I’m going to make a confession. Yep, another one.
Sometimes I exaggerate things on this blog.
Shocking, right? Look, it’s not something I’m proud of. But in my defence, exaggeration is in my nature. Every story I’ve told in the last 29 years has been a little… embellished. Numbers get bigger. Shoes get higher. Insults get ruder. Food gets tastier. I figure if you’ve got someone’s attention, you might as well make the most of it. Be entertaining. And perhaps, just a little bit creative.
But there’s one thing I can solemnly swear I have never blown out of proportion. My bedroom really IS the smallest thing in the world.
Getting in to my room requires the sort of acrobatic contortions last demonstrated by the Russians in their group hoop routine at the London Olympics. First, you have to breathe in, bend your body just the right way, and squeeze around the door (it only opens halfway before hitting the base of the bed). Once you’re through, you have to make a weird, awkward leap OVER the bed, to land on the room’s sole patch of clear carpet. Now, this leap’s a tricky thing. Your landing zone is less than a metre square, and boxed in by a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a mirror, and the other side of the bed.
Still not impressed? Now imagine you’re doing this in a towel.
AND EVERYONE CAN SEE YOU.
One of the many quirks of our little brown brick house is my window. No, not my window. My PORTHOLE. Who wants a regular, rectangular, curtain-friendly window, when you can have a nautical, quirky porthole? Sometimes I feel like I’m the victim of some joke the whole of England is playing on the wayward Australian – as if it’s shouting, “welcome back, convict!”
Now being round, this porthole doesn’t have a curtain. Or a blind. Or any sort of light-blocking, modesty-protecting contraption. And with my room being so small, it means there is actually NOWHERE I can stand in my bedroom without being visible from the street. I live on a street full of children, you guys. And I’m really worried for them. They do NOT NEED to see me naked.
Once upon a time, getting dressed was an enjoyable experience. I took my time. I tried on multiple outfits. I lazed around in my underwear. Now, it’s tense. I’m constantly scanning the street for innocent children. I actually crouch on the floor to put my underwear on (TRY THAT in less than a metre square of floor space, folks! It is HARD). The first outfit I try on, stays on. And the whole dressing process is done in a panicked, worried rush.
And the truth is, if a girl can’t enjoy dressing up, what hope is there? There’s no need to exaggerate – this is probably the most serious problem I’ll EVER FACE.