Trumped
It’d been four months since you depilated anything and although you tried to pretend it was hot feminist fuzz, it was just Winter. Come May, you opt for a complete overhaul. Full body wax, full body tan, hair a shade lighter. You now look like a big orange blonde baby. Basically you are Donald Trump.
Mini-break madness
This is the month when you panic buy mini-breaks to improbable destinations – you can’t afford to go to Paris or Venice. And anyway you want to be travel-forward. Directional. An early adopter. So it’s Minsk. And Tbilisi. You don’t really want to go. You just want to stay at home and drink all the rosé.
The floaty Mcfloatface
Last year you ordered one of those floaty beach dresses that stalked you on the internet and it didn’t arrive until October when everything was over. Now they are back, following you around Instagram and you know you shouldn’t, you know they will last a weekend, you know they make you look like a Bedouin tent, you know they will be flammable and unethical and sweaty but you JUST CAN’T HELP IT.
Festival foolishness
You wake up in the middle of the night, having made an ENORMOUS decision. This is the year you are going to pop your festival cherry. Forget the fact that you don’t like camping, drinking, loud music, staying up late, crowds, rain, mud, peeing in the open air or people. You buy tickets. You spend the next six weeks trying to sell them.
One run
You hit the open park. Headphones on. Gangster rap blaring. You nail 1k and feel like you are going to do this every day until October. You are going to be a runner. A person who runs. You never run again. So you try one of those aggressive shouty outdoor fitness classes. But, turns out, being shouted at makes you angry. And tearful.
Salad days
Late one night you overhaul your grocery order. Goodbye sausage casseroles, hello peaches and zaatar for an al-frisky Ottolenghi-ish salad. Because that’s who you are (you aren’t). Add a dash of veganism: climate change karma and all that. Wait, zaatar is a spice blend? You thought it was like couscous. You feel defeated. The peaches go mouldy. Along with your enthusiasm.
Unexpected horn
The month of May brings many surprises. Like a sudden and violent desire for sex. With a variety of people but often hairy men with man buns that you spot on the train. You haven’t felt this way about anyone since the priest in Fleabag. OH GOD.
