I’m still growing into my body, finding where the edges are, learning my strength, and familiarizing myself with the newly visible veins on my arms. (Also, the best t-shirt ever no longer hugs my curves, despite my attempts to shrink it in the dryer.)
While I’ve been busy matching my mental image of myself to my mirror image, I’ve noticed that a lot more people are now matching my body to their mental image of “sexy.” Many more construction and delivery guys try to initiate conversation. My guy friends at the shore mention it on multiple occasions. My friends from class were always complimentary, but now they use words like “sexy” “fine” and “hot.”
Really? To me, sexy is soft, sexy is curves, sexy is a slow rolling strut down the street. Sexy is eyeliner and a big open laugh. Sexy is patent leather and stilettos and fire engine red. Sexy is visible cleavage and hands that wear rings.
None of that is me. Frankly, I don’t want to be any of that, although I greatly admire it in other women. To be found sexy is odd to me, but to find that my image of sexy and America’s image of sexy are so different, it’s disconcerting. When did sexy become skinny and hard, sharp angles and sunken cheeks? That’s not at all what I want to be.
So if I start to become either of those definitions of sexy, I might sabotage my own efforts. I’d love to be “athletic” “fit” and “strong,” but I don’t know how to get there without passing through “sexy.” If I do get there, I bet it comes with less socially acceptable adjectives like “hard” “unfeminine” and “butch.”
I want to be denim, and sneakers, and aprons, and a pot of chili on the stove with cupcakes baking in the oven. I want to be ponytails, and chapstick, and a bottle-opener on my key ring. I want to be slow dances in the hallway, and sunburn, and dirt under fingernails.
Anyone have an adjective for that?
At Least It's Not Raining 