Thursday, 19 March 2015

Of panty lines and such other



Truth be told, as one woman to another, your panty line cutting across your baytock is not a pleasant sight.  True story.  And no, I am not jealous.  Truly, I really do not care that you have a big bum.  And yes, my backside is minuscule, a peanut of a derriere.  I am not well endowed in my nether regions.  And still I am not jealous.

Lets talk about us, the small haunched women.  As the world goes gaga over the well endowed grogan ciandas, we too have drooled [in an appreciation of God’s creation kind of way and not on a sexual orientation manner], coveted those mahagas.  We have each come to the realisations that, “my fundamentals is small ya?”  We have told ourselves that “not all good things come in big packages” and “small is good too”.  And with that admission has come acceptance and soon an appreciation for our pint sized rear  

My bottom is small.  And to add injury to insult, it has a bad shape.  It has dents on the side.  And these dents lend greatly and add to the saddlebag effect.  Yes saddlebags.  Body saddlebags.  Which means that I cannot wear these things called bodycons and pencil skirt for all the bulges and dents would be highlighted.

There are things that can be done to improve my perceived pathetic back end scenario.  There are rational intelligent choices.  Not the chicken food eating growing butt stories and merrrd things like that.  

I am a prime candidate for posterior panel beaters.  Some filler her and there.  Suck from this side and pump into this corner.  Plump it up and smooth is down.  But I am scared of unnecessary surgery.  For me, surgery is for cures.  Since my rump is not sick, why operate on it.  

And fate scares me.  Do you know fate?  I think she is jealousy prone.  Plus I know her hind profile is crap.  Fate in anticipation of my fineness, can deal me a bad card and mess me plus my gluteus maximus.  So no - augmentation is not for me.  If it ain’t broke [just dented] don’t fix it.

Which makes me prime clientele for the arse sellers.  No – not those kind, get your mind out of the gutter.  The seller of big grandmother pants with posterior enhancers.   The only problem is they have not done the African nude, the black nude, for the Nubian woman.  The white woman’s definition of nude is not a pleasant look on me.  It looks like those things some pregnant women wear on their legs to keep them ambulatory.  Looks naaasty!  Why isn’t someone doing slimming belts, waist sinchers, bums holders and girdles in black nude? Maybe it is because there are too many shades of black?  I know that the temporary augmenting panty is worn under my clothes, and no one will see it [they should not anyway – they must believe my enhanced posterior is truly me] but I will know about it, and its ‘ugly on me colour” and it will be killing me.  Dingehota! 

So for now, I will embrace my feebly endowed back side and thank he who formed me, that I have a bum, and not a wedge on a horizontal plan.

I digressed.  Back to your panty lines.  Why in hell do you ear panties that cut across your buttock?  Why?   You cannot find panties your size?  Or panties that are built for your shape.  Body shape.  Bum shape.  Whatever.   Just like there is are many many names for the buttock [scroll back up plus down and notice the names used for just one anatomy part] in each language and thus many more for all the languages in the world, so there are different bum shapes.   You cannot find a panty that suits your bumps, dents and the contours of your hiney? 

Somewhere on the internet – googlit – they say “VPLs [visible panty lines] occur at the point where your backside cheeks are intersected by light elastic of the panties. The backside cheeks have little place else to go but to bulge out either side, while the elastic dips in, creating a visibly indented line.  The goal, therefore, is to either avoid creating these indents across your backside or to scoot them down to a part of the cheek where they won’t be visible under a particular garment.” They say you end up with 4 butt cheeks.  Sometimes depending on your size, they be moving in different directions.  How unawesome! And scary.

To add insult to your quartered booty, you proceed to  wear tight clothes.  Because you have been sucked in by the ideologies of the Kenyan crazed kardashianed fashionistas, who by the way have no style and couldn’t crawl their way onto any best dressed list, and who believe that tight is right?  Fact - no woman, with any sense of style wears tight.  Clothes are not a second skin.  Nor are they elastoplasts.  Stuck on so as to follow the contours and pimples of your body like a religion.  Really, they to sit atop of your skin, with space to allow movement and air circulation.  Clothes should fit.  Not squeeze.  Unless its jeans.  That one we can cede. But that’s another story for another day. 

Then your brassier.  You have grown in girth madam.  Your circumference eats into more of the tape measure.  Your breasts too have changed in girth and shape too.  You need to get a bra that fits you.  That cups your breast and holds them.  Contains them.   Please please please a-beg-o, for the love of  us who have to look at you-o, please do not present us with your frontal six breasts. Yes six.  The middle ones, the real ones in the cup, and the strange overflow toward your armpit. It’s unnatural.  And creepy.  And looks horrid.

Front end butchered into six breasts?  Back end quartered? Shape up madam.  Literally.

image from http://barrysmyth.blogspot.com

Monday, 9 March 2015

Once upon a time you had a friend



Once upon a time you had a friend.  And you were good friends.  Then, like some good things, the friendship came to an end.

There was no dramatic fallout between you.  No hurled insults and abuses.  No nothing like that.  Just a longer time to respond to a greeting, and an increasing number of missed calls.  And time.  Time happened in between you.

Sometimes you think about things from the other side of the friendship.  And wonder if it was a deliberate decision to move on.  But then you reason, it doesn’t really matter why the friendship ended, what is important is the fact that, once it was there, and then it was not.

Then months later, or maybe years later, your former good friend turns up, and attempts to slide back into your life with a ‘Hello Stranger! How have you been?” smiley kind of electronic message.

And you are thinking, “Stranger?  Me?  You stopped engaging in calls, sms or emails. You came to my part of the woods at some point, and there was a comedy of missed calls and sms.  I am sure you have been nearby recently, but you did not get in touch with me.  Is that how I become a stranger?  By you pushing me away?  That is your label for me?  Stranger?  No- I will take it, I will not own it.’

In idle moments, random thoughts play in your mind.  “What is this message about?  Why comment into my life now?  For what purpose?”

And you are affronted.  How does someone disappear from your life.  For months or years.  And then one random day send a “Hi.  Long time.  Let’s do coffee?’ message.

You are affronted. 

Here is someone, trying to slide back into your life, like going back to a bookmarked page of a dusty book that’s been lying idle on some shelf in their life.  And you are thinking that they probably thought, ‘I never finished that book, wonder what happened to the characters, must find out…”

It’s happened before.  Of course it has.  In the past.  Lost touch with bosom buddies.  For whatever reason.  And reconnected again without much ado. 

But no, not this time you think.  We were young then, and flighty.  Foolish and immature.  Living for the moment.  Never valued things.  Or people.

Not this time, you think.  Not that way.  You know better now and you must do better.

You hold relationships dear now.  You value people.  You look for certain things in those around you now.    

Longevity.  People who will go the distance with you. 
Truth.  People who tell it to you like it is. 

Trust.  People you can rely on. 

Acceptance.  Of who you were and what you are becoming.

Supportive.  Someone who always has your back.

Selfless.  Will give and give to you.

Happy.  To celebrate your successes.

Things like that.  They seem to matter more and more as time goes by.  And it is reciprocal. They give.  You multiply it.  And give it back to them.  It just grows and grows into these wonderful moments.  It’s a wonderful thing, friendship.

Forthrightness, honesty and respect.  Respect for you as a person and for your feelings.  Yes, genuine respect is very important to you now.

You think it is respectful that they would acknowledge your dusty bookmarked situation.  You expect that they would acknowledge it with more than a“Hello stranger”.  You expect that they would at least try to explain themselves.  You expect  something, anything, but not a “Lets do coffee”. 

You wish they have something to tell you.  Something that would be balm to your discarded self.  But all they want is to pretend that all is well, nothing has changed, and slip back into what would be for you a false groove.

False?  Yes, false.  To one of you at least.  Or maybe, to both of you. You will never know.  Not for sure.

There are many things you would like to know.  And to say.  But you cannot say.  Will not say.  For you know it will not lead to what you think true friendship is.  So you choose not to engage.  Because you live with yourself twentyfour seven and cannot fool yourself.

There are many things you would like to hear.  But you do not wait to hear.  Because you now believe people.  When they show you who they are - you believe them.  The first time and always.

In pensive moments, in silent moments, you remember your friend.  You remember the good times.  You wish the end of friendship had not come. 

When remember your friend, you wish them well.  You wish them peace.  You wish them knowledge and wisdom.  So that above all, they may grant themselves a second chance, with another such as you. 

You wish them friendship. True friendship.

image from http://outrunningthefork.com