My Birthday

Today I am one year older. In the tradition of many women, I may begin to turn back the clock; or at least freeze it. It's not a bad age but since 40 is the new 30, turning 31 means I'm going to have to really kick my own ass...because I'm supposed to only look 21? I'll settle for looking the way I looked at 25. I was pretty hot!!

Beyonce did NOT coin the phrase "bootylicious", I did. I will meet her in court to support and back it up. Bootylicious was the word that I'd coined to describe myself. Titty-plenty and bootylicious: me. Funny thing is that I first used the word on the internet, talking to a guy in Texas. Beyonce's from Texas: was she online reading my post? Or was I talking to her daddy??

When I was 19, I was even hotter: coke bottle shape, Serena had nothing on my thick, tight thighs, my ass was taut and round, boobs big and full. That led me to meet a man, well one of many, who LOVED my shape...he changed my shape by putting a bun in my oven.

When I was 25, I embodied the confidence of a woman who has borne a child, had regained my shape, and was on the grind, graduating college. I had two or three lovers at the same time. Scheduling was a bitch.

After college, I was working and traveling across this great country of ours, this U.S. of A. I traveled to the East Coast and I was embraced with open arms for my body. California is about Barbie sized broads. The East Coast/South East recognizes the beauty in ample hips, defined waist and full busom. I was a star! Got me into a little trouble, but fuck it, I wasn't married.

For a few years it was my season...until I met them. Two men: both with traits that I love in a man, even the same last name. One was no competition for the other, he was the total package. The other needed tweaking...and oh how I love to fix things and see the results of my work. I chose him, the fixer-upper. FUCK!! I should have heard the sound that they use on gameshows to indicate wrong answer; BUZZZZ!!!
He changed my shape, again. The result of that is snoring on the couch embodied in a big head, small body, expressive-eyed joy, who's only care in the world is Sesame Street and Barney...and his big brother.

Which brings me to my birthday. I'm two years out of that relationship, and thanking all that is holy that I did not marry that man. He would have been the male version of Lacey Peterson, only the pregnant woman would be killing the man.
I need to seriously rebuild myself from that relationship. My waist needs tucking, belly needs crunching, thighs need biking and walking. I can't be lazy anymore, and god am I lazy. But I'm no spring chicken anymore. Lord knows I don't want to look like some of these 25 year olds I see today: pot bellies, love handles, back/bra fat, jiggling things, in tight clothing. And some of those oafs have never given birth. There is no excuse for that shit.

I've never been tiny, though I've fantasized about it, only because I wished to be a ballet dancer. I've had that fantasy since I saw The Red Shoes when I was a little girl. I bought that on DVD the other day. I've always been shapely, thick, since I began puberty in my preteens: there went dreams of ballet. But now, I've gone overboard, I sympathize with Kirstie Alley; I know her pain. My excuse is two years old and he's actually my inspiration. He's lanky and fluid and lightly toned.

I'm 31 today. I can't be a wanna-be; I'm a need to be, gonna-be.