The Rise of Tena Lady

I return home from another soul-crushing day on the postie grind, feeling somewhat dishevelled, fluorescent fabric clinging to me like a sartorial sin that won’t let go. I’m craving — aching — to peel off these high-vis shackles, cocoon myself in my pyjamas, and dissolve into the sofa like a woman who has given up… but intends to do so comfortably. Alone. Blessedly, gloriously alone. But just like all good plans… They crumble the moment I put the key through the door. “Amanda!” A voice beams. I freeze. Because I know that voice. A voice I would recognise from a million others. A voice I would know in a burning building, underwater, or echoing through the afterlife. “Kylie?” And there she is. In my house. Greeting me as though three and a half years of stony silence was all but a distant memory… like we simply paused mid-conversation and she’s just popped back from making a cup of tea. But something is different. No — everything’s different. Gone are her usual untamed natural curls, replaced by fresh-out-the-salon, curling iron perfection that whispers prosperity. Her skin is glowing. She looks airbrushed. Filtered. Like she’s just stepped out of a world with a full-time lighting team. Her whole presence sings. And I… I feel like a limp biscuit beside her. One that’s been dunked in tea a fraction too long… and has disintegrated into mush. The kind you try to rescue with a spoon, but deep down you know — it’s already gone. “I must show you something,” she says, practically vibrating with excitement. Before I can respond — before I can even kick off my shoes — she’s at the TV. She turns it on. A dramatic pause. Then hits play. It all happens too fast — my brain can’t quite compute. It’s an advert. A Tena Lady advert. And Kylie — Sweet, merciful Jesus — Kylie is the star. The ad features her riding a giant Tena Lady pad like a magic carpet through the streets of Los Angeles… much like Vanessa Carlton’s A Thousand Miles — but instead of a piano… It’s lady hygiene. Arms outstretched. Hair billowing. Face alight with purpose. She soars down country roads, through cityscapes, past skyscrapers, over parades of people… some holding banners reading: “Tena Lady.” The music swells like she’s solving world peace via absorbency. I can’t believe what I am seeing. Kylie… Is Tena Lady. And then — BAM. Memory. A violent, unexpected flashback. We were strange kids. Always getting up to no good. One afternoon, we thought it would be hilarious to design Tena Lady pads… intricately cutting out little pads out of paper, adding tissue, colouring them in all different colours… even making a box for them to go in. Hours and hours spent making those Tena Lady pads… Not minutes. Not a passing hour. An afternoon of dedication to something that made absolutely no sense — and yet, at the time, felt vitally important. And we thought it was hilarious. We laughed until we couldn’t breathe. Until our stomachs hurt. Until laughter itself became the problem — and ironically, the exact thing our “product” was designed to handle. But nothing — nothing — compares to whatever just flashed before my eyes a second ago. “Wanna watch it again?” she chirps. “Umm—” Too late. She’s already hit play. Dammit. Whilst Kylie replays the Tena Lady ad on what I can only describe as an endless, psychological loop, the kids have run amok. Nerf bullets are flying everywhere. My living room is now a full-blown polystyrene war zone. One whizzes past my ear with the velocity of unresolved trauma. Another ricochets off the wall and almost takes out my “good” eye. “Shall we go shopping?” Kylie asks. Anything. Anything to get me out of this loop. “Let’s go!” I say, already grabbing my bag, and what's left of my sanity. Of course, Kylie’s earning the mega bucks now she’s the face of TV. It’s a shame my stint as Tampon Girl didn’t come with the same luxury… other than being hounded in the street and chased by overzealous cats. Fame, it seems, is selective in both dignity and payout. Adios, Primark… Bonjour, wildly unjustified price tags. We enter a boutique that looks so expensive I daren’t touch anything. The kind of place where even breathing feels like it might come with a price tag. Everything whispers, you can’t afford me — and frankly, never could. Even the shop assistants look like mannequins. Still. Perfect. Watching. Judging. Possibly not breathing. Kylie holds out a dress. It’s beautiful — there’s no denying it. But I almost choke on my own poverty when I glimpse the price tag. How the other half live, eh? She shoves it into her basket along with a few others that cost as much as my monthly mortgage payments… if not more. Meanwhile, I stand welded to the spot… too scared to breathe. Too aware of myself. Of my clothes. Of the fact that I don’t quite fit the aesthetic. This isn’t me. This isn’t… us. And then I overhear it. A conversation. Mannequin One and Mannequin Two. “I have the most vivid dream recall,” Mannequin One says, with the causal arrogance of someone who has never once forgotten where their own head is. The hairs on my back stand up. Vivid dream recall? Is she kidding me? I, Amanda Lyle — self-proclaimed Dream Queen — cannot, will not, refuse this challenge. Call it manic. Call it a fleeting burst of misguided courage. Call it divine intervention. I approach. Calm. Controlled. Slightly unhinged. “Not to pry,” I begin — and immediately pry anyway —“…but did I overhear you have great dream recall?” “You heard correctly,” Mannequin One says coolly. “Can recall up to nine dreams per night.” A beat. “Vividly,” she adds. The word jabs somewhere unpleasant. A Nerf bullet to the crotch. “Well,” I say, straightening slightly, trying to channel some of my old authority. “I’m writing a dream book. Half a year’s worth so far.” They scoff. Actually scoff. “Not that impressive,” she says. “I’ve already published five books. Working on my sixth.” My blood runs cold. “Best seller,” she adds, almost as an afterthought. Of course. My face drains of all colour. The room falls silent. “Are you… okay?” Mannequin Two asks. “I just need a moment,” I mutter, as if stepping outside could shield my ego from being stomped on by couture mannequins and their best-selling books. I stumble outside, gasping for air. Something — anything — to anchor me to reality. I’ve dedicated so much of my life to these dream stories… and it didn’t occur to me that others might be walking a similar, dream-dusted path. And then — Robee. Of course it is. She strolls by, pushing a pram. Almost performs a full walk-on-by —whistling, staring in the opposite direction — but our eyes meet and social obligation drags her back. “When did this happen?” I ask, gesturing to the pram. “One night stand,” she responds, glumly. No judgment. Just… curiosity. “May I?” Her eyes widen. Panic flares. She pulls the pram away as if I might bite. “He’s just… big for his age.” “That’s okay… I just wanted to see…” I say, edging closer anyway. She sighs. Yanks down the hood. And — Holy shit. She wasn’t wrong. A jelly baby stares back at me. Limbs bloated. Chubby beyond belief. A full, disturbing dedication to gelatinous existence. “He’s feeding me dry!” she yelps, clutching her chest. “He’s… a big lad,” I say, tugging gently at his oversized socks. “Adorable though…” I add, though the horror is very much visible on my face. “He’s a monster,” she mutters, already pulling the hood back up and walking away. “The pub is calling!” she yells behind her. The pub. Right-oh. When I return to the boutique, reality has taken another turn. Kylie is sprawled on her back, legs and arms akimbo. “Jump on!” she demands, grinning. I stare at her. “What exactly am I doing here?” “That thing we used to do…” she insists. “Don’t leave me hanging.” And then — Like a switch flicking somewhere deep in my brain — I remember. I understand. I am called. I place my hands and feet adjacent and balance on top of her like some obscure, deeply questionable childhood trick. People start clapping. Cheering. Someone whistles — unnecessary, but committed. I wobble precariously, silently praying for death or invisibility. And then — We collapse. And the world dissolves. We laugh. Hysterically. Belly-rippling, uncontrollable laughter. The kind that folds you in half and steals your dignity. And for a moment — We are ten years old again. Crayons in hand. Giggling over Tena Lady pads like it’s the height of comedy. And I see her. Really see her. Not the glamorous, glowing, minor celebrity who rides sanitary products across Los Angeles… But that crazy, curly-haired girl who could make me laugh so hard I — Well. Needed a Tena Lady pad to soak up the aftermath. And maybe that’s the thing. Life doesn’t always change us. It reveals us. All those ridiculous, childish moments… They never truly vanish. They just… evolve. Scale up. Get better lighting. Acquire a soundtrack. Hire a marketing team. Because somewhere along the way… Kylie became Tena Lady. And me? I became the one who remembers. The one who writes it down. The one who tries to wrestle the absurdity into sentences and pages, trying to catch it before it spills through entirely. At the end of the day — Whether it’s paper pads, TV adverts, jelly babies, or half a year’s worth of dreams… We’re all just trying to create something absorbent enough… to catch the leaks, contain the spills, and stop life from completely soaking through. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get to laugh hysterically on top of a friend, and remember the part of you that always knew how to survive the mess.