Last week, two great friends and I managed to dump our seven children on some unsuspecting
victims babysitters to spend an afternoon at the local Moroccan Hammam. A hammam is a place of bliss: You essentially steam yourself like some bikini-clad vegetable until your face takes on a beetroot tinge and you have lost a quarter of your body weight in sweat.
Then you come out of the steam room, cool off in the shower, cover yourself in liquid black soap and repeat the steaming step to taste. At some stage, your skin gets
viciously grated exfoliated by a sadist beautician, and you emerge buffed and beautiful. In fact, my friends and I could have been mistaken for Miss World contestants with a few stretch marks and wrinkles.
The best part of the experience was the chance to spend a few hours lounging around, discussing important matters such as our new Summer bikinis and hair, without being interrupted by snotty, screaming children every five seconds. As we sipped on our super sweet mint tea and marvelled at the softness of our skin (what was left of it), the realisation that no one else would marvel at the softness of my skin came up. Since this would obviously be a criminal waste, it was promptly decided that I needed to get myself a Rebound Guy as a matter of some urgency.
I have had a few days to get used to the idea, and it is definitely growing on me. While I am clearly unable to envisage a new relationship at this stage, I could do with casual companionship. The incumbent would primarily need to be attractive, because well, err…otherwise it doesn’t work, does it? And of course there are bonus points to be had if it drives T insanely jealous. Other than that, and provided he is nice to me, I don’t think I would much care if he had the IQ of a gnat.