Nipplegate

It is my personal belief that there might be more nipples on this earth than arms.

Everyone's supposed to have two. Some people have less than two arms, but rarely have more. Whereas it's pretty common for people to have a slightly higher than average nipple count. Friends logic would suggest that it's even as common as one in six of us.

So riddle me this then. Why am I not bothered if my run-of-the-mill arms are naked and out there for the world to see, but when it gets cold in a supermarket I immediately wish I was born a boy?

Did you know:

• I won't go in a supermarket without a jacket.
• I don't not wear bras in public. Ever.
• Actually, when I'm in the gym, I wear two bras.

Two. Two fucking bras. Have you ever worn a bra? Try suffocating your two favourite things in a fiddly, underwired hammock for 14 hours a day and then tell me if you'd like another one over the top, just to make sure they don't make a quick escape during some burpees.

The issue is that anyone with a breast larger than a cookie can feel instantly sexualised at the hint of a jiggle or a cool summer breeze. And believe it or not, when I'm searching for chicken fillets, I don't need anybody looking at mine.

This is the problem though isn't it. We have this male-gaze complex. By hiding any part of our body, we make it an enticing mystery, so it encourages attention, which makes us embarrassed, so we hide it further. It's an awkward sexualisation/ashamed areola shaped circle.

So campaigns like Free the Nipple aren't a joke. Women can't breastfeed their children without hiding under a blanket and profusely apologising. I can't go out in one of those lovely delicate lace bras. Women's bodies aren't normalised. Let's not forget, in certain parts of the world women still can't show their ankles.

It's not necessarily a gendered issue, men need to stop sexualising women's bodies and so do women. Women need to stop believing they are sexualised. Perhaps I need to get over myself and wear one bra to the gym. Or better yet, let's take a leaf from the beautiful breasts of Barcelona beach, where nips are embraced, and bare tits are great tits (#birdpuns).

Normalise nipples. Free the nipple. Nips for one and nips for all.

Soul m8s

Love at first sight? No way. Laughs at first conversation? Just maybe.

Getting older I've learned not to force things. I was a heavy handed child, pulled down a lot of curtain rails, wardrobe rails – I wasn't allowed too near glass. I like to push things to see if they fit. Which, once you're dating, can not only be physically painful, but an emotional waste of time

But it's not only dating, it's friendships too. Sometimes it can be a near enough instant click, a few conversations, a few laughs, a risky joke or two to test their limits – and if they pass? They're in. Solid friendship. Easy peasy.

Other times it takes a little longer, and although you're not a perfect fit, your experiences and mutual respect evolves into an almost family-like love. You could have dropped them if you were really strict about the instant click, but that click is so rare, you might be left with very few friends to choose from.

And then there's the life's-too-short (and so are you) category. When it comes to dating, some of us do require the promise of a little length, whether it's in the duration of the relationship, or the prospective partner's height. You need to be attracted to some aspects of a person to make a relationship work, and sometimes they just don't tick enough boxes.

But it's those instant clicks I'm interested in. I've always been someone to take a long time to bond to people. It's not that I don't trust people, I just don't like opening up to every Tom, Dick and Harry. Hard to get has always been my favourite game. After Words With Friends.

It's happened a few times where I've met people who I've thought "I think this is what they mean by soulmates". Charlotte asks in SATC that they can all be each other's soul mates, and guys are just people to have fun with. But some people are like songs that you hear once and think "oh my god" and you listen to over and over again for years – sugar we're going to be BFFS.

I can think of two people who have become soul mates. One lives further away than my mind finds tangible, and one I've spent less than 12 hours with in my whole life. And yet, I want to talk to them every day, would live with them given half the chance, and miss them with a passion I can't explain.

For me, soul mates are a different kind of friendship. It's someone whom you feel bound to, no matter their location, age, race, gender, fashion sense. They can see you at your emotional and physical worst, and it doesn't matter. Jogging bottoms and toilet roll or tears and travelling; with the right amount of nurturing or WhatsApping an instant click is a click for life.

A day in the life

Since I started that full-time work thang, my weekdays are comfortingly and irritably predictable.

6:45am: What is that?!

6:45:07am: Alarm. Right. Off.

6:50am: What is that!?!

6:50:04am: Alarm, right. Off.

6:55am: God, what was Miley wearing last night? Could I pull off nipple tassels? Probably, but you really need suitable cigarette trousers too.

7:03am: Still no abs.

7:10am: Mentally trying to piece together an outfit in the shower. Trying to remember what I wore yesterday. Trying to remember if it's going to be dry enough for those cute open-toed tan sandals or not.

8:10am: Not. Wet toes on the clutch.

8:22am: "I'LL PRETEND MY SHIP'S NOT, SINKINNNN'"

8:57am: Tea or coffee. Tea or coffee? Green tea... and black coffee.

10:46am:

1:45pm: Lunchtime.

The time of day I give myself to do productive tasks for myself. Like:

• book a wax
• make a few personal phonecalls, "Mum, what's for dinner?"
• browse the same section of makeup counter but never actually purchase anything
• buy snacks I'll regret as soon as I've eaten them
• wander round River Island gazing at the beautiful materials I can't afford
• nip down to Primark and buy a slightly worse-quality, worse-aesthetically version to make myself feel better
• return to work feeling worse about my calorie count, worse about my bank account, better about my daily step count.

3:06pm: 

5:50pm: Why does the gym always smell weird when you go in, but not when you come out? 

The gym must be the only place I really zone out. Headphones on, sporty men on the televisions, less sporty men in the gym. Are they rugby players today? Or perhaps it's cricket? I don't know. All I know is that I'm convinced I've contracted asthma since starting this run. Will I ever get to 5k? Actually, it'll be a miracle if I get to 3. Perhaps you're just thirsty, have a drink.

Stitch. Stitch. Ow, oh bugger, forget it, go do weights. How far did you get anyway? 2.4k?! Just call it a warm up.

Bloody hell these things are heavy. Progressive overload my arse. I'm about to progressive overload my willpower.

Why am I sweating so much? Do other girls sweat like this? If I bring a towel I'll be that weird girl who sweats so much she has to bring a towel. If I don't bring a towel I'm that really sweaty girl. Gross if I do, gross if I don't.

7pm: Thank god, it's over.

7:36pm: I feel great, I feel so great, exercise is great, I bet I could do a triathlon you know. I am a new woman. I might even have abs tomorrow.

8:01pm: I'll just have enough pasta for a small village tonight I think. A hamlet really.

8:24pm: Spontaneous trip to the supermarket for coconut oil, prosecco and the latest analysis of "what does this text mean though?"

10:18pm: Biscuits, group chats, Friends, typing about boys and #freethenipple. 

11:23pm: Tried to go to bed early. Tried to read. But Netflix.

I'm in love with the coco(nuts)

Did you know that on average, coconuts kill around 150 people a year. Did you also know that on average, coconut oil is not known to have caused any deaths? Except the unrecorded deaths of my split ends, combination skin and yellowing teeth? I bet you didn't, huh.

My first encounter with the acclaimed coconuts was through a quest for a miracle hair growth product. Several YouTubers absolutely swore by it. So I invested in the product that's gone from strength to strength in health food shops, crazy cat lady handbags, and now, our supermarkets. Since then, it's safe to say I use it for pretty much everything.

Hair

Apparently used by the likes of Blake Lively and other beautifully-locked celebrities, using coconut oil as a hair mask is a common practice. I'll direct you to YouTube for tutorials, unfortunately you'll have to wait another day for photos of me with a cling-filmed head.

To apply the oil as a hair mask, I very haphazardly just cover my whole head in it - root to tip - clingfilm my hair to my head, and sleep in it. Yes, this is messy, uncomfortable and sometimes cold so a top tip is to pull an old t-shirt over your head and then pull it back up, so the neck of the t-shirt sits round your hairline and forms a faux-turban. Less messy, definitely warmer, still uncomfortable.

I used to do this twice a week, but after noticing no immediate growth, switched to once a fortnight or so. In fact, I haven't actually noticed it contribute to my growth at all. Which is a downer. It's why I bought it after all. But it has made it stronger, glossier and after that first wash, so soft to the touch.

It's really not a total waste of time, because the other factors do make it worth the trouble. But I do wish it would make my hair grow.
✌✌✌

Skin

If it's good enough for my hair follicles, it's good enough for my pores. Right?

After my hair-xperimentation, I decided to go the whole hog and just slap the oil right onto my face. I am blessed with combination skin, meaning that I can be spotty, oily and dry all at the same time. Skin schizophrenia means you don't have much to lose.

For ten minutes a day, I coat my face in a thin layer of coconut oil. I watch some Netflix, pack my bag for work, file my nails – do whatever menial suff I've got to do – and then wash it off with warm water and a little bit of face-wash (if I have any) or Dove soap*.

Since this process began, I have had actual compliments about how good my skin looks. Acne scars are reduced, bags under my eyes are less prominent and overall blemishes are but a fragment of what they used to be. All boxes ticked.
✌✌✌✌✌

Teeth

Oil pulling? I must admit I hadn't heard of this one until I was a well-faired coconut oil user. The idea is you're supposed to use the oil as a mouthwash, spooning a teaspoon in your mouth and swilling for as long as you can stand. I did read that 20 minutes is optimum, but I've never been a fan of holding anything in my mouth that long.

The swilling (or 'pulling' as it's called) is supposed to leave you with whiter, bacteria-free teeth. So far, I've not seen any noticeable improvement. But it's not a bad practice, tastes OK and I'll give anything for nicer teeth.

You can also oil pull on your nails, which I've noticed has been working – wiping over a small amount and washing off after a little while, gives you a brighter shine, and fixes a multitude of nail polish related sins.

✌✌

Food

A friend of mine cooks with nothing else, and I'm convinced I have her to thank for my shrinking waistline. As Joey says "it tastes the same and my pants fit better". What more do I need to say?

✌✌✌✌✌

The coconut brand I like, is friendly to my bank account, and I will continue to use is Tesco's Organic Virgin Coconut Oil. Oddly branded as a food, and found just a bit too close to the chickens. 


*People tell me I'm crazy for using soap on my face. Perhaps they're right and it's why I have combination skin. But I like it. Dove has enough moisturising qualities that both dry out the oily bits and moisturise the dry bits. And I can safely say it's one of the only beauty products I've used since birth. So I trust that bad boy. Live long and stay soapy, Dove. 

Graduates: the real world is coming

Lena Dunham writes in her debut novel "Upon graduation I had felt a heavy sense of doom, a sense that nothing would ever be simple again." Graduated one whole year, my first bit of advice to newborn graduates would be: don't set your expectations too high.

Congratulations! You're graduated! You're free! No more late nights finishing essays in a library. No more minus sign next to your bank account. No more annoying housemates. Right?

Even on a decent 'graduate' wage, you'll still need your overdraft

If you try living a Taylor Swift lifestyle on a minimum wage budget, it'll bite you in the ass. Just because you're earning, doesn't mean you can buy everything.

This sucks, and is a lesson to be learnt the hard way. Luckily most banks are forgiving creatures and let you keep the interest free overdraft for a little bit longer.

No more late nights. Full stop.

The "real world" is made up of two kinds of people: morning people, and people who suffer. If you're part of the latter category, to save yourself from a life behind bars for killing the person who wouldn't stop talking before 9am, try adjusting to early(ier) nights.

It sucks, but between those and caffeine, you might not kill anyone.

You can pick your friends, you can't pick your housemates

The chances are you're going to end up in one of two scenarios: living with (new) housemates, or with your parents.

New housemates come with a whole new bunch of issues to deal with. Perhaps they're different ages, earn different salaries, work out at 6am or party hard until 4am? Or, they could be your next best friend (or even boyfriend?!) disguised as the bill keeper.

But living with your parents presents a political minefield. You left the house as a post-pubescent 18 year old. You're coming back as a slightly broken adult. Try integrating now. Both options, potentially, suck.

Graduated one year and what have we learned? Nothing really changes. Three years of bad habits can take more than one year to break. And it kind of sucks, but this is the real world we were all warned about. So, newborn graduates, suck it up, and learn to love it.

Moving on

Today marks three weeks since I moved away from my University life.

Technically I cheated and moved back into halls for three wonderful days where I got to party with all of my friends, watch them graduate and do some last minute checking off of Reading things I always wanted to do.

The truth is nobody prepares you for what it feels like to leave those three years behind.

I'm in the early stages. Currently, I'm heartbroken.

I've been forcibly removed from some of the greatest people I've ever encountered. Like most, I had more friends and was more popular and found more like-minded people than I'll probably ever have around me again. Now I'm back in my childhood home. With my two happily married parents, my only-slightly younger brother and the girlfriend that he had before I left. Nothing really changes.

Except before I was used to being on my own.

I spent every single day of the last three years in a magical bubble of friends. Now I have to get used to my own company and I tell you what, it sucks.

I guess this is why people go travelling for six months or dive into a job. The sheer discomfort of not having anything to do or to work towards or to achieve is unbearable. After three years (longer if you count all the education before that) of consistently improving oneself in a structured system, being out of that system, having no safety net of education, I feel like I'm free-falling in slow motion, towards absolutely nothing.

It's an overwhelming experience to have to adjust to so much:

• Being back at home for good and trying not to break down over the fact that it's for an indeterminable amount of time. 
• Trying to get on with your family - people you wouldn't necessarily pick to live with if you were given the choice. 
• Not knowing when you're going to see your friends next. Jobs, money, finding a time when everyone can meet up; all problems.

I'm lucky. I found a job and I start in a week's time. I will have been officially unemployed, officially not a student, for a single month before I begin a career. I'm told it's good. It's healthy to have a break.

I guess it'll get worse before it gets better. I'll be tired at work one day and really have to fight off a fit of tears about how I can't just mong out hungover on a questionable sofa surrounded by half empty bottles, bad tv and best friends.

But I expect (and I really, really hope) that there will be a lot of relapses. A weekend or a birthday here and there that gives us an excuse to relive tequila slammers, long lie-ins and five-way spoons.

What I wanted to be told before I left was that it's going to be so unexpectedly hard to accept that the biggest adventure of my life is over. But I guess my future self would probably tell me that there are more adventures ahead. Until then, I'm taking the days as they come. The good with the bad. Slow and steady. One at a time.