A strange thing has been happening to me. Stranger than the ever expanding/drifting size of my ass, and my vain attempt to lose weight even though I’m eating better and walking 12-15 miles a week. I’m starting to be okay with my shape and…dare I say it…I’m starting to flaunt it a little.
Maybe it’s that I turn 40 next month, and there has to be a time when you stop hating yourself and just say “Fuck it. THIS is who I am. THIS is my body, this is my hair and skin and breasts, THIS is what I’ve got, and I’m going to stop beating myself up for not being a size 6 anymore.”
It slowly dawned on me that every time I eat, I feel guilty. Not just guilty, but APOLOGETIC. And ASHAMED. And that’s awful. I feel guilty every time I look in the mirror and I see size 12 me, instead of size 8 me. The truth is, I was only a size 8 when I was 16, and then again when I was in a marriage that didn’t fit me. A relationship so constricting, that I lost weight to slip away from it. I stayed thin for a while afterwards, but it wasn’t a happy-thin. It was a I’m-desperately-trying-to-get-my-life-together thin, and that ain’t sexy.
So. I’ve got a butt now. And a rack. And I’ve started wearing pretty frilly little outfits to bed, and just in general. I mean, how can you feel sexy when you’re wearing huge cotton undies? You can’t! You can, however, feel that farting is okay in public while wearing enormous cotton panties, because, why not. You’ve already crossed a line. (I speak from experience.)
I bought new clothes that fit THIS body, and not the body I think I should have. I bought some cute swingy skirts, and fitted shirts. Some jeans that hug the curves I have. New bras that lift me up a little bit further. (This may be too much detail for some of the fellas that read my blog. Sorry, brother.)
At any rate…I’m trying to change my mindset and it’s just possible that I may have succeeded in transforming myself into a WereCougar. I’m not going to go after college boys or anything, I mean, I’m very happily married (nod to Kealoha)…but I may randomly start sashaying or purring or something. I’m just tired of being so hard on myself and feeling bad about enjoying good food and good company and good living. It’s just stupid.
Bring on the pretty clothes and soft fabrics and girly, sexy underthings. I figure that at almost-forty, I deserve to celebrate.