You'd never see me on the pages of a magazine. Oh no. You wouldn't. I am not skinny enough. The girls in the magazines are lean and chiseled. There's hardly a curve in sight except for those cute little plastic noses, fake breasts and pouted lips. I, my friend, am too thick. I'm not what you'd call pretty, either. I'm nothing special---too plain for that. I'm purely drab and certainly not sexy. I border on matronly, some might even call me homely. No, I'd be too out of place in Vogue or Cosmo or Mademoiselle, but
Against the backdrop of a mountain forest cathedral, I am right at home. Along the wooded path I walk strong and with purpose, like I am planting down deep roots with each step. I am sturdy as the oldest, wisest tree. There, among the greens and browns, yellows and reds. I look like shadows and light in a spiral dance. I am alive and I am fertile as I rejuvenate and heal myself, body and soul. There, I am in my element. In the forest, I am stunning and beautiful like the deer, the elk, the bear and the wolf.
Oh, I am not a very good dancer and I could never Zumba. I trip over my own feet and I'm anything but graceful. My body moves in jerks and spasms when it can move at all. I'm no ballerina. You'd never see me twirling on my toes or pirouetting through the air. I am too heavy and dense to ever keep up a decent pace. I am much more content to cling to the wall and hum along, but
When I slip myself inside the the ocean or a deep blue mountain lake, I swim like I was made from the water lily, kelp, or seaweed. On warm summer days, my body begs to flow like the tides and my limbs ache to stretch forth like the waves which reach from shore to shore. The water shows me how to move like a mermaid whose fluidity and grace has the power to haunt the souls of lonesome seafarers. My strong body can impel me to the depths which the sunlight will never reach. I am buoyant and light as I am lifted back to the surface. I let the water carry my whole being. I swim like the great king salmon or the harbor seal.
My face is so gross. These lights really highlight my wrinkles and flaws. Just look at my dry skin. You can almost see through me. I am blotchy and blemished. My face is cracked and creased. My lips are fragile and chapped, as if at any moment they could dry up and fall off my face. I've got crow's feet and a deep, jagged fissure that runs straight up the middle of my brow as it tries to hold my face together. These lights won't let me hide anything, but
Put me in the sun and my face will shine so bright it could hurt your eyes. My skin is rich and smooth like clay and the light seeps down deep inside to depths which cannot be measured. I am fully infused with buttery cream, royal rose hips and sweet golden honey. My green eyes pierce right to the souls of men and I fulfill their every dream of what can be measured in light. I open my mouth wide and full to taste the zesty spice of the warm spring sun. The lines in my face testify to a lifetime of contemplation and light hearted laughter. My face grows full toward the sun and I glow like the full moon.
I cannot do a thing with this hair of mine. It's so incredibly thin and unruly. It poufs out and won't stay up. It won't stay down. It won't stay back. It's crinkly and fried on the ends. I sometimes look like I was struck by lightning. It's the colour of mud and soot, like soil eroding from a landslide in the flood. My dingy mop is impossible to control, but
Put me in a winter wind storm and you will see what my hair was made for. On the top of my crown resides a free spirit who cannot be contained. See how it stretches and flows formless to follow the currents of air. See how its silky waves capture the movement as it comes to life and reaches out to the rain clouds. In the wind, my hair is glossy like heavy wheat pods ready for harvesting. It is the color of fire and it crackles with light and warmth. My hair was made by the storms. I was born of earth, air, wind and water.
I am very slow and slothful on the sidewalk and I stop to rest often. Concrete pains my arthritic bones, but put me on my bicycle where I am free from the fear of earthly wounds that people give to me...see how beautiful I am as I glide along the city streets, the highways, the by ways or the mountain trails. I am one with the transport beneath me as I blaze along the less traveled roads, my arms, legs and face covered with grit and sweat. I am slow but steady. I am passed by everyone but they do not see what I see: The rocks, the grass, the trees, the clouds...the tiny beetle that crosses the road. I am one with the path I ride, and nothing can touch me nor make me run away. I am strong and beautiful because of my bicycle, but
NO, you will NEVER see women like me in the magazines. They would never be able to figure out how to keep us on the pages.