Where do I belong?

According to YNR @ Blogthings, Paris:

You Belong in Paris

Stylish and a little sassy, you were meant for Paris. The art, the fashion, the wine, the men! Whether you're enjoying the cafe life or a beautiful park... You'll love living in the most chic place on earth.

What City Do You Belong In?

Please note that the quiz did NOT say i belong in Hopkins where they don't even have a bookstore, much less a museum. I tell people that "UPS still delievers there" to make it sound not so bad, but truthfully, I feel like we're moving to the sticks.

I remember Londong with the sad nostaliga of someone who knows their best days are behind them.

Scary thought: What if I DO belong in Sticks-Hopkins, land of the ghetto/country Food Lion, no Publix for miles, and no bookstore?

Good God. Let it not be true.

In which Fear is discussed.

I was listening to Michael Baisden's show yesterday, all about how men can't handle women's fantasies*, and how women best keep that sort of thing to themselves. Then I went over to the Trois site and saw some posts about age and fear and how those two things have changed your perspective.

here's what I've learned:

I'm a wuss.

I was scared when I was 21 and had a body to die for that nobody would like me, and so I stewed in my own lust until I finally just threw myself at the one most unsuitable person I could have found -- and became what? even more repressed for a few years.

Then, after I graduated, I repeated the cycle with another, even more unsuitable person -- this was was not only abusive, but crazy as well -- and became (you guessed it!) sexually withdrawn and conflicted.

Repeat cycle again at 26, when i finally got the nerve enough to give my virginity to another jerkoff who, despite my aptitude and enthusiasm, couldn't stop sleeping with other people. I was no longer beautiful (as evidenced by the catastropic meeting of an online lover), and decided that it just wasn't worth it.

So I settled down with someone who would have me, and have tried to shut the part away that got me into so much damned trouble in the first place.

Fear, like cocaine, "is a terrible drug".

I wish I could go back to my 19 year old self and show her a picture of what she would become. I wish I hadn't been so damned scared. So what if Patrick ___ never gave me the time of day? I could have sucked him silly in the 3rd floor stacks and never looked back. I could have been beautiful despite my size 4 roomate. I could have distracted Troy from her instead of fooling around with some underclassman replacement. I would have never been so afraid that no one would ever want me that I would jump at the first man who asked.

And now that I'm too old and fat for it to be anything other than true, I fear the truth: I missed my chance.

Damned shame, that.


*I completely agree with this statement. For all our discussion about money, mortgage, budgeting, planning, and other businesslike issues, my husband and I are as polite and distant from each other as I am from my boss. We do not discuss sex, and fantasies are a nonexistent point. We have tried, and the discussion leads only to arguments and awkwardness.

The body beautiful

There are lots of things I love about this dress, and one thing I hate.

I love the bold color, the softness of the line, the sensuousness of it. This isn't a sundress, or something you'd honestly want to wear to a wedding -- unless you want to be hated by the bride and her friends for outshining her. A garden party, perhaps, with a wide-brimmed hat -- but only if you've got your eye on the hostesses' cute cousin (or if you're naughy, her brother), or an outdoor cocktail party somewhere exotic like belize.

The one thing I hate about this dress is that it isn't for me.


It's made for twentysomething girls with long limbs and high, firm breasts that will create the requisite inviting globes of flesh above the petal shaped bodice. It's made for someone with flowing hair and a throaty laugh, someone who has never weighed over 130 lbs and who has never had a problem with chafing thighs or poochy tummy. (i mean *really* poochy, not those idiots who think a little skin is a flaw).

I'd buy this dress, put it behind glass, and in my old age (i.e. in about 3 more years), gaze at it longingly while I sit in my sweatpants with wine stains and Milano cookie crumbs dribbled down the front, dreaming of a time when, had I not been so foolish and fearful, I could have been that kind of woman.

Avatar! (or, why Fridays aren't productive)

See, this is why I should have stayed home "sick" today. Because thinking abotu how big my boobs have gotten desipite my surgery last year and my recent weight gain and the possibility of being up the spout (DAMNIT!) is far more entertaining than doing expense reports and waiting for one of my bosses to call and tell me if anything's gone wrong.