One thing that particularly annoys me about V-Day is how many magazines and retailers assume that we of the feminine persuasion will require fresh garments for this particular day. Bollocks am I spending my ever-dwindling cash supply on a brand new dress (red, natch) for a single date when I have umpteen dresses already. Yes, so I'm a miser. And probably being overly picky. After all, many women genuinely enjoy spending time on their appearance far more than I do. However, it does seem a bit one-sided - no one is expecting 'the guys' to buy a new suit or shirt or whatever for every date (when I Googled 'Valentine's Day outfits', 'for dogs' came up before 'for men'). I don't know where men's hard-earned cash is intended to go, but it's not on an accessories wishlist for Valentine's Day.
And while we're on the subject of funneling women's money into weird concepts, I hate this 'effortless' thing, where we're supposed to use a gazillion creams, implements, hours and pain for the end result of convincing people that we haven't bothered. IMO, you know what's more efficient? You guessed it - not bothering. OK, so my version of effortless is a far cry from Caroline-de-Maigret-on-a-moped and more pyjamas-at-one-in-the-afternoon-with-a-half-inch-of-leg-hair, but at least I haven't had to waste hours of precious life slathering myself with goodness-knows-what and trying to perfect the art of 'undone' hair.
So, OK, I probably won't be claiming the title of sexiest sexpot anytime soon. But I like smelling nice. I like nice underwear. I exfoliate like a champ (mostly with sugar scrubs, because who doesn't like a snack that makes your skin soft?). And yes, I do shave, and I have been known to wear heels and a nice outfit (with no rips in!) from time to time. I do not mind being sexy for my SO. It's a two-way street. He wears nice cologne, goes to the gym, provides endless reassurance for my anxious self and does not roll his eyes at my kinks. Conversely, he does not freak out if I have hairy legs, cut all my hair off from time to time, have chipped nails or calloused fingertips from butchering the hard work of honest musicians on my guitar.
Whilst all of this is well and good, I do not need or want to be universally 'fuckable'. If you can't handle me at my most feral, you don't get me at my Dita Von Teese. I am not here to be pretty or admired. I am here to Do Things. Those things range from travelling the world to watching Game of Thrones with a dressing gown over my clothes (for the snuggles). They do not involve dieting, waxing (eek!) or having certain unmentionable body parts bleached (who even THINKS of these things?).
My favourite thing about my relationship (or rather, one of the things) is that I get to be real. Sometimes, that's messy. I'm not cute 24/7. I have a body, with all its accompanying functions and needs. I get anxious, I get stressed, I get irritable, I'm not docile, I'm not the mythical 'pretty' cry-er. Hey, he's not perfect either. But the thing is, we show up for each other, even when it's not pretty. He champions my right to be imperfect. It's OK to be a mess. To not be 'effortlessly' put together, at all times.