Image credit: santafesweets
I love my hair. It took my the best part of 30 years to know how to wear it curly or straight, but now I rarely leave the house having a bad hair day. My skin is clear, pale and freckly and though forty is only a couple of years away, I have few wrinkles. The Rack really deserves its own post. Heh. But yeah my boobs are round and high and full and I love them. I feel strong and powerful and feminine. Sex is easy and pleasure-filled. My body is curvy and my smile bright.
Is it odd that I actually quite like my body? Even though the size is too much to be comfortable right now, I have never ‘hated’ my body.
Worse, I am indifferent to it.
I take it for granted. I feel somehow separate from it, as though it is not part of me and therefore not my responsibility. I think this stems back to childhood, when I was called names and retreated into books as a defence; corporeal pursuits were never so rewarding as cerebral escapes into another world. And so I shut it out of my consciousness. I have treated it since, not as a temple, but as an adventure playground. And yet here it is, doing all of the things I need on demand.
Miraculous.
Comments
I hate my hair – it’s babyfine and thin. Not too keen on my skin either which is looking increasingly weathered. What is The Rack?
Oh.
How very true all of that is. (Well, possibly with the exception of my rack. Which is awesome but has suffered somewhat from two small people’s attentions. It never suffered from anyone elses! :D)
And how exceptional that you put it all down in a post when I really needed to read just that.
Thank you, beautiful sas. xx
Ah right, I get The Rack now.
Huh. I could have written this.
Well. It would have been much more whiny, and not nearly as beautifully written. But I also love my hair and my skin and my rack. And my eyes and my lashes, and my ankles.
The rest? I simply imagine isn’t there.