A REAL WOMAN’S GUIDE TO VALENTINES – February 9^th 2006

 

Pampering, presents and sexy lingerie? No, true love is more about screaming kids, chewed nails and wonky bikini lines.

 

 

alentine’s Day is billed as the most romantic day of the year. Almost as soon as we’re done with the January sales, the shops fill with red teddies (of both the soft-toy and saucy lingerie variety).

 

For weeks beforehand, you can’t open a newspaper or magazine without discovering how to ‘Countdown to the Perfect Valentine’s Night’.

 

Most romantic preparations seem to require at least a fortnight’s planning and much lolling about in warm baths, which is fine and dandy if you’re child-free and single.

 

But as any harried mother will tell you, the moment you sink wearily into a well-deserved hot bath, the cat will be sick on the sofa, your children will run amok with felt-tip pens and a staple gun, and your mother-in-law will ring to discuss plans for next Christmas.

 

I think back now to the days Before Children with a nostalgia akin to disbelief. The idle weeks spent anointing my skin with perfumed unguents in preparation for the Big Night, the cucumber-and-tofu crash diets, the leisurely hours prowling lingerie rails for something slinky and seductive.

 

Come February 1^st each year, I’d book myself into the beauty salon for a fortnight of treatments: manicures, pedicures, waxing, facials. It would have been easier to bring a sleeping bag and stay over. One memorable year, the staff held a leaving-party, they were so sad to see me go.

 

These days, however, with three small children, my seduction technique is a variation on the classic, ‘Get your coat, darlin’, you’ve pulled.’

 

It’s not that the Valentine spirit is weak. I’m an incurable romantic; there’s nothing I like better than selecting a slither of silk and lace designed to last five minutes between revelation and removal.

 

In years past, I’ve even made my own cards from bits of driftwood and pressed flowers. Blue Peter would be proud. It’s just that nowadays, much as I’d like to pamper myself silly for my husband, I simply don’t have the time. My countdown preparations are more likely to run thus:

 

Two weeks to go: decide to do something about appalling lack of grooming in time for Valentine’s Day. Starting tomorrow.

 

Five days to go: keep emery board in car for use on fingernails at red traffic lights. (note to self: leave toenails for major intersections). Remember to use caution with polish; opt for clear varnish especially those who corner on two wheels when late for school run.

 

Four days to go: consider alcohol-free macrobiotic diet to improve figure and reduce fragrance of gin emanating from skin.

 

Three days to go: give up diet as lunatic idea dreamed up by those not mothers of small boys with tendency to bring assorted wildlife into the house. Remove baby fieldmouse from knicker drawer and frog from downstairs toilet. Decide to drink only gin as combined weight-loss and mood-enhancing therapeutic treatment.

 

Two days to go: Wax bikini line at home with cold wax kit whilst lasagne in oven cooking. Cut out cute cardboard heart from cereal packet to use as risqué shaping template. Complete one side of bikini line and gash forehead on sink whilst hopping around bathroom blind with pain. Adapt template to accommodate lopsided presentation. One day to go: collect McDonalds for children due to temporary closure of kitchen from oven fire. Apply self-tan, get interrupted by small boy wanting to use wedding-train as Egyptian Mummy bandages.

 

Liberate wedding-train. Plant small boy in front of SpongeBob Squarepants with crisps in one hand and fizzy drink in other. Race back upstairs. Forget where self-tan applied and slather on more everywhere just in case. End up Tango orange on one side and usual winter grey the other.

 

Grit teeth at husband’s evident hilarity when greeted by two-tone wife. Scrub skin with alcohol and kitchen scourer, consoling self with thought that at least exfoliating is thorough.

 

On the Day: Agree to mother-in-law’s terms re Christmas if she babysits. Decide not to tell husband about said pact until next time he comes home drunk after Boys Night Out and owes me one.

 

Try on black basque, and realize it’s no longer flattering on woman whose breasts are in race to get to belly-button first. Put on stockings. Fear for husband’s safety should suspenders give, as seems likely. Remove stockings and wonder if husband can be persuaded long-johns are the latest word in sexy undergarments.

 

 

ave stroke of genius and dig out old school uniform from loft. Put hair in bunches and reason (correctly, as it turns out) he’ll be too distracted to notice hairy legs and half-manicure.

 

And if your husband is worth enduring all of the above, as mine is, he will overlook your manifold imperfections and tell you that he thinks you are beautiful every day of the year, he much prefers the natural look, and actually, he wishes you’d put on another ten pounds and fill out those strange-looking French knickers.

 

Because romance isn’t a lace-trimmed camisole or the perfect pedicure. It’s when your husband gets up four nights in a row with a teething baby and lets you sleep. It’s when you keep your hair long just because he likes it that way, even though you’d love a simple, low-maintenance crop.

 

It’s fun to splurge now and then, to put a bit of zing into life and rediscover the passion of those first heady days. But a real Valentine will love you 365 days a year, not just one, chewed nails, two-tone skin, wonky bikini line and all.