We, the curvier species of womankind, also turn to retail therapy for inner harmony and self-actualization and naturally, just like all other women, fall for some trends that don’t actually work so well for the extra ungh-unghs. This is not to say that we can’t work the trendier pieces of fashown, it’s just that it usually gets trickier.
A good example would be skinny jeans. They are actually (and surprisingly) comfortable but they look funny on me, who has hips good for three persons. Mutti, ever the voice of dignity and self-esteem, says that big girls should care less about what others dictate and more about what makes them (us) feel confident and sexxxxay.
I know, right. It’s just that clothes shopping can be a bit frustrating when most stores offer jeans with the biggest available size being 4. Plus size departments aren’t any boost for morale either, when the tags bear xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. Look, I know I’m big. Don’t scream it to my face.
Anyway, what is the point of all this? I ask myself while listening to Mika’s Big Girl (You Are Beautiful). While I should be all about loving myself, I should also think about loving other people and making them feel self-confident as well.
So in a moment of utter geniosity, I came upon the wonderful (not to mention very very gracious) idea of donating my boobage, booty and hips to the less-privileged but deserving women (or men) out there in time for the holidays.
Ha! I told you I’m a very charitable person. This is perfect. Ever since I was little, I’ve always fantasized about not ever needing a bra, and actually looking respectable in tank tops and dresses (with nothing spilling out). Don’t you just love it? It’s a win-win situation for me and you my “less-endowed” chums.
Actually, you girlfriend with the 32A brassiere, you are not less-endowed. You should be very very happy that you get to enjoy doing calisthenics, aerobics, jogging and motor sports without any pain in your chest area, without any fear of something hitting your face.
So here’s the mechanics, send a photo and a 300 word essay on why you deserve to get your booty pimped this Christmas. The winner receives the package delivered to his/her doorstep on Christmas.
For those who won’t win, just think of me while you do your jumping jacks or ride the trike on a bumpy road.
There used to be three of us – Cubi (Vincent the third), Michael and I. We are cousins and born only months apart. Growing up with them, I used to think I was a boy too. We spent summers bike racing and thrashing neighbors’ backyards and dueling under the dinner table with our plastic guns. Those were the true wonder years.
For the first few years of our lives, we were raised by our neurotic grandmother while our parents were busy being the hip, young semi-corporate parents that they wanted to be. Because she has no cooking skill whatsoever, we were constantly fed instant noodles with bits of whatever slaughtered mammal, partially cooked rice that felt like gravel and sand against the roof of your mouth and more fortified food that either came out of a can or cooked in under three minutes. Don’t get me wrong. We all love our grandmother dearly and life was fun back then. We all just had to be thankful that people were less suspicious of child abuse during those years.
In the most wonderful of the true wonder years, the three of us lived in my house. Cubi (who lives a street away from me) and I went to the same playschool and wore my panties when he ran out of underwear (the laundry department was very faulty back then). Mike, on the other hand, lives in Planet Bulacan and spent his summers and all other vacation days in our house. We all spent our days watching looney tunes, captain planet and Takeshi’s Castle while drowning our childhood whims in a cuppa Nissin’s instant ramen.
In the most wonderful of the true wonder years, I was almost a boy even though I threw balls like the girl that I am. We went biking everyday, and made big car engine sounds with our bikes racing through the old chapel’s garage.
After several years, the three of us went on to fulfill whatever crappy role we were given. Cubi, the forsaken son of an international scrabble master, started cutting classes in grade school, danced hiphop in high school, danced ballroom in college and is now a faithful manny to our darling baby nephew.
Mike repeatedly got bad grades all throughout school, got tired of it and dropped out to be in a band. Now, he rarely talks and looks like he hasn’t washed his hair in months. He’s no longer the toothy cousin who made me laugh till I peed in my pants. Now he just hangs around, being the miserably cool rocker that he is.
As for me, I set out to be Nerdy Spice. To all my relatives, I am the utterly boring, only begotten daughter slash sole heiress of microfinance crap who never goes out and finds reading dictionaries therapeutic. I am here to make up for whatever mess the other two have made, and in turn they have to suffer for the fact that I have been deemed “the smart one” by the rest of the family. Ha!
It could have been me, break dancing in some alley in between classes or playing bad-ass bassist with my fabulously shower-less hair, but non mon ami. Instead, I have been the one tasked to slave away in the pursuit of academic excellence. I could have been the fun cousin who became a pro BMX racer or what-not.
It was only recently that Cubi found out that he was wearing my panties back in playschool. “Now, I know why they felt different!” he candidly shared in an ambush interview in our garage. (What the fozz?!) Recently also, Mike emailed me to ask for help in writing a song about poisons and slitting wrists and other gloomily profound stuff. (Again, what the fozz?!)
I have dedicated an entire night and several kilowatts typing this entry, not only because I miss my childhood (a.k.a. “The Most Wonderful of the True Wonder Years or TMWotTWY) but also because I’m having one of those pre-prequarter life crisis panic attacks. I’m getting scared of getting older too fast (and may I add, getting older too fat). Sooner or later, those two are gonna get some girls (maybe four to seven) pregnant and, god forbid, sooner or later someone’s gonna get me pregnant too. (Erlack!) The Wonder Years have long passed, and we will only be able to relive them through our kids, (Cubi Jr. Or Quatre, Little Mike and Jobel Jr. or, in this case, Chulalongkorn Marie).
**(Notice the unnecessary use of parentheses.)
This is sooooo scary. Please read on, dear friend and help me get through with my mature fears. I miss my old sportif, active life. I miss hanging out with my cousins. I miss eating gummi worms (except for the red ones, because they look like gummy worms! Hello?!). I miss drinking melon-flavoured milk. I miss listening to their stupid jokes and having the melon-flavoured milk squirt out of my nose. I miss doing tres disgusting things. I miss the time when doing tres disgusting things was okay because we were just being cute, little kids.
Back then, we were happy and I didn’t have to stress over counting calories.
What do you miss?