Saturday, 31 October 2015

I am going to heaven in high heels.

I am going to heaven in high heels.  In nice funky to-die-for [I can only die once hahahaha] heels.  Orange heels.  That’s my current colour.  Yet I have no orange heels.  Sad.  They may have splashes of other colours.  Awesome looking no pain orange heels.  As comfy as sneakers.  Stilettos or wedges, I really don’t care.  So long as I can kumbayah and walk the gold paved streets with no blisters.

In heaven I will have a cavernous closet.  No fights with anyone, spouse included, about my encroaching clothes into their wardrobe space.  No collapsing clotheshorses burdened with 20 years of clothes. No shoes pilled higgledy piggledy at the bottom of every closet in the house.  No shoes soldier arrayed under my bed. There will be shoe racks with enough space for my single coloured, multicouloured, single soled, double soled, soft soled, no sole, slip on, tie up, muled, strapped, baby dolled, strappy, formal , clothe, pleather, leather, suede shoes .  There will be clothes racks for my dresses.  I will have space for my Diane Von Furstenberg dresses.  The ones I am getting soon. Plus no de-cluttering.  Or mouth watering sales and markets tempting my faint heart to buy buy buy buy!

I will have clothes that fit.  No 13 inch banding shoulders and peeping breasts between the gaping spaces between the buttons. In fact, I will see a dress, I wear it on and voila it fits.  No adjustments needed.  Holding where it should, skipping over where it must. And neck and hem lines that will automatically adjust to suit the audience.  Versatile clothing.  I will be able to wear those pin line, body con dresses and the undetermined length.  Yes I shall.

No week two failed Shawn T25 programmes, looking for the body God should have given me. I will walk if I want to, not because I need to.  I will run - knee willing, for the thrill of the wind on my face.  I will never have to wear a body holding forming training undergarment.  Because my belly will never swell.  Hormonal and carb induced swelling will be gone. There better be non fattening carbs, because my heaven life will begin at carbs.  There will be no bra strap bumps built of carb formed flesh. And there will be no weighing scales. Nada.

I will wear no bra.  Breast will be forever up tilted, firm and perky.  With no undignified sway or bob even as I stride. There will be no sweat track under the boob resting on the belly scenario.  I will not miss the end of the day unhooking of the bra under the clothes, wrestled through the sleeve and flung off in pure bliss.  I will have a perky bottom, not the wobbly saddle bagged mess I have now.  Good legs, not pins.  Plus my finger nails will match with the rest of me, apparently they don’t [haha].  

No food.  Okay some food.  But I will not have to eat.  There will be no every 4 hour faint causing cold sweat bouts of hunger. I will eat from want.  Not need.  Delicious meals.  Coz right now, I really do get tired of getting hungry.  Pained on top of that injury is wondering what to eat.  Ham and red meat will not cause cancer.  Eating vegetables and fruits will.  I hate them. I avoid eating vegetable and don’t eat fruits anyway.  I do drink them.  Drinking them will not cause cancer.  Who made the first smoothie?   Bless them.

Alcohol will not make me drunk.  I will sip and imbibe copious amounts.  Attaining eureka brilliant kinds of states, without nausea, blabbering, loose mouth, agro behaviour nor morbid death warmed over hangovers the next morning.In heaven there will be no baths and showers. No getting dirty.  No washing hair.  No salon visits. No oily pimply breakouts. Gell nails will last for life.  And the primer and oil blocks will hold the oil on my rudolf the oily nosed reindeer face.

My family will be awesome. Obedient yes sir, thank you ma’am kids.  No terrible twos.  Or five year olds that think they know everything.  Or nine year olds that manipulate the roost. Rebellious teens.  In your house adult childs be gone.  The husband will think that the sun rises and sets from me.  And my unthought-of wish will be his command.  My father will be normal, my mother halo’d and my siblings will be in accord with my every fancy and thought.

I’ll drive a truck in heaven.  That big monster head.  With orgasmic throbbing power.  I will gas it up, floor the peddle and just move.  It will never need servicing.  Self lubricating, self renewing mechanical feat of engineering.  The tires will never get slick.  Insurance, the work of the devil will be a dead myth.  Hell, let’s not even need the gas.   Self fueling sounds better.  Most of all there will be no traffic jams.  Just open road, and destinations waiting to happen.

I will live in a mansion.  Not many.  Just one. It will have spaces for all that I do day to day.  Space is the key word here.  No living on top of each other.  Space inside and outside. For things I like doing.  Reading.  Writing.  Teaching.  Fixing.   Laughing.  Singing.  Gardening – or looking at the gardening. Sleeping.  Wifing.  Mothering.  Even eating and bathing.  All of them.  It will be peaceful.  Full to overflowing with all the good things.  And no bad words spoken nor mad moods.

Work.  What?  Work will be [transformed into] leisure.  So we will leisure all day, every day.  From late sunrises – the sun will rise when I awaken.  To late, round the fire singing and scintillating conversation nights. I will entertain at my hearth all and sundry, the rich in mind and famed for something not nothing.  And the  bores and the meanies will never find my space so help me God.

Beauty and  grace.  Spoken and visual. No pain or misery.  We will be giddy on happiness and love.  And shine our light to uplift others.  Giving forward forever.  For decadence and dissipation will not be our cup. My heaven will be, what I wish my every moment, my constant now would be.

image from http://www.ebay.co.uk/


Thursday, 1 October 2015

Get bandwagonned


I refuse to subscribe to the school of popular belief and action, reigning attitudes and stances.  Or
rather, I intend not to subscribe to it.  Intention is the key word here.  Everyone thinks this.  Everyone is doing this.  They did it like this last time.  Uh huh!  That, I don’t do.

It does not always work though – my intent.  It is usually strong, but sometimes I get caught up in the gang-ho and find myself prancing right in the middle of the crowd.  I just slip right in, without question or mental qualm.  And it is great fun.  And I really enjoy it.  Plus it’s safe.  Because I am with everyone else.  Warm and comfortable.  Nice and cuddly.  Wallowing in our unified kumbaya of thought and or deed. 

But sometimes I say no.  Refuse to slide into the mire.  Of the crowd thought.  Which leaves me some options.  I can, one, choose to stand across the road instead, and watch the show.  Two, hotfoot it out of there, either because I know my intent’s will strength versus succumbing ration is low [or high – I never understood that ratio class] but essentially boils down to the fact that I might give in.  Or hotfoot it out of there because I just cannot stand to watch the show – it’s either painful, or it really just doesn’t matter to me.

Vacating the scene starts a mental fight.  Sometimes.  Rarely though, as I think I have become more adept at sidestepping or inured to popular opinion and thought, I pause just around the corner and examine my decision.  It perturbs me.  Itches.  And I have to scratch it.  In my brain.  It just will not go away.  Sometimes I pause for days.  I ask myself, should I have stayed, sang the song, learnt the dance steps?  I wonder, am I missing something major, do they know something I do not know?  Mental scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, then look under my nail to see if anything, comes off.  Pick pick pick on it.  Until it becomes sore.  Sore and lonely.  I imagine, the crowd saw me walk away, what are they thinking about me, saying about me?  Maybe, I should change my mind and just get into their programme? 

Unpause, turn the corner, hop onto my bus and away.  The further away I get from the crowd, the faster the scab form over my mental sore, and the healing happens.  Rationalised to change or reinforce my attitude.  My beliefs.  My behaviour.

But I did not get bandwaggoned.  Not today.  Maybe tomorrow.  We’ll see.


image from www.cartoonstock.com