I treated myself to one of those beauty advents boxes.

In true working-class fashion, I need to tell you that I had a voucher, and there was a deal, so it hardly cost a thing – why do we do that? If someone compliments my dress I have to tell them that I got it second-hand on eBay, or in the sales. Is it the horror of being seen to spend money on myself, or pride in getting a bargain? 

Anyway, my beauty advent box.

It arrived early November and is currently sitting in my bedroom taunting me.

I opened the parcel all excited. It’s a lovely shiny pearly pink box, two layers filled with pink and fawn and rose-coloured little numbered boxes, each filled with a beauty treat. I’d read the packaging slip – I could see what’s in each box, – which might spoil the surprise, only the writing is so tiny I’d need the Hubble telescope to actually see it.

Lifting the lid I stare longingly at the shimmering little packages, numbered in gold. I pull out the drawer to see them all packed in higgledy-piggledy, like a magical jigsaw. Stroking the little boxes tentatively, I look around in case I am seen. The dog is busy trying to rip the packaging from a panty-liner. Why do dogs do that? She’s loads of toys, littered all over the house and yet every time I lay out my underwear after a shower she tries to nick the bloody panty-liner (not bloody- bloody – you know what I mean.)

My eldest son was the same. He carried an individually wrapped pantyliner in his coat pocket. He was three at the time, he’s not a weirdo! Before any of us knew what ASMR was or had heard of women on the internet brushing their hair while whispering in sultry tones, my son would like the sound of the crinkling package, holding it to his ear as it rustled.

I’ve lost myself, what was I talking about? Oh yes, the advent box. And that’s the problem right there. They called it an advent box.

They could have called it, I don’t know,

 ‘25 days of treating yourself’!

 Or,

 ‘Here’s a load of stuff, some of which you might not need, but some you’re going to love.’

Not the snappiest of titles I’ll admit but you get the gist.

Instead, they called it an advent calendar and as such, I cannot open it.

I need to remind you that, despite all appearances, I am a serious, grown-up, adult woman. I do serious things, – examples escape me, – but trust me I am a grown-up.

So why can’t I open an advent calendar before December the 1^st?

I bought it. Did I tell you about the deal?

It’s not like I’m religious or believe in God.

But I can’t do it. I can’t open the damn thing.

I feel ridiculous.

I’m being held to ransom by a box with numbers on it. I’ve tried, really I have. I’ve given myself a proper talking to, sat on the bed with the box and told it in no uncertain terms that it was not the boss of me. Then I closed it, apologising, once again promising I won’t touch until the right day.

So much for being a rebel. So much for challenging the status quo. So ingrained is my conditioning that I just can’t open an advent calendar when it’s not the right day.  I don’t know what I think is going to happen, I just know that it’s wrong and I’d better not be doing it!

What’s a woman to do?

Well, this woman is waiting for the first of December, when I will open a box every day until we reach Christmas.

What the fuck!

All I can say is it better be bloody worth it!