It's Claire as mud

Well, at least you know she’d be safe in the instance of a water landing…

Trying to enjoy my morning Weet-bix, while wrestling the dog away from my bowl, I was half watching the Today show when I almost went blind. No, Karl Stefanovic wasn’t showing off his hairy legs again – shudder – but an ad for the US Voice temporarily robbed my vision. You see, I had just copped an eye-full of Christina Aguilera cleavage at the funbag-unfriendly time of 7am. While black dots danced in front of my eyes in place of Christina’s bazoongas I asked, isn’t there a time where you should just put it away?Granted, I am not the best person to ask the important question of how much boob is too much boob – I say bring back the neck to knee swim wear of days of yore – but far out, when I asked for milk on my cereal I didn’t expect a B-grade starlet on telly to provide it to me direct.

What was so jarring about seeing some ta-tas on breakky television? A bit of boob canyon at 7pm isn’t offensive, so I wonder what the acceptable boosie changeover time is.

I am now baffled at how much cleavage is now an actual visual consideration these days. There is traditional cleavage, there is side boob and its associated cleavage, there is bum cheek cleavage (where your shorts are so damn hoochy that your bot hangs out), and the traditional plumbers’ cleavage. Seriously peeps, please buy clothes that fit you.

I believe we are on a slippery slope to Nudieville. It’s not unusual to catch a glimpse of bum cheek down at the supermarket most days and it’s freaking Winter. Perhaps if I was the type that would have Miranda Kerr refusing to be in the same room as me because I was just too much of a slammin’ hottie, I might strut around in outfits that could double as fishing line or dental floss. But even then the sheer maintenance involved – like having to shave your legs regularly, another reason I LOVE Winter – is enough to put me off this idea. Oh and the fact that I am about 50% made up of cake at the moment.

Yes, I have waxed lyrical about worrying about what young ladies wear into the Valley on a night out, but it’s not just the ladies that are letting it all hang out, it’s also the fellas. I’m sorry, I know blokes have nipples, but it doesn’t mean I need to see them while you trudge your way down the street in your slashed fluoro singlet, in your fluoro Ray-Ban Wayfarer replicas to whatever flouro, doof-doof festival is playing at the RNA showgrounds this week. Exposed man nipples only allowed in public at the pool or the beach, mmm-kay. Why do men have nipples anyway? What a completely pointless feature. It’s like an appendix or a Lara Bingle on their chest.

And why do men think it is ok to take their shirt off in public once the temperature gets over 24 degrees? It’s not that hot and I don’t need to see your man cans while you put petrol in your bogan-mobile. I’m sure they’d love it if women followed suit, but the saggy-boosie issue aside, no one wants to get arrested and we’re not at a Motley Crue concert.

I think I just wanted to write this because there are so many funny names for breasts. What are your favourite words for body parts?

No, he definitely didn’t fall out of the ugly tree.

How do you handle yourself when you’re in the presence of a truly gorgeous person?  I don’t mean run of the mill attractive, I mean so really, really, ridiculously good-looking that Ryan Gosling and Sofia Vergara would prefer not to be seen in their company. If you’re anything like me, you turn into a gibbering idiot.  Quite embarrassing considering I am used to very nice looking people – I’m married to an extremely handsome man.  Yep, batting above my average and loving it!  And no, he didn’t pay me to say that.

There are some people that glisten with an ethereal smattering of out-of-this-worldness that makes them so stunningly attractive it seems like they shouldn’t be walking the streets of Brisbane, rather on billboards over Times Square or mid-town Tokyo.  Some people are just so g-darned gorgeous, they’re not longed for this world.

Maybe it’s seeing these super-humans in a mundane setting, like the local pub or the Medicare office that throws me off, but I swear I can’t look directly at them.  It’s like staring into the sun – if I look at these stunners too long, I will permanently damage my retinas.  Or maybe I’m concerned that while drowning in the limpid pools of their irises, I will catch a glimpse of my own reflection and spontaneously combust after a very large shudder.

Several years ago at a friend’s birthday drinks at a famous Brisbane watering hole, a friend of her family turned up to help her celebrate.  To say he was handsome does not do him justice.  A modern day David combined with the dashing charisma of George Clooney begins to just touch the surface… Another friend, who happened to have her husband in attendance, grabbed the birthday girl by the arm and whisper-shrieked ‘Who is that?!’

‘Oh that’s just my friend, Blah-Blah.’  I can’t remember his name, I don’t think I was listening. I was busy trying not to feel the effects of whiplash from my neck swivelling between Pub Adonis and my shoes.

Anyway, Blah-Blah hung around the group all night and seemed to have the same effect on every woman, even when her husband or boyfriend was standing right next to her.  ‘How can someone that good-looking even exist?  He looks like he belongs on the cover of a romance novel, but I actually mean that in the nicest possible way.’  Hissed one of the girls.  ‘Sorry, hon.’ She said quietly to her boyfriend.  ‘Don’t worry.  I get it,’ he kindly excused her.  The boys seemed to be chatting away quite merrily with Blah-Blah and jostling to get closest to him – so the preternaturally good-looking have magical powers over any and all sexual persuasions, probably animals and bebes too.

I have personal experience that proves extraordinary good-lookingness defies gender.  Despite being straight, I’ve found myself tongue-tied and flushed in front of a lady telly journo at a press conference because she was so startlingly pretty.  Am I completely shallow that I was hoping she would want me to be her best friend just because she looked like the human embodiment of a flower and smelled better than just-baked bread, freshly mown grass and a baby’s head combined?

But after all this completely superficial nonsense, it’s amazing how the gloss can be so quickly removed with one poor taste comment, one stupid question (yes, there are stupid questions) or one racist/sexist/bigoted remark.  Case in point, an astonishingly gorgeous gent standing next to me at a bar was discussing the Indigenous All Stars Rugby League match in rather unsavoury terms with his mates.  Despite him using actual words, all I heard was: ‘blah blah blah, I’m a racist pig.  Yak yak yak, amazing I can manage to dress myself everyday considering my level of stupidity.’  Suddenly, the veil of attractiveness was removed, and there sat the elephant man’s less attractive brother.  And if it really was the elephant man’s less attractive brother and he told a very funny joke or gave up his seat for a little old lady, then his elephantine features would soften a little.

So I guess the moral of the story is, admiring gorgeous-ness makes me one superficial rabbit, but I know you can only stare into the sun for short periods of time before you go blind or get bored*.  Wow, that sounded really grubby.  Staring into the sun is not a euphemism for something else.

* Except for you, Mr C – I could stare at you all day long.