I’ve finally worked out how to be a worthy human of the female persuasion: I must be tall (but not too tall), lean (but not sinewy), possess two full perky breasts (but not too big unless you want a career in porn), a curvy butt (that doesn’t wobble or dimple), flawless complexion, pouty lips, small nose, chiseled cheek bones, hair-free (except for the long, silky locks on my head, perfectly manicured eyebrows and long thick eye lashes) and a body and face that ages gracefully, just so long as I don’t actually look old.
But just when I thought I had it all worked out, I forgot my box gap.
‘My what gap?’ I hear you ask.
It’s actually nothing. No really, it’s nothing.
It’s the negative space — the bit of a woman that isn’t woman. It’s not your thighs, it’s not even your…ahem…box (why oh why have we reverted back to calling a vagina a box?) It’s the space below your vagina and between your thighs that can be seen when you’re standing with your ankles together.