The Zaftig Chronicles

So there I was, standing in line at Walgreens, a bottle of orange juice and a box with the acronym e.p.t. stenciled across it in my hands. The orange juice is there to make me feel better. This is no big deal; just a city girl buying orange juice and a pregnancy test. There's an old white-haired lady behind me with a tube of KY Jelly and tampons. Okay.... In front of me is a middle-aged man, looking jolly with chubby red cheeks. "Hurry up," he barks to cashier, "I left my car running." Well, so much for jolly. It was my turn. I manage to stop my hand from shaking long enough to put my things on the counter and pry my wallet from my handbag. I paid and fled. Jan's waiting in the lobby of my apartment building, chatting up my doorman. When he spots me he frowns. "Oh, look at you, honey," he says while hugging me. "C'mon, baby, let's get this over with." I smile, comforted by his genuine concern. When Jan's being comfort, his acc...

There are a lot of things I enjoy late: Sleeping in late, being fashionably late, late for work (well sometimes).  However, there is one thing I hate to be late for -- at least at this time in my life -- and that's the proverbial aunt Flo. As dreadful as a visit from her may be, she is a welcoming reminder that my choice for birth control is fucking working. Sure she brings cramps and the occasional bitchiness, but she only stays a few days, unleashes her wrath for my not giving her any nieces and nephews to babysit, and departs, threatening to stay on my ass for at least another thirty years. Flo was expected to visit around Monday, but it's now Wednesday and she has yet to show her pretty little red-head. She's rarely late. I can't help but wonder -- IF SHE WILL EVER SHOW! Okay, the above paragraph was cute and metaphorical, but trust me, I am not taking this thing too lightly. I have to be cute right now in order to take the seriousness out of the situation; for my ...

I'm not on the pill, and it just kills my mother. "Well, what do you do?" she asked. I told her I don't have sex. Which is partially true. The last time I was penetrated by an actual penis was in early March. I have had sex-like activities; oh, many of those. But that doesn't count. I'm a condom girl. As much as I like the feel of flesh entering me, I make my partner wrap it up. I know we're told to make the putting on of the condom sexy, but nothing is sexier than guiding a raging hard cock where it desperately wants to go. The pill. Ugh. I don't trust anything that small and convenient.  Plus, I've heard it tanks your sex drive.  The patch? I might investigate.  But for now, it's Lifestyles. Night.

I was 20 years old when I decided bush was out. So, I took a trip to a salon that did bikini waxes and paid to go Brazilian. Immediately I regretted it. It was painful; I was red; I was sore. However, my boyfriend at the time -- a tall Italian guy who liked his women bald -- loved it. Diana has since informed me that lady who waxed me was Satan incarnate and purposely hurt me. "Waxing shouldn't be that painful."  Still . I can't. I like being hair-free down there, but I swore I'd never get my special place waxed ever again. Shaving, on the other hand, was a viable option. When bush began to make its itchy return, I gathered shaving foam and a razor and I proceeded to hack myself to pieces. I just didn't have the touch. Nicking my precious clitoris was the final straw. I'd have to live with bush. Or so I thought. Jan came to my rescue. On a cool October night, I told Jan of my latest problem trying to stay hair -free. That night, awkwardness aside, Jan hook...

Confidence is a rare. I know this. Loving a zaftig body is even rarer, given the whole thin-is-Holy mantra embedded in women's minds.  It takes a confident woman to accept hips that aren't in the 30s, a bust that spilleth over, and a waist that fills hands. This is my body. And I love it. Firm thighs. Long legs. Defined ankles that wear anklets quite well. Toned back. I love it all. I love my feminine stomach; my full breasts; my comforting hips. I love my body. I love the way I look in a pair of jeans and stilettos. I love how my hips catch my waist and squeezes it inward. I love the smooth, silken flesh of my mons pubis (no tan lines). I love the two dimples on either side of the small of my back. I love my body. I love the way He can hold me and feel woman. I love that He knows that my hips would comfort his progeny, if need be. I love my body. This perfume of confidence did not come easily. In high school, I wore frumpy sweat shirts, grandma jeans (the kind that starts righ...