I went for a run tonight. The whole time, I was thinking, "Poor big tender-flesh-es women!" Because I'm not even a big tender-fleshes woman, I'm just a medium sized one (usually less than small one), and I was hating it. It's no wonder you don't see them running, that often, unless they have surgically enhanced tender flesh-es. The bouncing and flopping and OH! Forget that. They just walk. Fast.
Then I came home and shaved my legs. They've been past stubble-y for a while now. On Sunday I was more than a little worried that someone would notice since I wore a skirt. I really have no clothes that look good on me right now, and I don't think about it so much in our little rural area, but I feel pretty stupid at church. I know no one cares, and that's not what church is about, but it's weird to feel frumpy and hairy and slippered when there are high heels and combed hair and dresses that sash in the front.
I guess I could comb my leg hair.
I have no make up kit for Amaya to rummage through so she makes do with her chalk. She colors her eyebrows and the tips of her fingers. When she puts chapstick on (from my mom), she rubs it all over her upper lip. I feel a tinge bad that she has no example to guide her primping. I always say no when she asks if she can paint her nails with Minami. I'm mean.
Amaya put a necklace on Kadin, and Scott mentioned something about her getting into my jewelry box. Jake laughed and said, "Nope, because her jewelry box is a plastic case about that big (1"x1") that has her wedding rings and a quarter." I added, "And a loose pearl." The quarter is silver, so doesn't that count?
I checked my weight at Pam's before my run. That's all I'm going to say about that.
I have caught myself staring at girls sometimes. Staring at the things that make them girls. Really, girls. Like the fact that they are wearing a shirt that isn't just a solid color simple cut t-shirt, or the height of their heels, or their cutesy curves, or the way they styled their hair. I'll stare at them and think, "Now why didn't I think of that?"
Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever get the hang of being female. I'm turning 30 next month. Maybe it's too late. I feel a sort of wistfulness about it. Like a memory made from a book once read. Like a lost summer. Something about the fragrance of apples. A breezy sitting room. A color beyond the water's glare. And gone.