Free Anti-Ageing Techniques, For Expats and Non-Expats

I believe I may have mentioned once or twice, that expat wives can be very competitive. Cousin Clara says it’s about, “establishing a hierarchy in a mixed environment, wherein cultural norms such as class system are less clear-cut than among static populations”; but I think it’s more like Froo Froo at Tanjong Beach Club. She does that sniffing thing all dogs do. I won’t degrade her by going into details, but I think you know what I mean.

Anyhoo, today I was lunching with my Expaterati girlies – some friendses and some not so much – and a discussion emerged about personal anti-ageing preferences in the facial region. My totes babesome BFF Flo has had a fair old whack of interventions: regular meet-ups with Lady B, a touch of collagen, a few teensy implants, a little eye-lift, and some other minor bits and bobs. She is gorgeous. Trust me. Hot as.

Au contraire, Doom and Gloom Expat Wifey (why does she still get invited to our lunches??) shuns all beauty enhancements, and instead chooses the Abandon All Hope approach to physical signs of ageing.

As loyal readers will know, I espouse the Ladeee Luuuuuv view, that we ladies should be free to decide what, when, why and how we do whatevs we want with our appearance, as long as we look and feel our utmost hottest at all timeses. And we should totes support each other in those decisions, rather than put sistas down.

Me and the gals were therefore thusly being super supportive when we said to D & G that maybe she should consider doing something about her face; at least opting for waterproof mascara, given the realities of this climate (she seriously looks like an owl and I’m seriously not joking TBH). I feel mahusively sorry for her because I secretly know that her hus is heavily involved with his male PA (I’ve only told six other people, including Flo), so we were doing her a favour by trying to force her to make an effort. For her own sake, you know?! It’s what her Guardian Angel would have wanted.

In a way, we were just being the earthly embodiment of her Guardian Angel. At the time, I even formulated an intention to chant for her in my meditation space with the Buddha water feature and a nice Nag Champa burn, offering up these words: May the Universe throw forth eternal blessings to make Mrs Doom & Gloom look a lot better so that she can be a bit hot, namasté.

So I was serioso horrificated when D & G said to Flo, “I completely respect what you’ve done to your face, and your right to choose that. But I choose not to do those things, so you should respect my right not to. And no offence, but you don’t look your age, or anyone’s age, you just look like someone who has had all kinds of stuff done to your face. You basically look like everyone else who has Botoxed, collagened, and whatever elsed their faces beyond recognition. I don’t even know what you really look like!! Do you?!”

Weeeeellll, that was a step too far, babeses.

I was shocked (Flo was too, though you’d have to know her deep down to see it, due to the lack of facial cues), but I remained sufficiently in retention of my verbal and empathic skills to intervene.

“Hon”, I said, with my sweetest Kate Middleton smile, “Just because you choose to pay zero attention to your appearance, despite the fact that you’re probly pushing 49, and you’ve obviously had way too much sun on your face during your youth, it’s really quite unfair to judge others, ya get me? Partic when they look way hotter than you, and their husband isn’t screwing his dude personal assistant”…

Oopsy!! It just came out! Oh dear. All cool though because almost everyone there (except D & G herself) knew about it anyway. So that was fine.

D & G stared at me, with the weirdest look. It was like a combination of, “I hate you and I want you dead”, and “OMG, babes, thanks so much for letting me know!”

More the latter, I felt, so when she stood up to leave, it seemed right for me to give her a great big hug. People need warmth and intense suffocating closeness after hearing difficult news. I know that because of my six-month counselling training.

After my lovely hug, she left, and I was happy for two reasons: 1. I felt secure in the knowledge that I had done all I could to boost her self-esteem. And B) I wanted to get back to my pastrami Reuben – my only carb and mayo shots this week. No way I’m not going to enjoy that!

Once she was gone, we normal happy ladies had a nice chat about how we manage to look so young. I shared with them two of my amazing anti-ageing gems that are 100% free. Because I am v generous, I will share them with you too, dear readers.

The first one is to think of a beautiful female celebrity who’s at least ten years older than you. Fully appreciate that a ton of work and cash has gone into how she looks. And know that she will always be SO VERY MUCH older than you.

And that’s it! It’s basically my reformulation of Einstein’s theory of relativity, applied to ageing. You’re welcome!

My other genius tip is to say that you’re older than you are. For centuries, women have been making the ridic error of claiming to be younger than they are. Whyee?? If you say you’re younger, people are more likely to be looking at you, thinking, “Yowzer, she looks rough!”. Say you’re five or ten years older though, and they’ll be thinking totes the opposite, begging you to reveal the secrets of your amazebobs youthfulnessification. A great thing about this technique is that after you’ve said it a few times, you will start to partly believe it, so you can fully embrace the positive feedback you receive.

Then, unless you develop an as yet unclassified mental health disorder of believing your own age lie, you’ll also partly still not believe it, which will remind that you’re really 35 not 45 (or 50 not 60, 60 not 70, you get the pic). That’ll keep you totes aware of how young you actually are, in contrastation with the age you’ll be a decade from now.

All my girlies agreed that both ideas are incredibly wise. So it’s fair to say that this proves beyond reasonable doubt that if you follow these strategies, along with my previously provided beauty advice and my fashion go-tos, you can be as hot as me for many years to come. If only D & G read my blog. It could save her marriage. There’s just no helping some people. Shame.

 

Froo Froo in her dokini at Tanjong Beach Club. Even the dog is hotter than Mrs Doom & Gloom.

Froo Froo in her dokini at Tanjong Beach Club. Even the dog is hotter than Mrs Doom & Gloom.

 

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The Great Big Bagel Debacle

bagels

I was mega-busy this morning with The Fake Scale campaign (deets coming soon, peeps, and a gazillion thanks to the ladies who have come forward to co-captain the mission). Because yesterday was no-helper day, I got abso nada done and I really need to get the logo sorted. Argh!! I should also launch a campaign to get Don to agree to a second helper. It’s just ridic how much I have to do on Sundays. Cleaning the juicer is shear hell, and I’m sposed to do that at the same time as supervising the irritants!! How, might I ask?? Don, of course, does not feel my pain. 

I was v busy with #thefakescale for a good 36 minutes, but then I had a brunch date at Sacha’s with the Expaterati girlies – some friendses, some not so much. The meet-up wasn’t until 11AM, and although it’s only a little walk across the street for me, I had to leave home an hour early, to take the long route and get lots of steps in. I’ve joined up with some of the girlies to compete on getting our daily Fitbit 10,000 steps, and I knew they’d be at the brunch. Frankly, I’m not doing so well. I’m only in the lead most days because I put the damn thing around Froo Froo’s leg when the helper takes her out, or some nights I just wave my arm back and forth a lot. Cheating like that isn’t part of my modus operandi and must be doing untold damage to my chi : (

So I knew I’d be seeing the Fitbit gang, and I abso had to get my numbers up. Expat wives can be so competitive!! Ugh. I did quite awesomely though, arriving at Sacha’s with a lovely healthy glow, in my hot gym gear. Some of us ladies can really rock the gym bunny look, while others, unfortunately, can’t rock any look. That’s what I was pondering while air-kissing the assembled wife tribe. A couple of the not so much friendses had obviously made an effort to look their best, but ouch!! If I wasn’t so busy, I would become a fashion consultant for expat wives. I did a weeklong course once on iconic looks for tropical weather at the London College of Fashion, so I’d be fab at it.

The brunch was fairly fun, with everyone saying how brilliantly I’m doing to keep coming out on top with the steps, but then emerged: the bagel debacle.

Doom and Gloom Wifey started to critique the bagels, saying that it’s so difficult to find a decent bagel in Singapore, and that there just doesn’t seem to be a genuine New York bagel anywhere. “It’s absurd!”, she said, “We’re only 10,000 miles away from NYC. It’s 2015! We should be able to get anything everywhere! How hard can it be?!”

Ever the voice of reason, Flo responded, “Babe, I’m sorry, but what’s the big deal? This place uses proper Jewish recipes, and the bagels here are amazebobs. You’re not from New York. You’re not even American!”

“Well you’re not even Jewish!”, D & G retorted. God, she’s rude.

“No, but neither are you!”, Flo said, looking a bit flustered by that point, but only I could tell. You have to really know her because her face gives little away.

“No, I’m a Buddhist who knows a shitload about bagels, so screw you!”

O. Em. Gee.

I wanted to intervene, but my mouth was full of Reuben. Before I could say something wise to rescue the situation, D & G had picked up her gigantic LV handbag (this season! so jelly of that bag!!), saying, “I’m late for an appointment”, and swooshed away. Oh dear. I hate to take anyone off my awesome Facebook page, but that kind of behaviour is just intolerable. It’ll only get worse. She has to go.

When an Expat Wife Gets a Job

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a trailing spouse will do one of the following things: get a job, have an affair, or become an alcoholic.

Despite it being universally acknowledged, I can’t say beyond a shadow of a doubt that it is truesome of me or many of the Expaterati I know. In my case, as loyal readers will know, I am totes my own person, and tend to swim against the tide. One of the awesomest things about me is that I can’t be pigeonholed, unlike the vast majority of people. If you look up EJ in the DSM V, you won’t find anything. (Yet!! LOLs.)

My “friend” Michelle, on the other hand, is an excellent illustration of the point because she did the booze thing, and now that she has stopped, she’s doing the job thing. As I told you, she bored me to tears on Tuesday, talking about her recovery, and how great it is to work again after being a stay at home alcoholic mother.

What I did not know was the precise nature of said employment. But I know now!!

Flo and I brunched this morning at an amazaFAB new place called Sacha and Sons (so Manhattan! So cooool!!) at the Mandarin Gallery. Jewish food is just way the biz.

Flo wanted to hear all about my lunch with Michelle, and then she was like, “Hey, but did she tell you what her job actually is?!”

So I was like, “No!! OMG, totes tell me!”

Flo told me that Michelle had put up a post on the Singapore Expat Wives Facebook page about her new company, but because it was kind of an ad it got taken down within three minutes. Flo is mega on the case with all things FB and beyond, so she was one of the few people to see it, like it, share it, Google it, Pin it, and follow it on LinkedIn and Instagram.

So here’s the skinny… Michelle is the co-founding partner and marketing lead of Vajaz, the first vajazzling salon in Singapore.

WOAH!! New respect to you, lady!! (Though she can’t be so hot at marketing if I hadn’t heard of it.) Flo said they’re doing a roaring trade – more vaj through the door than the recently opened LuluLemon.

So I’m taking my hat off a tad to Michelle after all, even if she messed unforgivably with my chi. I should pop over to the salon some time, to get myself vajazzled. My only concern is that I spend quite a lot of time sunning myself pool-side at the many clubs on the island. Could I inadvertently blind someone if my bikini slipped sideways? I’m don’t think I’m insured for that sort of thing.

 

Photo credit: http://michellejoni.com/vajazzling/

Photo credit: http://michellejoni.com/vajazzling/