Before we go any further, I have a confession to make. In 10 days’ time, I’ll
be winging my way to Ibiza (that’s not it), and, in anticipation of “the big
reveal” — aka, that first moment on the beach when it all comes out — I have
done something radical. I have, deep breath, booked a whole extra day off on
the eve of my holiday for the sole purpose of St Tropez-ing, emergency
waxing (apparently, the new shape is the “Tasmanian triangle”) and eyelash
extending to ensure maximum confidence.
Like many people, I find myself in the grip of an annual disorder that mostly
afflicts women. Let’s call it seasonal exposure anxiety (SEA) — that is, a
horrible fear and a crippling panic about not being slim, tanned and sexy
enough to bare all.
For the past week, my SEA has resulted in early-morning visits to the gym,
pounding away on the treadmill and straining to lift weights, eating mainly
raw food and shunning all alcohol (sort of). Then there’s the nightly
experimenting with different formulations of fake tan, aiming for the
sleekest, most bronzed look I can find. The vanity behind this kind of
extreme preening has been pointed out to me, but I’m in good company with my
SEA — ie, the majority of my female friends and colleagues.
A straw poll of the women in my life reveals extreme SEA-related behaviour,
such as wearing your bikini to personal-training sessions to pinpoint the
bits that need most work. And then there’s the random bouts of starvation,
the late-night tanning, scrubbing and body-brushing sessions, the panic
lunchtime Power Plating, and my own flirtation with exercise addiction —
every day I’m also rushing to finish work so I can get to my evening swim.
And it’s not only about the beach. From April onwards, the countdown to
shelving the opaques and baring our winter flesh is on. So why the mass
panic when it comes to getting our bodies out? For one thing, revealing
summer wardrobes mean our limbs have to fend for themselves, having relied
all winter on Spanx-like 70-deniers, and structured skirts and jackets to
fake a physique we can pretend is all ours. With our winter duds to hide
behind, the majority of us get a life and let our “regime” slide somewhat.
Among the women I know, mass pastiness, wobbly tummies and, that old
favourite, cottage cheese-effect thighs are behind most cases of SEA. Our
unpainted, yellowed toenails would look more at home on the set of The
Hobbit, and we’re as hairy as our husbands. “The thought of belly-baring
makes me want to lock myself in a room for a week to try to waste away a
bit,” moans one friend. And then there’s the way men go mental at the first
flash of summer leg. We may claim to hate the hoots and toots — they don’t
half make a girl self-conscious — but imagine if there weren’t any at all?
Celebrities suffer from SEA all the time (with them it’s CEA: continual
exposure anxiety), hence the armies of personal trainers, stylists, food
doctors and strange eating habits (no wheat, dairy, sugar, alcohol, carbs —
what’s left?). We’re not nearly so organised (unless you’re the one woman in
my office who’s been on a macrobiotic diet since Christmas in order to feel
bikini-ready by June).
Managing your summer wardrobe is key (it’s all about what you choose to
reveal), and I feel that age, for once, is on my side. At 33, I’m finally
out of the miniskirt-minus-tights race. Bring on the flattering,
knee-grazing dresses. Speaking of which, though, my dream summer dress is a
ribbed Rick Owens tank. So comfy, so slouchy, so LA! Shame that, woven of
the finest silk jersey, it is designed to cling to your curves like Jenson
Button to the Monaco circuit. You can’t eat lunch in a dress like that —
you’d be able to watch every mouthful go down — but then, at this time of
year, who’s eating?
For Caucasian women, a tan is pretty much a universal requisite for summer
body confidence, something I learnt at an early age. The maxim that “fat
looks better brown” is imprinted on my brain along with the scent of my
mother’s Ambre Solaire, while the most glamorous woman in the village where
I grew up (the one who lived in the manor with the pool and the sexy second
husband) was in shorts from the day the clocks went forward to ensure a
golden hue come wedding season. Summer weddings, like the beach, often
provide a focal point for our SEA.
Even though I struggle each year with my affliction, there is a tiny bit of me
that enjoys all the fuss. It’s a bit like getting ready for a superglamorous
party, with summer itself — every extended evening in a beer garden, every
joyous romp through a festival field, every sunny walk to work — the
occasion to really get ready for. Of course, SEA only subsides once it’s
finally all out there, and you realise that even without clothes to hide
behind (and thanks to your mastery of the modern tools of beauty), we all
scrub up all right. And that actually there are more important things to
think about once the sun is shining and you’re swimming in a lovely cooling
sea. There’s nothing like a decent break from routine and several good
nights’ sleep to boost the way you feel — inside and out.
As one friend sums it up: “Summer is a state of mind.” And SEA aside, I
couldn’t agree more. I’m hoping that flying home from Ibiza — stuffed full
of tapas and booze and sunshine and love — I’ll feel 10 times sexier than I
do in my current supertaut, sashimi-hold-the-sake state. You never know, I
might even have the confidence to wear that Rick Owens dress.
IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER
When it comes to looking sexy, it’s not what you think
By Horatio Clare
We all know a man driving a sports car is probably a tit. Yet a woman driving
an identical vehicle is likely to have an interesting job at which she is
highly accomplished, may well be a diverting conversationalist and is surely
excellent in bed. Apart from a sports car, what makes a woman sexy is a
mystery to science, defying endless surveys and experiments, a wonder to the
publishers of grotty mags and websites (who cannot conceive of a taste so
bizarre that some man, somewhere, will not pay for it) and a series of
secrets that — having traipsed about like a Carrie Bradshaw tribute act,
bleating the question at friends and strangers — I am now honoured to
reveal.
Freckles, says one man. Great legs and good shoes, says another. Quiet
confidence and smouldering looks, says a quiet, smouldering girl.
Intelligence, says a newspaper, quoting researchers who claim to have found
that bright girls have more orgasms. So much for the research.
Asking myself the question, I conclude that accomplishment is a turn-on. It
does not matter whether she is a barmaid who can pull a perfect pint, a
dancer who can spin the air around her, a surgeon who can whip out your
appendix, or a mother who can handle her kids: excellence is sexy. The sexy
woman is good at what she does. Then there is appetite. Give us a woman who
can eat a man-sized portion and then lick her fingers, someone who relishes
a serious trek, who can be wet and cold and still up for more, someone who
is not ready to go home yet. Someone who gives as good as she gets in an
argument (without shouting, ideally), someone who can be sarky, who is quick
— she’s the girl for us.
The thought that she does not actually need us is also a draw. Happy in her
own company, a whiff of the untamed: that’s the stuff. All the more so if
she’s fun and she gets the jokes. This is not at all the same thing as
someone endlessly trying to be funny. No doubt it is the inner narcissist’s
fault, but the most attractive thing about the most attractive women I have
met is their laughter. A woman with a lovely laugh beats a girl with a
prominent chest every time. Ah yes, chests. Men famously divide into the
boob, bum and leg tribes. There are also the foot people and the hand
fetishists, and none of us is immune to a pretty face. Given the diversity
of male taste, it is safe to assume that every woman has something that
some, or many, men will find attractive.
The question remains, what makes you sexy? A swing of the hips. The way you
hold yourself. A flash in the eyes. Just as a great many women seem to go
for bad boys, naughty men and mysterious heroes (Johnny Depp kept coming
up), so men fancy the idea of the woman who either is, or ought to be, out
of reach. Self-sufficiency and a certain fire are also devastatingly
attractive. The knowledge that if someone insults my intended, she is liable
to deck them before I can get to my feet is one of the many things I find
sexy about her. Along with the fact that she is one of the few people I have
ever met who can walk me into the ground, that she is a master of yoga and
t’ai chi... I could go on.
It so happens that I found her lovely before I found her sexy, that her
sexiness comes from her kindness and warmth as much as it does from her
perfect legs — oh, Lord, thy works are indeed wonders — but I was oblivious
or ignorant of all this at the moment I met her, because something else
turned my world upside down. Her laugh. It seemed to say: “I can see all
your secrets, and all your folly — no matter. Now buy me a drink and make me
laugh again.”
A Single Swallow: Following an Epic Migration from South Africa to South
Wales by Horatio Clare is out now (Chatto and Windus £17.99)
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