I’ve tried to write this post several times but I didn't know how to write it that didn’t make me sound like an ungrateful, complaining bastard. But hopefully it’s something that someone else can relate to (so that I’m not the only ungrateful-sounding bastard in the universe). J
Hi, my name is Kim and I have a great husband. On his worst day, he’s still the greatest human being I’ve met. He’s an amazing father and I don’t mean that in a “oh he helps me raise the kids and packs lunches” kind of way. As a parent, it comes with the territory. What I mean is that he draws funny pictures on the mirror with shaving foam, he does dance routines with our girls, he untangles hair and gives medication with a song. He’s the fun dad and also the disciplinarian (to the point of me wondering what the hell my role is). He is romantic. Cheesy chick-flick, boom-box in-the-rain, hot air balloon, ‘Had me at Hello’ kind of romantic. And hardworking. I sw…

My cousin was down from Joburg this festive season and above seeing her mother, staying in accommodation overlooking the beach and getting some much-needed down time, the highlight of her trip seemed to be going to Storm in a G Cup to get herself some new bras. She had the giddy expression of a 7-year old opening presents on Christmas morn.
Her infectious glee made me examine my own collection. It went like this: missing underwire, missing underwire, missing underwire, too small, too scratchy, broken, broken, missing underwire, rusty. I was then reminded that the last time I purchased bras was in 2008 (I'm not including nursing bras in this). That’s ten years ago! I remember because it was the last recession and I could only afford to buy two. At the time I was a 36B, or at least I thought I was. Both fitted poorly but I wore them anyway. As I examined my breasts, looking at old bruising from jabbing underwires, and scars from straps cutting my skin…