If you have been reading here for a while, you probably know (or think you know) quite a bit about the non-corporeal aag. You’ve formed some impression (favorable or not) about my mind, personality, behavior and demeanor.
Doubtlessly you have also developed in your mind a picture of my physical being. Perhaps you used my old HNT images? Or things I’ve said?
It’s likely that your image of me emphasizes things you find pleasing in a woman; if you prefer longer hair, for example, you probably imagine my hair as longer than it in reality is.
It’s only natural to do that. I don’t mind. Carry on with your imagining.
Here’s my problem. In a few short weeks, I’ll be part of a presentation at the BlogHer ’07 Conference in Chicago. This thrills and terrifies me all at the same time.
It thrills me for all the obvious reasons: Meeting new people, including bloggers I’ve read for ages; gaining more exposure for this blog; giving away goody-bags full of sexy things; spending time away from the grind of daily life; and of course, hearing myself talk. Who doesn’t like to hear herself talk?
Now for the part that terrifies me. People will see the actual me. Not snippets of me in HNT photos. Not edited profile pictures. They’ll see the whole package.
Yikes. To allay my fears, please allow me to give you fair warning right here and now of what to expect.
I’ve never in my life had a pedicure. Only once (and it was under extreme duress) have I had a manicure. I’ve had one facial (not that kind of facial, you buncha pervs). Occasionally dirt from the garden can be found embedded in the calluses of my feet; whatever facials are supposed to get rid of can doubtlessly be found embedded in my pores.
I abhor shopping for clothes. I do it as infrequently as possible. As a result, you’ll often find me wearing what seems to be the exact same black t-shirt I had on yesterday. It’s not. I own several. But they are all uniformly uninspired.
I own approximately five pairs of shoes. One pair is for mowing. Another pair is for winter shoveling. The others are equally functional but in no way extraordinary. None of them cost more than $30.
For a date, I’ll wear the bare minimum amount of makeup allowed by polite society—generally foundation, mascara and some sheer lip gloss. I buy makeup maybe once a year, and invariably the cheapest varieties. Department store products? Never.
My hair? Oh God, my hair. I’m very fond of my hair, despite the advancing gray, but it’s hardly fashionable hair. I made a deal with my hair long ago: I don’t bother it and it doesn’t bother me. It curls and waves as it will. I let it be. It looks like sex-hair all the time. I’m at peace with that.
And my body. It’s hardly the body of a sex-goddess. The breasts sag, the belly droops. There’s a c-section scar (though I don’t plan on showing that off to casual passers-by). I’ve got thick thighs, a juicy behind and a tummy.
I think you are familiar with the big tits. Yes, we’ve been over that part before.
I warn you now: I’m no Maiden. I’m a Mother, and I can feel the Crone avidly watching me from the corner, ready to take over at any moment.
Consider this fair warning.
