Friday, March 2, 2012

Letting Yourself Go: True/False for Adult Women

Ingredients for this My Time: your 20s, your...later years...and everyone else's 20s.

You know, recently the Angelina Jolie Leg Controversy has got me thinking. What must it be like to have an adult life and legs of a baby praying mantis. She's beautiful, of course, but still, not a muscle on her. Also, it got me thinking about wanting to wear a short skirt, of course, and show off my own ham hocks to the Jolie insect legs. Then I thought, how many  times we women proclaim, Oh Legs! Everyone's genetics are different (of course) and we all have our genetic challenges. Yet, it occurred to me that as me and my girlfriends get older, for the most part, we care less about our genetic challenges. Being in alimony case after alimony case can really make one gain perpective: it's about the money, not the body. When you have the money, you can always wear the Valentino bikini, no matter what. And if I had a mess of kids whose names I can't remember, I would pop my leg non-stop
you own that shit hard. it's yours, it's insured.
Oh Honey, you know I won't judge you. Take comfort in the fact that I simply don't have it in me to care about you enough to judge you. I'm full with other things. So if you want to put on the bikini from when you were 18 and had abs, do it. Your tits may have dropped several inches, your ass might have dimples that a healthy baby couldn't match, and you might be living purely on maniacal hope at this point, but whatever. You know what, I've been there. In many ways, after my most recent divorce--no no, the fucking classy man, not Rodrigo
I'm there. Oh, Rodrigo, that Latin beast who was always like, Dagmar, you're so rich, why don't you donate to these starving villages in Guatemala and I was like, Rodrigo, everyone's starving for something, baby, which is why you're here and why when you're not here, something else is.

Honey, let me be open with you. If I tell you some of the scandaliso! things I've done, you'll surely feel better about how disgusting you are. Right now in the cultural mecca I'm living in, Missouri, there's a fabulous annual charity event called True/False happening. A part of this event is to watch things called "documentaries" or "nonfiction films" and sit in the dark. Lonely, isn't it? Well, your little Dag' decided to make the most of darkness. What did I do, you ask? Well, honey, I pulled out a mini-skirt that I hadn't worn even in my first marriage it is so old. I crossed my legs this way and that, cross, uncross, pop left, pop right, leg leg leg! I was on fucking fire. In the dark. Of course I had on my turquoise, selenite, shells, and mother of pearl. I was fucking shiny and one fire in the fucking dark.

But, Honey, you know what? Darkness usually doesn't last forever. So I emerged into the light. There was a mirror. What did I see? Under-eye bags, cellulite, and dimpled knees. And still, I had a ball to attend, sure to be filled with beauties of all shades (but generally one size and age-range). What could an elegant woman do? Now listen to me, Honey, because this is important. So, what could an elegant woman do?         
   Fucking suck it up and pop it out
That's right, Lovers, sometimes you have to be an adult. And sometimes being an adult is drinking beer LITE and looking at all the beauties around you in their 20s, nay with even one marriage or a spoken need or an reverent orgasm under their belt, and remember, you had those abs when you were "modeling." Your tits used to look toward God. Your skin was smooth and supple. Your hair was a lioness's mane. You posed by a lone sandal and still, and still, you looked "amazing."
ok, maybe you never didn't have cellulite...but your face was less fat
And now, sure, you don't look as amazing. You have lines, indents, those "yoga poses" you used to get into don't quite work because you can't twist that way when you have a roll (or two) around your mid-section. Your hair has faded. Years of mourning, love, loss, hope, and effort you have embodied.
You feel like, like,
You in your long sweater. Your baggy skirt. Swilling beer because that'll help your stomach's Ab Situation, won't it? Well, honey, I'm here to tell you. Last night for this True/False thing that's really quite amazing, I felt amazing in my mini-skirt. Even if I didn't look it. I was an adult, I sucked it up, and I popped by amazonian thighs to the left to the right pop pop boom bitches out of my way, I don't have to show my ID at the bar, pop left pop right go outside in the wind pop pop. Sure, I saw a recent FunMistake who was speaking to young, beautiful women, but then I remembered, what did I tell him in the bedroom?
I may have wanted to snort some of his skin cells to see if they'd regenerate my own, but I certainly didn't want him to talk to me. Who did I want to talk to about sex and philosophy? My girlfriends. So we hoisted on our elastic pants, got a bucket of margaritas, and quesobrated.
queso plus celebration= quesobration

We ate the shit out of some cheese dip.  In sunglasses and trench coats of course, because we are old enough to have shame, after all. I JOGGED AND DID YOGA BEFORE, OK? But you know what I never consumed when I was younger? Queso. Rarely an alcoholic bev. Sugar. Oil of any kind. Fats. And with my abs and hot body, you know what I never had? An acknowledgment that my young, healthy, awesome body was even awesome. Insecurity plagued me. I could have ONE MORE AB I thought. Thank god I got over that. I may have missed out on another hubby while I was shoveling the delicious beige dip in my face, but let me tell you, Honey, you see those indents in your thighs more than any man will because he doesn't look close enough. He's too busy thinking about all the important, existential things he has to do in his Man Forest. Unless he's gay, of course. Then he'll judge you to the floor but get queso with you afterward because he was most likely a fat girl on the inside when he was a child (holla, my gay hubby, JRT!).

As a famous burlesque dancer I know says, "I'm going to swing these tassels until my tits hit the floor." God bless that woman. And god bless being an adult. I still have those abs, they're just hidden under...other stuff. And one thing I have now that I never had then is the ability to not be scared of who I am, who I'm becoming, what I need, and what I want. Right now, between husbands, Honey, I'm trying to take myself lightly and my path seriously. And god bless the women who have joined me in adulthood who do the same.

we see your punches, Life, and we punch back. Coordinated, too.

These big round shoulders are going out again tonight, and they won't be alone.

Happy True/False, ladies, I hope it's an amazing affair, even if your genetics don't keep your tits pointed toward god. Who wants to be simply our parents, anyway? Let's show those "nonfiction films" some nonfiction body. Suck it up, pop it out. Left. Right. Queso pop! Beer lite pop! Adult body pop!

a reminder that all images are copyrighted by dagmar ottenham and her nonfiction creator. unless of course they are borrowed google images, which possibly have their own copyright.

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