A pep talk for people with flappy underarms. {Written by my higher salf.}

Hey Catie you freaking weirdo.

Just a quick note to say: get on with it.

I know you’re hung up on that underarm fat hanging over your bra from all that bread you ate last week, itching against your pit like a clumsily-shaven ball-bag… but no-one else cares.


In fact, even if you were wearing one of those shoestring tops that were cool in 2001 - you know, the noxious-algae-green ones from Supré?

Even if you were sporting one of those with lace bra and lat roll on show, nobody would give two shits.


They’re probably thinking about balls - their balls - and that shaving them was a terrible idea cos now their manhood is seriously inflamed (even though it felt softer than the nose of a labrador for the first two hours).

Or that it’s super cool that you’re confident enough to rock such a bad-taste top.

Or that you have nice eyes - even if your lashes are albino.

Or have an amazing vocabulary.

Or nothing, just nothing, cos they aren’t even paying attention. #balls

Stop being such a self-absorbed sucker and get on with your life.

Your lat fat isn’t going anywhere. It’s completely inert, irrelevant, immaterial.

Well actually, it’s your body’s way of sequestering vital energy reserves to help protect you in times of famine and fertility.

Neither of which is relevant to you, but why not honour your latent cavewench? For the love of #paleo.

Now go have a shower {you reek of self pity} and hug yourself silly - grabbing handfuls of those droopy fatty bits.

Pretend you’re totes cool with your body and accept whatever form it takes.

And pretty soon, with enough practice, you’ll believe it.

Pretending is your self-consciousness placebo.

You’ll be a better, more effective human because you’ll no longer be caught up in the futile pursuit of perfection.

You’ll gradually come to realise that appearance is a depreciating asset - while life experience is cumulative one.

Free from that pathogenic thought-process you can getfeckin started with your fuggin life because you won’t be held back by a farkin fixation on a tiny deposit of adipose tissue.

Love you, yeah?

Magazines and weird supernatural forces have inspired self-loathing, but you can Michelangelo your way out of it.

Sculpt a new relationship with your body - not a new body.

And take the rest of womankind with you.

Get on with it.