Hooters and stomachs

When I was growing up in Mississippi, my mother always made sure my clothes weren't too tight -- she always advised going a size larger to be comfortable.

But when I moved to England, I looked frumpy and middle-aged, even though I was only in my early 30s. So I started wearing tighter clothes to fit into trendier Europe even if that didn't go down well whenever I went home.

But now that I'm older, I have another problem -- my hooters! They get bigger as I get older, and I have become self-conscious. I mean, they aren't enormous, but they aren't normal-sized either.
So I was thinking I'd better cover them up -- in essence, go back to my old Mississippi way of dressing.

Then I noticed guys around the office with big stomachs. Their stomachs hang out over their belts, poke out of their shirts, strain every button & they don't seem self-conscious at all. So why should I worry about my boobs?

You can belong and be manipulated, or be isolated and free

I grew up in conservative Mississippi -- a girl with three older brothers. My father was so concerned with their education and upbringing that he didn't pay much attention to me; the plan was that I was just going to get married anyway.

Now, years later, I have ended up in England and have forsaken all of my former views of religion and politics. This makes me feel strange -- on the one hand, I have the freedom to think and feel the way I want; on the other hand, I have lost my sense of community and belonging.

But I still retain the essential Southern trait of wanting to be nice and have everyone like me! This makes it hard for me to say what I'd like to say -- hence this blog.

For example, last week I was out having a drink with the girls. I had just seen the first episode of Eddie Izzard's 'the Riches' and was completely enamoured of the poem that he quotes at the last:

"Who are you really, wanderer?"--
and the answer you have to give
no matter how dark and cold
the world around you is:
"Maybe I'm a king."

So I had the poem printed out in my bag and I wanted to talk about it. I wanted to quote from it and discuss what Stafford White had told an interviewer:

"I keep following this sort of hidden river of my life, you know, whatever the topic or impulse which comes, I follow it along trustingly. And I don't have any sense of its coming to a kind of crescendo, or of its petering out either. It is just going steadily along."

But did I? No.