I get home.
I strip off the man-made bindings and walk around wearing the clothes God gave me.
I look down and wonder if this kangaroo pouch of mine will ever tone up into the lines and form I covet.
Six packs they call it.
I marvel at the width of the waist and hips.
The former the size of a big man’s hands from forefinger to stretched thumb and the latter as wide as his shoulders.
I exaggerate…
I find that I’m comfortable in my own skin.
There are flaws. Quite a few actually.
but I’ve come to love them
And wear them like honour badges.
P.S: What have I learnt? That I am beautiful 6 packs or not.
brownpapyrus 