Tag Archives: body image

A Case of the Blues

I know I said I wouldn’t let Valentine’s Day get to me and I know I said I was a very single Pringle who was oh so ready to mingle (that still stands, gentlemen) and even though I am a kickass individual with a titanium outer shell, I’m still a cotton candy flavoured ball of fluff in the middle. I saw one too many flower bouquets and I almost exploded.

So as you all know, I suffer heavily from a bad case of judgetitis and well, I did something pretty shitty on Sunday. My friends and I were leaving the cinema, we had just finished watching Fifty Shades of Grey (a little disappointing but that’s what happens when you try to turn a crappy book into a decent film, it reeks of mediocrity no matter how hard you try. Soundtrack was good though) and I noticed this couple on the escalator heading out. They couldn’t have been much older than me. It was the lady who caught my eye. She was short and stout and she knew she was womanly, you know? She carried her body with pride, she rocked her flesh. She had a buxom like I had never seen before, she had a little blue turban on her head, killer weave underneath and her makeup looked good. In hindsight, she did actually look good. As she was walking away with her date, I just looked at her and I said out loud “if that’s her boyfriend, there’s hope for me then.” One of my girlfriend’s looked at me like I had just sworn at her and I might as well have. I couldn’t stop thinking about that girl and as I was walking home and I concluded that I am a confused little mess.

Absolutely no shade to thin girls but I would rather have thunder thighs than a thigh gap on any day. I admire big women, I admire their courage, their confidence, their ability to stay true to themselves and to their God-given voluptuousness when the world is cramming this seemingly desirable archetype of a body down our throats. Curves are works of art, they are beautiful, defined lines on a woman, lumps and bumps everywhere that carve us out from skin and bone. I’m not a size two and I am proud of that.

So why was I such a bitch on Sunday when I saw that woman?

Because I’m a jealous old cow.

I don’t feel overjoyed seeing couples, everyone knows this. I’m one of those “if I can’t be happy, no one can!” people but for theatrical reasons. I am wanting, okay? “So why don’t you put yourself out there?” you say. Well, I see it as how do you put yourself out there when there isn’t really anything to put yourself out there to? Do you get what I mean?

I think this is just a prolonged case of the blues weighing down on me. Writing is therapeutic for me and it’s even better knowing you are reading this, having an emotional response to this.

I guess, when I saw that lady, I mentally did a comparison as to what she could offer and I could offer and I couldn’t quite understand how she had done it. You know when you see people you know in relationships and you’re just thinking, “hold up, you were more than single 6 months ago, how the f*ck did you move so fast?”

I’ve been seeing it a lot lately and it leaves me utterly flabbergasted. I don’t get it, am I the only one? Is there some club everyone is joining that guarantees you will find a boyfriend?

I guess it’s down to experience. I’ve never been in a relationship with someone I’ve met here in the UK. Born and bred Nigerian boys all the way. I think there’s just something about Nigerian boys who were born and brought up here that literally repels me, maybe its’s the lack of awareness? I feel like there’s an actual brick wall between me and them whenever we try and converse, absolutely nothing is being assimilated. Sigh, the drought is real.

Anyways, about that lady: it was a bitch move on my part and if she ever reads this, I apologise for oogling at you like that. I don’t want your boyfriend (y’all looked cute though), I was just amazed at how you’d found him, that’s all.

Did any of this make sense by the way?

Quote of the Week: “Still finding myself, let alone a soulmate.” – Drake

Song of the Week: Jungle – Drake https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0lKH5dMNcq0

Drake’s got me all in my feelings, as you can tell.

Georgina ❤

I am Me, Not My Chesticles.

I’ve wanted to talk about this for a really long time but I felt it was too soon to be thrust upon you. However, we’re 8 weeks in, I think I’m allowed to discuss this.

Disclaimer: this has nothing (okay, maybe a little bit) to do with recent events (yes, point at yourself, I’m referring to you) so don’t think this is one my shadeful, judging lollipops to you. This is just an outcry for help of understanding the immense interest, or more like, the obsession with breasts. If you can’t handle the word ‘breasts’, you shouldn’t be on the internet, let alone this blog, okay?

When God made me, He decided that when I grew older, my breasts would also grow with me. He also decided to make boys completely fascinated with breasts right around the time that I (and a lot of other endowed girls out there) were beginning to accept and deal with their assets. I don’t go around shoving my breasts under everyone’s nose, I don’t confine myself to the wonders of turtle/bottle necks either. I wear what I want but I am decent. I wear tank tops under certain items of clothing, I wear camisoles, I am continuously tugging my tops up to prevent epic disasters. I even invested in a pair of minimiser bras from Marks and Spencer’s recently. I can’t help it if I lean over and you see Paris from inside my shirt. Leaning is a fundamental exertion. Let me live. There are times when I myself am awed by my own cleavage but I keep those moments to myself, mostly. I’m no Kim Kardashian, as you can probably tell.

I refer to my breasts in many varying ways such as boobs (even though I use this the most, it’s one of my most hated words. it’s just so… irritating), jugs (only to my nearest and dearest), breasts and my all-time favourite, chesticles. I call them chesticles because there is power in this word. If a man stood before me right now and we were trying to engage in a somewhat meaningful conversation about the controversy over the reception of Ebola in the diaspora, for example, and my eyes continuously fleeted between his own eyes and his testicles, wouldn’t he be itching to grab me by the chin and tell me through gritted teeth, “Hey, eyes here. Eyes no go there.” Well, that’s exactly how I feel when I attempt to converse with many a member of the opposite sex. My eyes are on my face, right above my nose. They are not dangling from my chest. I don’t know, am I missing something here? Am I unaware of how my own breasts appear? Are my breasts the first to have ever existed? I’m starting to think that if one day, I had a mastectomy, I wouldn’t have nearly half as many boys attempting to speak to me. I really think my breasts are like a beacon for some of these aforementioned boys. It’s sad. I am a human being, you know. My bra size doesn’t determine how much of a person I am. I like to think I’m a good person, I’m intelligent (ish), I’m friendly, I can cook (ish), I like to read, I like sleep, I like buying things on Amazon compulsively, I like listening to music, I like blogging. All these things have no effect or are not affected by my breasts. So what is the problem?

I get it: there’s something arousing about them. There’s something sexual about them. There’s something there that makes the boys go loco. It offsets this burning sensation to mention my breast size, just to make sure I am aware of the power I possess on my chest. Hey, I do it too. I ogle at fellow ladies every now and again, I comment on their breasts. Even my friends do it too. They tell me how mahoosive my chest is. I can deal with people telling me or commenting on my chest size, it’s the very loose equivalent of commenting on how large someone’s eyes/nose/mouth is. It’s just another body part. But, sex is associated with breasts. And because of this, a lot of boys make it their mission to acquire information and visual data on as many heavily endowed girls out there as they can possibly get their hands on, no pun intended. And I’m done with that sh*t. No one should expect something like that from me or any other girl out there who isn’t parading their chesticles like a pay-per-view channel. Things like that equate to vulnerability, intimacy. I’m not just about to throw things like that to anyone. I don’t care how big a deal it is or isn’t to you. Even if I did want to share such moments, it would only be with my lover. My absolute lover. Or my mother when she walks in on me in the shower but you get the idea.

So, to my male readers and even some female readers (yes, I see you), think before you ask for that picture or before you comment on her chesticles in a way that you know will immediately eject her from her comfort zone with you. Think about the effects, short and long-term, on both her and yourself. Do you really want to wreck a friendship/budding romance/whatever because you couldn’t control what’s in that mind of yours or those boxers/briefs/whatever? Think about it. Think long and hard.

Remember ladies, you choose what defines you. If you want to be known for your chesticles, here’s a fist pump in agreement. If you don’t, here’s a fist pump in agreement. Don’t let someone call you prudish or uptight or even outlandish because of what you want for yourself.

Do you, honey boo-boo.

Mini Rant of the Week: Please look after our planet. I’ve watched enough films to know the people who write these things probably know more about the fate of Earth than I do. Recycle, turn your lights off when you’re not in the room, turn the switches on your plugs off, don’t throw food away if you can’t finish it. Save it for later or give it to someone who will happily eat it for you. Walk, ride a bike, take public transport more often. Interstellar (the movie) not only confused the hell out of my mind but it’s scared me sh*tless as well. I don’t know about you but I don’t want to meet an untimely death and I would like my children and at least my children’s children to live in a fairly decent world. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for the generations to come. And if you really couldn’t give 2 sh*ts about humans in general, do it for the polar bears because who doesn’t love a polar bear?

Song of the Week: Miss Amor – Azealia Banks (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6SgqYMl5R8)

Quote of the Week: “My feelings don’t disappear but I’ve learnt, with age, to use them for the greater good.” – Unknown.

Georgina x