The other day, I was meeting one of the friends who had hitherto lived only in my computer and knew me from the pics. When we met in person, she exclaimed "Oh! What a surprise! From the pics, I'd guess you'd be a tiny fragile beauty and you're...." she was thinking hard how to say that I'm big, fat (2) and tall. "March of Valkyries," I hinted.
I like going to the gym. I admit that it's stupid to move around big pieces of steel and that a long walk would be more refreshing but I still like it. I noticed that I got to the laughable habits of watching myself in the mirror, checking whether my muscles are growing. Well, not really so. Having done ballet for years, I'm used to tough stretching and it helps to have a mirror to look how wrong I do it.
I ranted happily about that at home. Mom said that I should give it a break, that I already have more muscles than what's pretty and I want to look feminine, don't I.
Mom would be that fragile waif although she has some thyroid problems and it's tough for her to keep her weight down - and she gets obsessive about it. She would want me to look like hers in her younger years forgetting the important fact that I'm built like my big, massive tall father. And I believe that muscles are cool, if not feminine. One can use them whereas femininity is just a sticky label that gets in one's hair or causes skin irritations.
Cousin was visiting. She wanted to go for a shopping spree, needing some professional clothes. I went along with her since I could use something serious, too. While watching the cousin trying on pants and blouses, I made an exciting discovery: I feel like shit in formal wear because it doesn't fit. I've not worn pants that go up to the
Sephora has green nail paint. Hallelujah, the last decent green was in Dior's spring collection in around 1998.
While shopping at the hairdressers' supplier, I got a bun form. Festival of kitschy hair may begin.
(1) genetics exam looming ahead
(2) somewhat less so nowadays. Somewhat bigger, too.