What it is about the prospect of a holiday (read: what promises to be the most relaxing week of your entire year) that has the ability to send you into the mother of all panics?
Whether it’s financial woes, fashion ones or the inevitable but oh-so unnecessary body hang-ups, there is something about the week before a holiday that sees most of us fall such into a state of disarray that no amount of sitting on a beach sipping Pina Coladas will cure it, ironically.
I’m talking of course, about the pre-holiday panic.
I’m currently in the midst of one. The lucky so-and-so that I am, I’m jetting off to sunnier climes in a matter of days and am yet to find something that I’m not in crisis over. Let’s delve a little deeper shall we.
It started months ago, as it always does, with a body worry or two.
About six weeks prior to your departure date the promise of a diet and a few gym suggestions get made, or they do in my household at least.
There is a big declaration or two which normally results in a small fortune being invested in some funky smelling powders that you found on offer in Wholefoods and an exercise programme that promises to transform your cellulite laden body in a matter of moments. (For me it was the Carly Rowena Get Gorgeous Guide and, although I obviously gave up, I would certainly recommend it).
At some point guilt will set in, this will happen when you realise that you’ve not been working quite as hard as you should have been doing. You will start to feel terrible and no doubt start to despise the you of four months ago that ate and ate and ate as if your life depended on it. You’ll be in a permanent state of ‘oH ShHiiIIIiiT’, that normally sees you work the gym like a motherfucker, so much so that you can’t so much as clear your throat for days on end and banish all ice-cream as if the stuff is actual devil milk (only frozen).
And then, about ten days prior to departure, or thereabouts, you’ll press the fuckit button and you’ll press it hard. My hand shot for it with Donald Trump style enthusiasm.
The ‘well what’s the bloody point?!‘ phase includes more ice-cream than you’d even thought possible (the devil and his milk be damned), your trainers to be forced into early retirement and a lot of reassuring thoughts of ‘it’s only a fucking holiday, ooh these beautiful curves are gunna look so.damn.glorious.’
After all, there is very little I can do about any of it now.
So then there is the stuff that you can do something about…
By that I of course mean removing the leg hair that you have been so diligently growing since last October, an agonising and excruciating session with a woman who you are paying to tidy your equally neglected pubic region and then the utterly terrifying prospect of tackling your revolting, and pretty-much-permanently-sock-clad feet.
My epilator, something I have a love/hate relationship with at the best of times, has been briefed on the mission and is preparing itself for an evening of over-time on Friday and the beauty salon closest to me have been handed a similar brief and have assured me that they’ve blocked out an entire afternoon in preparation.
Despite reassuring myself that all is well and I’m totally prepared, the idea of committing to a nail-varnish colour that will go with every outfit I am taking is proving to be a little daunting. What are our thoughts on coral???
A first world problem. But a problem none-the-less.
Speaking of outfits…
What. Am. I. Going. To. Wear.?????.
Well, watch this space because I fully intend on making a blog posts of every outfit I take with me upon my return, but for now please allow me to pANIC.
Having prided myself on my ability to save money at every turn (namely by not really giving a shit about fashion) please imagine my frustration when I not only started caring about it last year but pledged, publicly, to start making more of an effort with it.
All of a sudden the bodycon skirts of 2008 that I reasoned looked ~quite~ cute with a similarly accent blouse, just can’t cut the mustard anymore. In fact it’s got to go. So does basically everything else I own. If I didn’t get it in the last three years, if I wouldn’t wear it in England, it’s gotta go.
You’d be shocked by how little is left. And I’m not even just saying that because I want new clothes. Well not totally anyway.
Hey ASOS, old buddy old pal, how ARE you? Seemingly ASOS is fine, in fact, we’re getting on swimmingly, since they now own all of my money. Never satisfied however I still have a basket full of lovelies that is causing the biggest will-they-won’t-they conundrum of my life. Do I need both kidneys or can I do without ~another~ midi skirt? Only time will tell.
And that is of course, before you even begin to worry about everything else that so much as pops into your mind between now and the first moment of sand-to-foot contact.
Where’s my passport? No seriously, actually, where is my passport? (I’m calling Alex right now to check because I really don’t have a fucking clue). I haven’t bought any suncream yet and I’m loathed to spend a fortune at the airport, where can I get suncream?? Where are my sunglasses? Haven’t seen them since the last time I saw the sun. Mozzy repellent. Where does one buy mozzy repellant at this time of year? The flight? The train to the flight. The bus to the train before the flight. The last minute panic before the bus to the train to the flight. The alarm before the last minute panic before the bus to the train to the flight…
Not forgetting THE HUGE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT PANIC before the last minute panic before the bus before the train before the flight of course because that’s the p-a-n-i-c to end all the panics.
If ever there was a time to make a mountain out of a mole hill, the night before the holiday is THAT TIME.
And so that’s where I’m at. In the midst of the pre-holiday panic. Loving every minute of it because in truth, it’s part of the fun and the excitement and a constant reminder of how lucky I am to even be going on holiday.
Only a few more days to go, and then I’ll breathe out, I promise.