The universe provides. That’s what hippies with moon calendars in their toilet and a copy of The Secret by their bed have always told me. To a small extent I agree, but the universe is not some sort of online shopping site. I don’t think you can order specific items or experiences. Things occur randomly; it’s up to you whether or not you are willing to accept the unexpected and sometimes unwanted gifts of the cosmos.
I had one such experience the other day: I was busy with my sledgehammer and road signage for an upcoming comedy night, erecting the hand-painted marine ply that I like to think of as my low-carbon Facebook. I had turned up to remove an out-of-date sign, and noticed what looked like a scrunched up muddy pair of men’s boardies hanging on the corner of my stake.
Maybe it wasn’t even mud. Maybe it was shit. Maybe some bloke shit himself on the way home from the pub and then threw his pants on my sign. Maybe it’s not random at all. Maybe the dude really hates me. If these signs are my Facebook, then the poo-covered swim shorts were like a nasty comment. This was his way of saying ‘fat bitch’.
I picked up a stick and carefully removed the offending item, holding it as far away as I could. As I lifted the boardies they unfurled a little. I’m like, hang on, that’s not boardies. That’s a woman’s swimsuit. On closer inspection the clumps of brown seemed to be more consistent with mud than faeces. The cozzies had unravelled some to reveal a neat little black-and-white gingham check. Hang on, that could be a vintage ladies’ swim costume. I’m not throwing that back.
So I transfer the muddied clump to the hood of my car where I used the stick to perform an impromptu roadside autopsy. I push it out and the story is revealed. It’s a size 14 vintage-styled Jetz strapless costume. And to think I thought it was shit-covered boardies. Roadkill couture! I popped them into the boot of my car and drove them home for a wash. Fifty minutes on a long cycle and their simple beauty was revealed. These were $200 swimmers. Once cleaned I used my hands for a more thorough inspection. No rips, no holes, and the gusset was intact.
There are some women who can’t come at the idea of wearing something that has touched another vagina, but I think – how do you find a partner, girl? Chances are your man, or woman, has touched a bit of twat in their time; it shouldn’t be an exclusion clause. I peg my rescued swimmers on the line.
There is something so much more satisfying about finding something exquisite, rather than buying it. Anyone can buy something. Finding something is magic. You have to take a chance. You have to be prepared to bend over in public and pick up a rolled up scungy-looking mess of rag and commit to taking it home (much like a bad boyfriend). It’s not the first time.
Previously I found a t-shirt for my daughter. It was discarded in the bushes outside a doctor’s surgery. It was a hideously expensive ripped-look T that Mummy scored on the street. She wore it until it evaporated from washing.
I found my husband a pair of $400 Paul Smith sunglasses. I was driving through Eureka when I noticed a glint on the opposite side of the road. I pulled up, and there they were, absolutely perfect, sitting up waiting for me. I snatched them and ran back, just as a kombi whizzed past. Had I not acted so fast they would have been crushed. I literally felt the little sunnies breathe a sigh of relief as I pushed them onto the safety of John’s face. ‘Here’s some new sunnies.’ We laughed because he’d just been complaining he needed sunglasses.
Sunday is glorious. I slip into my roadkill cozzies. They fit like a glove. Better than new. The previous owner’s body shape has softened them so they respond easily to mine. I’m sitting at Clarkes Beach, loving myself in my new 50s-style pinup-girl swimmers. A woman smiles, ‘Great swimmers’. I nod. Then she says, ‘I used to have a pair, but I lost them off the back of my bike’. What do you say? I mean, she’s not going to want these back – after all, they’ve had vagina on them.