Y’yummy mummy
You get your Armani
You get your Pri-marni
Your 6am sale chaser, the Next big splurger and your Blue Cross piranha
The ones content to swim through an aisle of lackluster But
I need a gut buster
dragging my ass through TU, tut tut tutting
f f f Fancy pants at F and F
aware of the back fat, and the
mid-riff
– –
Yes, you get your yummy mummies
Love their tummy mummies
Slouch and embrace the bulge mummies
Wearing it like a muffin-top badge of maternity,
un-toned bodies from beneath oversized tee-shirts,
shouting, yes!
I am a mummy!
– –
I’m a supermarket mummy –
The Sainsbury’s shopper,
buying whatever is on the shelf,
left over
Briefly whisking through rails for something
that I can fit into ‘comfortably’
without ever having to go in to town, i can’t stand it, especially on my own,
I’ll avoid it and just stay home,
occasionally popping out
Without
ever having to face the reality
that It’s not a New Look 8 staring back at me
No more H&M 10,
Or supermarket 12!
– –
Hell
The longer I put off seeing people,
going out with people,
socialising
and spending,
I can put off admitting to myself that
I have become
that mummy,
that
i
never
wanted
to be.
That boring mother, hiding away beneath as much jersey as I can lay my hands on,
tattooed signs of my old self peeping out
and my dyed hair is now in fact dual purpose. I have no doubt.
My life is one extended supermarket trip
And now this…
When did I become THE supermarket mommy?
when did i cease to exist?
