I am aware that I am on a cruise boat in the South China Sea. I am aware that I said yes to this kind of holiday. It was never meant to be that kind of ‘party hard’, ‘only live once’ kind of holiday but nowhere in any of my reading material did I see the fine print about wrinkly testicles.
Let me explain, although I’m not sure if I should, I have to explain to someone. I was wallowing in the shallow warm water of my very own spa in what they call the conservatory (read a glass ceiling room with so much chlorine that it burns your eyes if you linger too long) when, enjoying the solitude as I was, a muchly aged Japanese man stepped gingerly onto the step of the spa. Holding on for fear of death or second hip replacement he placed a foot timidly two steps over the platform. He was wearing some funky boy leg speedos that his grandchildren obviously bought him, not knowing his exact size, when quite openly and clearly his testicle just pops out. He was unaware of such escapism and concentrates dutifully on keeping his footing in the spa built for the aged and infirm.
I tried to stare ahead and concentrate on the warning signs that are plastered on the railings. ‘There is no lifeguard on duty in the spa or whirlpools. Please use at your own risk.’ My own risk was obviously not one of drowning but being confronted with wrinkly old man balls. It’s not his fault that he was unaware and being Japanese, I am dead set certain that his display of his own private parts would have mortified the man greatly but it begs to ask the question when do you not notice that stuff?
Do you never notice? Have I always walked the earth in my adulthood not knowing when my vajayjay has slipped its covering or my nipple fallen out of my shirt? Have my friends and family found themselves in similar circumstances and I’ve just never noticed? I can’t see how that would be the case, I think I’d notice if my best friend’s nipples just happened to fall out of her top, but watching this happen I fall into horror at the thought that it could happen to me.
On the deck of the cruise ship the Miller’s club membership is strong. Women in their fifties and sixties wearing printed tops and three quarter pants in very sensible shoes that have a flower on them to make them look fancy walk the decks in small groups, pairs and on their own. Their husbands lie next to them in wide leather-strapped thongs with beer bellies in turquoise green speedos or boy leg ‘trunks’ and they spend their retirement money on collapsible hats and bamboo fans. Of the 2600 people on this ship 3/4 of them belong to this club or that of my Japanese friend. (I can call him my friend right? I’ve seen his nuts – what boundaries are left?) While sometimes I don’t think I have much in common with my ship buddies I spend my days doing a lot of the same things. I read, I write, I swim, I lay asleep on my sun lounger and then do what’s expected of any cruise holiday I eat.
I eat and I eat and I eat again. While I am limiting my food intake to the standard three meals a day the sheer quantity of food I am ingesting could feed a large Vietnamese family for a month. (It is amazing though – you have no idea how good it is – really!) In our behaviours I am not that different to the Miller’s club nor the elderly pants poppers. I am beginning to form theories that the only difference between me and the other three quarters of the ship is my chronological age. While they do wander the decks in the contented fashion of the well fed and less body conscious I lie here in judgement. I shake my head at their speedos and ill advised blouse choices and escaping anatomy godlessly hoping that I am not like that.
Chances are that if I am not, then one day I probably will be. At some time in my life, a part of my body will escape unconsciously while I am sober and I won’t know about it. I will waddle unselfconsciously on holiday happy and content with hopefully a pot bellied husband who I will insist wear board shorts until he is dead. I should be so lucky that life ends up like that and I hope that some silly woman watches my cellulite wobble when I’m 65 and says that she too can’t wait for that day. While I’m waiting till then though, pleas excuse me while I get a cocktail delivered to my sun lounger while I put on my new blue shirt that I bought from Miller’s. Judge away bitches.
life in big frilly knickers 