- Kymberlie ~ WriterOfTheStorm.com
- Kymberlie Ingalls is native to the Bay Area in California. She is a pioneer in blogging, having self-published online since 1997. Her style is loose, experimental, and a journey in stream of consciousness. Works include personal essay, prose, short fictional stories, and a memoir in progress. Thank you for taking a moment of your time to visit. Beware of the occasional falling opinions. For editing services: http://www.rainfallpress.com/
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
I know I’m not pretty, but am okay with that. I’m a whole lot of things, that just ain’t one of ‘em. Strangely enough, I get ‘cute’ a lot – but cute in my mind is reserved for puppy dogs and cheerleaders, not dark souls like myself.
It’s said that when a woman reaches a certain age, her beauty flourishes because she has become more confident in herself, something that only comes with miles. I’ve definitely done the drive, but all that stares back at me in the rearview mirror are darker eyes and a tired soul.
More Wicked Witch than ‘pretty’ little Dorothy.
Last week I told my husband my eyes baffled me. They’re not my mom’s, not my dad’s. Someone said a man could fall into them and never find his way out. Truth be told, I get that a lot. It’s a good way to tell when someone is lying to me, because I don't do eye contact – so how would they know? If our eyes are the windows to what’s inside, I’d rather keep the curtains closed.
There it is. I can prop up the old girls for an impressive display of cleavage, show off my pretty little painted toenails, try everything to turn my lumps and bumps into curves and contours, but at the end of the day it’s all about the innards, isn’t it?
Finally, I went to the ultimate judge: “Honey, when we first met, I was not like the other women you were dating. Why did you want to see me again? What was it you saw that first night?”
The pause only served to show his sincerity: “You were real.”