Whipped Cream On The Décolletage.

I felt the pinch of being single for a solitary moment yesterday.  I thought, perhaps, during those 5.7 seconds that it was Larry I was missing.  But upon trying to conjure up an image of him, I found myself fantasising about Jake Gyllenhall.  I can't remember what he looks like.  Honestly.  That must surely be a good sign?

And, seriously, the moment was exceptionally fleeting.  The Pant does well single.  She's able to fulfill her very own self where the men she's dated have been unable.  Incapable.  Dorks.  Just so you know, she isn't some pathetic pining repeat of her December self.  She is happier than she's been in a long time.

I live in Durban, right?  Where the constant heat is so oppressive that I've spent nights worrying that I'm going through menopause.  The sweat factor is intense.  I work without aircon too.  And so, come 8.15 am, the make-up has slipped right off and the clothes are clinging in places I didn't realise I had places.  I've considered going to work naked - but apparently standing before impressionable youths in the nick is against the law (a law, I feel, that should be revisited.)

As a result of all of this, I am unable to moisturise the body.  Cream mixed with copious amounts of sweat makes clothes stick with a slickness of lubrication enough to make one want to vomit.  And so this entire summer I have walked around with reptile-like skin.  Not so great to look at.  But much easier to handle.

That is, until, The Incubator came to the rescue.  She was concerned about my lack of creativity in dress - linen pants and vests, daily. (Wear a skirt!) And she felt that something needed to be done.  So when I emerged from the shower yesterday morning, she thrust into my hand an aerosol can of body mousse.

Now, I cannot aptly express the discomfort I certainly felt when, with The Incubator's eager eyes upon me, I expelled what looked like whipped cream onto my décolletage.  And I caught sight of my nakedness in an incredibly flattering mirror: the lights were low, the steam from the shower gave rise to the romance of my situation, Barry White was crooning in my head, I saw Jake Gyllenhall gently massage the mousse across my collar bone.  Mmmmmmm hmmmmmm....

5.7 seconds later, I realised The Incubator was waiting for my response to wonder product.  And so I began rubbing in the mousse with the sexiness of boarding establishment House Mother.

The verdict: body moisturing mousse rocks.  And The Pant is ready for the rebound.  I've picked the contender too.  Poor boy.