The Sneeze.

If You Know, You Know.

There are certain things women don’t actually need to explain to one another.

We just know.

Someone mentions taking their bra off after a long day and every woman in the room gives that tiny nod of solidarity.

Someone says, “I’m fine,” while standing perfectly still because her period has just done something and she needs approximately four seconds to assess the situation.

And then there is The Sneeze.

Not an ordinary sneeze.

Oh no.

The sneeze that arrives without sufficient warning and immediately causes your entire body to enter emergency procedures.

You know the one.

“Achoo!”

Followed by…

Oh.

And then you remain absolutely motionless while conducting a very private internal investigation.

Did I?

I think I did.

No. Maybe I didn’t.

Actually…

Bugger.

Welcome to being a woman.

Nobody mentioned this bit

There are many wonderful things about being a woman.

Our bodies are frankly astonishing.

They grow, change, bleed, heal, carry us through life and, for some of us, manage the frankly ridiculous business of growing and delivering another human being.

But there are certain details about the female experience that seem to have been omitted from the brochure.

Nobody hands you a leaflet saying:

Congratulations! At some unpredictable point in your future, sneezing may become an extreme sport.

Pregnancy and childbirth can affect the pelvic floor, and one possible consequence is stress urinary incontinence — leaking a little urine when pressure suddenly increases because we cough, laugh, exercise or, yes, sneeze. The NHS describes it as a common problem affecting millions of people.

Which is reassuring.

Sort of.

Because there is something wonderfully absurd about discovering that millions of us are apparently wandering around pretending sneezing is an entirely uneventful bodily function.

It isn’t.

Some of us are crossing our legs first.

And THIS is why I love naturism

Stay with me because I promise I’ve not finally lost the plot.

Well.

Not completely.

One of the things I’ve come to adore about naturism is that bodies stop being these carefully edited objects we’re supposed to present to the world.

They become bodies.

Real ones.

Bodies with stretch marks.

Bodies with scars.

Bodies that have changed after babies.

Bodies that wobble.

Bodies that menstruate.

Bodies going through menopause.

Bodies with bits heading south despite receiving absolutely no permission to do so.

And occasionally bodies whose pelvic floors respond to a particularly enthusiastic sneeze by going:

Nope. We’re out. Good luck.

That’s real life.

Yet women have spent generations being encouraged to conceal practically every piece of evidence that our bodies actually do anything.

Make it smooth.

Make it firm.

Hide that.

Cover this.

Don’t mention periods.

Don’t mention menopause.

Definitely don’t mention bladder leaks.

And for heaven’s sake don’t admit that sometimes you sneeze and immediately have to reconsider your underwear situation.

Why?

Perhaps body acceptance needs to include the inconvenient bits

We talk a lot about loving our bodies.

I’m actually not sure we have to love them every minute of every day.

Some mornings I would quite happily leave mine in bed while I go downstairs for coffee.

Perhaps acceptance is simpler than that.

It’s recognising:

This is my body. It has lived.

And that matters.

Research into naturism and body image has found associations between naturist participation, greater body appreciation and lower anxiety about how our bodies are perceived.

That makes perfect sense to me.

Because once you’ve spent enough time around ordinary naked human beings, you realise something extraordinarily comforting.

Everybody has something.

The thing you thought made you unusual usually doesn’t.

The thing you were embarrassed about probably isn’t particularly remarkable either.

And the body you spent years comparing with carefully posed, filtered and edited bodies online suddenly looks exactly like what it is.

Human.

One serious sentence

Because apparently I’m capable of them regardless of what Tanya may tell you 🤣

If leaking when you cough, laugh, exercise or sneeze is happening to you, please don’t assume you simply have to put up with it.

The NHS recommends speaking to a GP about urinary incontinence, and pelvic-floor muscle training is one of the first treatments commonly recommended. NICE recommends supervised pelvic-floor muscle training for at least three months as first-line treatment for women with stress or mixed urinary incontinence.

Common doesn’t mean you have to suffer quietly.

Right.

Serious Eira has left the building.

Back to the important matter

I have therefore developed a new classification system for sneezes.

Level One: ordinary sneeze. Proceed normally.

Level Two: suspicious sneeze. Legs together.

Level Three: unexpected double sneeze. Immediate systems check required.

Level Four: sneeze while laughing.

May God have mercy upon us all.

And perhaps that’s today’s little reminder.

Naturism isn’t really about having a body you’re finally confident enough to show.

It’s discovering that you never needed a different body in the first place.

The saggy bits.

The wobbly bits.

The scarred bits.

The bits that have carried babies.

The bits altered by age.

And even the occasional bit that spectacularly fails to cooperate when somebody passes you the pepper.

They’re all part of us.

So here’s today’s question for the women:

What completely ordinary “woman thing” did nobody warn YOU about — but every other woman immediately understands?

Because I have a feeling the comments could be magnificent.