Women are known to complain about such matters, and who can blame them?
Who here is ready for the skinny jean fad to go ahead and get on its way?
The very term “skinny jeans” is a play on everything that was meant to be good about jeans.
My 16-year-old daughter looks fantastic in them. And while I am calling out “Amens,” what cruel fresh hot sauce is it that about the time a woman must lift her breasts up from around her waist to secure them in her bra, her daughters will be at peek bikini age?
There’s a nonzero chance that what she meant to say was “peak bikini age.”
And I note, with just a hint of sadness, that the office’s cute blonde who could rock those skinny jeans has moved on.
She was seventy years old. And yeah, if you looked in certain places, you’d see signs of it. Me, I focused, as I will, on a sweet smile and killer legs.
And I would like to believe this is why nature chose to give me thick hips and calves that laugh in the face of “plus sized” boots. But that isn’t really working for me here in 2019.
I wear a size 9½ shoe.
My bra is a double D, that often begs me to woman up and trade in for a triple. When I am “thin” I am a size 10. When I am just right, I am a 12. And when I am not any of those sizes, I am a 14 or 16.
I do not know how much I weigh. I gave that practice up a long time ago. You see, girls like me, you can’t guess our weight. Although, that is a fun game. The nurse puts the scale on 100 … and I say, “that’s cute…” 150 … keep guessing … and then she inevitably says, “Wow, you carry that well, I had no idea … you have such a pretty face.”
Shut it missy.
Yeah, I think I’d get snappish after years and years of that.
(Via Alice Mills.)