The spirituality of imperfection

One of my favourite authors is the late M. Scott Peck and in the book “The Road Less Traveled,” he prompts us to face the facts.
“Life is difficult.”
Peck believed that if we acknowledge and understand that life is difficult, then it won’t matter if life takes a wrong turn at Albuquerque because we’ll already have accepted that those things will happen.
I think he was a great sage, but I’ll bet he would have changed his tune if he would have had as much trouble finding pants to fit his waist-to-rear-end ratio as I do—and still not have to chop five inches off the bottom of each leg so that he didn’t trip.
Maybe if I adopted Forrest Gump’s famous adage instead, I’d be better at coping with my hip size. Then every time I went shopping for new clothes, I’d go at it without expectations.
“Life is like a box of chocolates—you never know what you’re going to get.”
On second thought, I don’t think so. I’d just eat all the chocolates and end up in worse trouble.
You guessed it, I’m steamed. Because I ended up in the city last week and—once again—couldn’t find much of anything to fit my womanly figure the way I thought it should.
By the way, just who decided that gals with big hips had an advantage when it came to bearing children? It must have been a guy.
I try very hard these days to keep my figure. Sometimes I lose it and it runs away with the potato chip salesman, but I always manage to lure it back with visions of that slinky little number in black or jeans that don’t come with the advertising label that has “stretch” written all over it.
And still at 45 years of age and knowing much better, I remain notorious for picking the wrong size clothing off the rack, especially when I see something I like at an exceptional clothing sale destination I go to once a year south of the border.
I hold up the said item, stretch the fabric to match my hip size, think it will fit, and bring it home. Then I try it on, it doesn’t fit, and I stomp off to the cupboard to find the chocolate box—vowing to lose 50 pounds in a matter of weeks in order to get into the thing.
Of course, there’s always my spandex “Body by Ganz” 38 D-cup body-shaper—in black and in beige. Never tried on the little temptresses, just bought them and brought them home.
On second thought, let’s not get into that one. Getting out of it can give the guy standing next to you a black eye.
Then there’s the “petite” aisle of clothing in the store in the mall. But which part of “petite” are they referring to? Sure, I’m a borderline Hobbit at 5’3” tall. And gladly, the pant leg is just the right length.
But don’t challenge me to go any further than that. My petite angles go off the map just above my knee caps.
That’s when I need a booty boost from Pete, who always reminds me that there is an attractive and positive outlook to my well-rounded side that I don’t see.
I know this for sure. But that’s another story.

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