The “Sexy-Bod” Equation…

I’m a “numbers chick”, math-errific to the power of 10.

Did you really expect that from a giggling, hair-twirling, horny single gal?

Maybe not, in which case the lesson is loud and clear:  don’t judge a book by its sultry velvet cover…

…So yeah, I’ve always liked the math, and even though my days of emasculating oily-faced-boys with my calculus skills are long in the past, math remains an important part of my everyday life.

In recent times, math has been used for selfish dilemmas, namely:

-relationship issues, and self-image quandaries.

I’ll share with you my latest mathematical headache (and it’s a doozy).  I haven’t figured out the solution, so feel free to sharpen your pencils and play along:

PROBLEM:

-Exercising and eating healthier has made me a little bit slimmer, compared to my Nov./Dec. “chub-days” (please place emphasis on “a little bit” slimmer…dammit).  At the same time, my boobies are seriously shrinking.  This is nothing new, since smaller bodies are synonymous with smaller cans (just ask Lucky’s grandma). 

But check it out: my rate of “boob-loss” in recent weeks is far out-pacing the “slim-effect” (uh-oh….).  And given that I’m already struggling with psychological “boob-stuff”, I’m very concerned. 

Which leaves me to solve a colossal puzzle:

-Find the balance of body-weight and boob-size that will yield the optimal “Romi-Self-Worth”

Here are my chalkboard-brainstorms thus far (I like chalkboards ’cause they make me feel prodigious, like that Matt Damon guy in Good Will Hunting…).

 What’s a girl to do?

It’s a tough one to figure out, but “math-head” that I am, I firmly believe that every problem comes pre-equipped with a reasonable solution.

In the meantime, don’t hesitate to shoot me any alternate equations… 

Boob Fetish

So I’ve been thinking a lot about boobs tonight…

That may sound odd, but I was feeling bored, so I happened to look down my shirt (a common response to boredom), and before I knew it, BOOM: boob-thoughts. 

There’s nothing wrong with my boobs per say, but they’re not that impressive, when you consider the “bell-curve average”.  I mean I’ve always excelled in academic pursuits, but boob-wise, I’m kind of an underachiever (dammit).

And why is this a problem?

-Because I’m yearning to find a man, so I’m a little concerned about  today’s competitive market, you know, ”boob-wise”.  I mean I’ve heard a lot of whispers that guys are getting less superficial, and putting personalities first, but as a wise young man named Ian once said, “If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is“.

So now what?

Well…whilst sitting here thinking of all things “boob“, I began to wonder how life would be, if things were incredibly different…

Consider THIS: from a basic evolutionary perspective, a boob has only a single purpose, conveniently summarized below:

-Q: What does a boob do?

-A: It serves as a milk-filled keg for babies (side-note: if you ask ME, breast-feeding is very inappropriate (not to mention incestuous), but that’s another post for another day…). 

And why is there a second boob you ask? 

-’Cause without a back-up resource, you’d never have peace of mind.

So if boobs are just a mechanism, designed to faciliate the circle of life, why are they revered as so much more?

Let’s look at COWS for example, and see how they run the show:

-Dairy cows (which are all female) spend the whole frickin’ day producing hundreds of gallons of milk, with their large and voluptuous udders.  When their 18-hour work day is finally done, and they’re out in the pasture grazing, do you think there’s a bunch of bulls bent over, checkin’ out the sights?

NO.

But why not?

Because cow udders are NOT sexy; not to bulls, not to men (I would hope not), not to lesbian cows, not to anyone.

Then there’s US…”Oh but WE’RE the special “humans”, who just HAVE to read something into everything“…

For humans, the two disgusting “kegs” have become a work of art, to the point of almost being divine.  Quite frankly, I don’t know how or when this worship began, but like a lot of other things, I blame it on the Ancient Egyptians. 

And here’s the saddest part: If your milk-kegs were made by a vengeful God (who got cheap with the raw materials), you’re pretty much fucked in your grown-up life.

And THAT’S what I don’t like.

But wait: What if I could alter Biology? What would I do?

HERE’S what I’d do:

First off, no woman alive would be allowed to have boobs (I’m sorry boys, but it’s for the best). 

Instead of a pair of ‘heavenly melons”, we would all have something a lot more functional.  Picture a couple of small-sized kegs, conveniently hung at our hips (this seems less intrusive than kegs on the chest, but it’s just a personal preference). 

Once we all got ourselves metal kegs (which would somehow hook-up to our “lacticular”(?) veins), we’d be ready to have lots of babies.

This would continue the circle of life.

And guess what? Everyone’s milk-kegs would look the same.

And guess what? NO chick would feel inadequate, and we’d ALL be liked for our personalities (and our asses, which is fine, ’cause mine ain’t half-bad).

And what do I call this? One step closer to Utopia .

In reality, there’s only one small hitch: Science will never catch up to my lifetime, so the “Keg-For-Boob” option is not for me .

Translation: It’s time for me to ”oil up” the girls, drop ‘em in a low-cut top, and quietly wait for my prince…

SUPER-Embarrassing Moment #3 (conclusion): Fools Rush In…

Well hello again!

Before I begin another love-themed post, do me a favour and click on the Elvis song; seriously, I DEMAND that you have a soundtrack!

 

Now for those of you unfamiliar with ”Part 1″ of my “embarrassing brush with love”, here you go. 

And for those of you who joined me last time, here’s a refresher on the “set-up”:

-I was 12 and I developed a crush on a man-boy (a delicious one at that)

-I accidentally touched his sleeve, and became all “weak in the vagina”

-I decided I loved him

-I found out he had a big-boobed girlfriend (fuck!), became all sad, but then became determined, resolving to “blossom” with time.

(And then some time passed by…)

***

 With 2 years of ”growing” behind me, I had changed in a lot of different ways:

-My hair was really long, and I had this idea that “flippy-ass” hair was sexy….??? (Is it relevant to note that my hair was also greasy and knotted?)

-I had started wearing flannel shirts (that I had begged my parents to buy me for $10 a piece), because Nirvana and other “grunge-acts” were cool at the time; I thought I’d look hip and sexy as a fan (another slam dunk)…

-In addition to not wearing make-up (as mentioned before), I had not yet discovered the benefits of plucking my eyebrows…on a positive note, maybe the un-plucked version made me look more mysterious (oooh) and dramatic (ahhh)??? (am I reaching here?…am I?)

-I still didn’t have any boobs, and I couldn’t ask mom for a padded bra, because hellllooo, bras are for sluts who have unprotected sex (another one of my mom’s firm beliefs; I think she should write a book).  Sadly then, I was bra-less and FLAT (side-note: it’s 2007, and though I’m not too far from a flat-chested state, there’ve been remarkable advancements in bras; these days, I wave around my big ol’ holographic knockers, and the men on the subway LOVE it ). 

So yeah, that’s what I looked like at age 14.  You’re probably thinking, “Oh god, I hope she didn’t try to hump him, not while she looked like that“, but hey, I had some good points too!  Seriously, check it out:

A: He has just broken up with his big-boobed girlfriend (she was forced to get a breast-reduction due to back problems)
B: He and I were now friends, laughing and joking every day (and we all know what that means right? Don’t you? No? Well FINE, I’ll spell it out for you: “girls with good personalities ALWAYS win… “ )

It was time to make my move.

Since we were only 14, the best plan I had was the ”pass a note and ask him out” type-thing.  I had this one friend who was ALL about “helping me out”.  Though she wasn’t my best-est friend by any means, she seemed real excited to lend a hand (at the time, I thought she was my biggest fan, but in hind-sight, she may have been looking for a show…).

So I let my friend write the note, and here is a re-creation (and no Jeff is NOT his real name…)

Now WHY it seemed like a good idea to ask BOTH questions in an “all or nothing” approach is beyond me, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

So my friend went ahead and passed him the note in French class (come on baby, it’s French class, the perfect romantic setting! ).

I sat in the back well away from them both, pretending I couldn’t see.

Of course I observed every detail, and here’s what I saw: he read it, his face turned all red (good sign?), he wrote down an answer, and passed back the note.

My friend read the note, put it away, and didn’t even look at me once (uh-oh, bad fucking sign right?).

After class, she took me aside and read me his answers:

Oh.

After finding out the answer, I felt like the ugliest, most retarded fucking loser in the world.

The worst part was, I had 3 or 4 classes with this guy! From that day on, I couldn’t even look him in the eye; I even stopped answering questions in class (which was very unnatural for a brown nerd like me).   In addition to losing my intellectual spirit, I stopped washing my hair, my feet, and my ears (everything else was fine, but those three things went on a “wash strike”, for maybe the next 3 years…)

This story may not seem like an obvious form of embarrassment (like when the bucket of pig’s blood landed on “Carrie” ), but it was more like a prolonged, gutting humiliation, the kind that lasts for a lifetime. 

And listen, all sarcasm aside, this brown chick’s heart got a little bit hurt. I mean yeah, maybe I grew up, and maybe I stopped looking like a greasy long-haired dude, but for AGES I was insecure, wondering if I’d ever be worthy of a date. 

And sure, I may have only been a kid, but when I was “in it”, those were some “be all and end all” feelings, hell fucking yeah…

I think that’s why the embarrassment stands out like a stick in the mud…you never forget your first crush, and you NEVER forget your very first rejection (or the 10 or 15 that follow it…I mean…uhhh….shut up).

SUPER-Embarrassing Moment #3: Only Fools Rush In…

I preface this entry with all things ”LOVE“.

As I write this, I’m listening to my future wedding song, i.e. “Can’t Help Falling In Love” (and of course it’s the Elvis Presley version! (seriously I love this song)…Swoon…don’t worry, I’m inviting you all to “Romi’s Big Day” ).

As you read this post, I encourage you to listen to Elvis, so here ya go:

 

Alright then, let’s get started…

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Love.

It might just be the most two-faced emotion in the world.  It can bring you your greatest joy, as well as your toughest pain…in the end, love is a nasty bitch.

And how does this treachourous dance even start?  It doesn’t take a lot (or so I’ve learned), and most often, it begins with a little crush…

***

…When I was 12, I experienced my very first crush. He was a dreamy All-American fella, with a hint of Jimmy-Dean-ish rebellion.

I’d known him for 3 long years, a time that had been peppered with verbal and physical assault (of the mutual variety).

It was childhood animosity at its finest .

I had never really thought of him in any great detail (except in relation to punching), but he was starting to grow and blossom.

In his current state, he had recently grown 4 inches (and of course I mean “G-rated” height vs. “X-rated” length, you sick sick bastards…) .  His jaw-line was coming in nicely, slowly assuming a rigid and angular form (my favourite ). His hands had also grown, changing from the grubby little child-hands that grossed me out, to those rugged “look at me I’m in a band and play guitar” type-hands.

Needless to say, he was nothing short of “delicious man-boy”…this was all very new and exciting.

Now when I first truly noticed I’d fallen for the boy, it kinda went like this:

-The class was in line at the teacher’s desk, so she could grade all our quizzes one-by-one. He was standing directly in front of me, in a big blue sweatshirt with a “Wolverines” logo on the front (I guess the “Michigan Wolverines” are a football team, but fuck it, I hated football then and I still friggin’ do…).

-As I stood behind him in line, I started to take him in, inch-by-lovely-inch. From his dirty blond mane of-”you should’ve shampooed that yesterday“-hair, right down to the 5 or 6 freckles on his nose; he was beautiful. He was also wearing some musky drug-store cologne, and I won’t even pretend I wasn’t loving it . As I leaned in closer (to take a deeper sniff of his “essence”), the back of my hand brushed his sleeve, and THAT’S what really killed it:

-THAT was the very first time, I became all…“weak in the vagina”.

Magical.

Now even though I was obviously smitten, there was ONE glaring problem in this “we’re gonna fall in love and get married” plan:

-He had a girlfriend.

Yes, he was courting some All-American girl, who had grown all her boobs by age 9 (wtf?), and was now running around with GI-NORMOUS ”floaties” (had she lived in 1912, I know she could’ve saved the Titanic, I just KNOW IT!).  She also wore make-up, which I would NOT be getting into for another 6 years (mom’s defense: eye-shadow=whore). 

So basically I was fucked (not in a good way), which meant I had to sit back, and slowly bide my time.

I decided to keep a low profile, and maybe do some blossoming of my own in the meantime…

Fast-forward 2 years later, and suddenly I was in high school (I know, TWO years later, boy do I work fast (shut up)) .

Anyhoo, with two years of development under my belt, I had changed in the following ways:

………

???

————————————————————————————————————————

Not to be a tease, but this story’s pretty long, so I’ll post the conclusion later on in the week.

And that leaves us with the following questions:

-What happens to our lovesick fool? 

-What sort of crushing embarrassment befalls her?  Is it the overt, more physical kind? Or the subtle, more emotional kind that eats away at her, until many years later she jumps off a ledge?  (Feel free to mull it over … )