phase.
Now, I don’t moisturise. I marinate. I slathered, slicked, patted, pressed, and layered myself until I was shinier than a sausage roll in a bakery window. My skin was luminous. I was a human lamington.
But then came the problem: I couldn’t open the bathroom door.
My hands were too greasy. The doorknob slipped like a politician dodging a question. I tried using the towel. It slid off like I was Teflon. I tried my elbow. I tried my bum. Nothing worked. I was literally locked in by my own skincare routine.
Eventually, with the determination of a bogan mum squeezing a pram through a narrow Bunnings aisle, I managed to elbow it open and slide down the hallway, slick as a seal, leaving a faint shimmer behind me like some sort of moisturised slug trail.
That night, I woke up to a smell.
Earthy. Warm. Suspicious.
There were brown smears all over my sheets. For a horrifying second, I thought, Oh God. I’ve sharted. In my sleep. Is this who I am now? I leaned closer, sniffed…
Coffee.
I hadn’t rinsed the scrub off properly, particularly around the more… hidden crevices. I’d essentially basted myself like a festive ham and slow-roasted overnight in Arabica.
And weirdly? It was kind of nice.
Lying there, in a bed that smelled like a hipster café, I had to laugh. My skin was soft. My mood was high – maybe from caffeine osmosis, who knows. But there was something oddly empowering about it. A woman, greasy and glowing, slightly sticky, slightly ridiculous, but owning it.
Because if we can’t laugh at our sagging bits, our failed serums, our cosmetic chaos, then what’s the point? Maybe youth is wasted on the young – but confidence? Confidence is brewed, aged, and exfoliated into existence.
So here’s to us – the glistening, confused, over-moisturised women of the world. We may be slowly melting, but dammit, we’re doing it with style.
And the faint smell of espresso.
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