Solange shrink-wrapped her lady penis

Erm….did someone say camel toe? Solange Knowles looks like she’s sprouted a hefty penis in this unfortunate shot. Hot tard, though. THis is the kind of style guidance we need, I feel. 

Meanwhile, my unitard partner-in-crime has apparently recently experienced the lycra-wearer/lazy girl’s holy grail: the Power Plate. Tell me more…

Peaches rocks Pam Hogg.

If I could only wear one unitard in the world, this one would be it. Yum. But teeny Peaches didn’t get a great response for her efforts and I’m filled with fear about what response I would receive, if I ever had the chance. 

The mirror published this picture and slated baby Geldof suggesting, ‘Perhaps Peaches, 20, should have picked a slightly bigger size. She shoehorned her slender frame into the cosmic gear but it clung in all the wrong places.’

Ouch. Unitard reviews are brutal, I think we need to step the training up a level.

I need some goals and I have the first one fixed. I’m running a half marathon in September, this is really going to help me focus on my cardo fitness whilst hopefully encouraging me aggressively in the direction of unitard readiness.  More imminently, Glastonbury looms, being a power house of strength would be a bonus (as would looking hot in wellingtons and a pac-a-mac) so the next couple of weeks are going to be all about pumping iron and maximising the guns. Thirdly, August’s bikini fest. Now, I’m not sure if this is more or less of a challenge than the unitard. Either way, it must and will be a great motivator!

‘Tardtastic.

So I’ve done it. I’ve gone and ordered a beautiful, kingfisher blue unitard. It’s got a ruched front and is sleeveless. Delish. But I’m not sure that I’m ready (or that cardiff is ready). I’ve been exercising consistantly (any more vigorous descriptions would be a massive exaggeration) for about two months but there’s still many lumps and bumps going on, and we’re talking about pretty much the most unflattering garment even invented here. 

And whilst I might earn an ironic wink and titter for my retro braveness and nod to Pam Hogg in London, I suspect Cardiff and my hen do companions might be a bit more WTF about the whole idea.

Let’s go back to my first day at middle school, when my class was taken into the gym for kit check. As I laid out my netball skirt, lab coat and art smock for the teacher to check that my mum had sewn Cash’s name tapes into every garment, a flash of emerald green shimmered at the edge of my vision. All around me, long, luscious lengths of lycra slinked on to the gym floor. In a sea of navy blue, they were non-compulsory badges, picking out the true gymnasts from the rest of us dowdy 10-year-old girls. If you had a unitard, you had made it.

My gymnastics kit (navy blue gym knickers and the aertex my mother had worn 30 years previously) utterly defined my place in the gym: hidden behind the dusty ropes, bruising my knees as I failed to vault the vault, tangled in a rhythmic gym ribbon. Before PE teachers convinced me otherwise (‘I said run, not waddle!’) I thought it was my kit’s fault. My classmates’ dances were gorgeous when glad in kingfisher blue and cerise lycra, so surely mine would be too?

When cast as a tree in the school play, I though my time had finally come: a catsuit (the obvious costume) is still a catsuit, even in brown. But from somewhere my mother borrowed a stiff, floor length brown smock, painted with bark-like streaks, for me to wear, and again I was an awkward lump in a sea of unitards.  

As part of the deal they threw in some personal training so I rocked up for my first session yesterday afternoon. I would be lying if I said it went to plan. I imagined I would get down and do 20 on arrival, but there was some conversation to be had first. He wanted to know what I was hoping to get out of the gym membership. I believe the desired response was weight loss or toning, for the ladies, or getting stacked, strictly for the boys. He seemed disproportionately confused by my desire to get really strong and some heavy questioning followed. I meant getting toned, right? Did I want to lift more than the average man? No, and no.

He asked me to take it back to the beginning. Suddenly unsure of my intentions and unwilling to share the readysteadyunitard dream I took it back one step too far to Glastonbury last summer. I was outside the cider bus, when carrying my besties round on my shoulders enabled me to realise my dream of super strength.

It soon became clear that this was not good gym chat when he asked if I really wanted to work out so I could carry my friends around when I was drunk. Was I thinking more competitively? Had I considered physique contests? Not funny. Then I wanted to die and he probably did too. As a final resort he pointed to a poster featuring a hottie with a six pack, was it something like that I was after? I faltered, then realised he had a point; she would have looked awesome in a unitard so I gave him the ok, for the time being.