Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Ideal

Someone who keeps my hours is inevitably exposed to lots of late night television and the inescapable horrors therein: infomercials. The most odious by far are the diet/weight loss programs that bombard you with before-and-after photos. And my reason for hating these infomercials isn't due to self-esteem issues or anything like that.

It's the women.

It shows these skeletal waifs who I am expected to accept as attractive, though I could probably play their ribs like a xylophone. Frightfully thin, jump-around-in-the-shower-just-to-get-wet thin. And I don't buy it. For many of these women, the before photos are far more attractive. One woman bemoaned that she used to be a size sixteen. She complained how she always felt fat, but now she was so happy as a size three. They show the before image, and I think, "Damn! She used to look really good!" Lush body, full of curves, with the classic hourglass shape. Some women are blessed with a figure that bears a little extra weight proudly, even if the woman herself does not.

It's a complete and utter shame. Women should be made of curves, not angles.

Seeing all this size bullshit (and bullshit it is--why are most women so sensitive that they can't stand to see a measurement label on their clothes?), I realized that I don't really know how the whole sizing chart is broken down. So I Googled, and I found this. I thought about the measurements I generally prefer to see on women, and this is what I figured: my ideal woman falls within the range of sizes ten to sixteen.

Just one more bit of evidence supporting the fact that I was born in the wrong century.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

My Old Nemesis

Mark this well, folks. It won't be too often you'll see poetry from me. The sophistication grieves me. It doesn't help that I naturally suspect pretension when faced with any form of poetry. Nor does it help that I have no capacity to judge poetry.

***

I love the places where breath shows in the crisp air,
the times when we dimly remember skins and furs
and mammoth-tallow campfires,
and looking up at brittle-edged stars.

You notice things, appreciate them,
like the press of a warm body against you,
heat like a line of fever,
scalding so nice.

You shiver, the little muscle-trick to bring warmth
and remind your blood to keep flowing.
You ignore the burn of ear and cheek and nose,
and you sniffle and snort and snerk,
and you pretend it's not a bother.

Because really, who braves the cold anymore,
who opens up to the bracing bite
and in surrendering, conquers?
Who cannot venture forth lest they be zipped,
head to toe?

Rejoice! Rejoice where others cringe!
Fling wide your arms and cast off your coat!
Let it fly in the northern wind.
Fill your lungs and rejoice,
and watch your breath in the crisp air.