There are clothes that hug you in the wrong places. Places that are meant to measure up certain standard statistics that glossy magazines project as steamy sexy. For my vertically challenged stature plus the excess baggage I carry around these days, rummaging and scavenging clothes are an ordeal. But women, ahh... women, we never get the hang of it. We'd rather go to calvary carrying our heavy selves just so we could stick our sweaty pimply nose to every corner that is marked "Ukay-ukay" and "Marked-down Items on the Lose" to find what finally fits the quirky shapes we are in.
But ahh, it's not the same woman now that I was. I don't speak of the added curves splattered all over my anatomy. I refer to a more simple things in life that I now seek more. Time must have changed. Although the woman in me still sticks her nose to these smelly staples, the list that I keep weekly has trimmed down to what matter the most. The pounds that I carry now used to be a curse to my prebaby days. Strangely, I am proud to wear them.
I call myself the sexy pounder. And I smile at the thought of coming home to my Shekinah and Joe Marie who reaffirm my view of myself--doubtful or not.
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