Making Peace With The Fact That You Look Like A Video ..Girl..

silly goose, your body

My back side came to be in the 8th grade. Not that it wasn’t disproportionate before hand, Ev is going to be blessed in all of the same ways I can see it now, but puberty did not spare me. I remember walking up the stairs in junior high and a boy gasping out loud ohh my God who is that?! I turned around and he was shocked little ol’ Reggy from the block looked like JLo from the waist down. None of us were ready. 

I’ve had a love hate relationship with my body as a whole and my whole ass for the better part of my life. By the grace of God and the help of  my friends I have largely stopped waging war against my body in the past four-ish years. I’m still working on fully embracing it. Yet still times pop up when I surprise myself, shall I share…

Yesterday, on the international holiday of woman stuffing them selves into strappy contraptions, lace and satin, I abided.  A few days prior J and I had perused through the negligee department of our local Dillards. He pointed at all things minuscule and see through while I held up floor length opaque frocks suitable for Grandma. At one point a passer-by laughed out loud at us. I reminded often, “Jesus Christ, Julius I’m somebody’s mother”. Truth. But the truth is also that millions of mothers on this planet are workin’ it. Being a mother in no way diminishes your sexuality if you don’t let it. My reality is it just seems so silly to dress like a stripper (yes, this is subjective) regardless of the holiday, company, or sobriety.

In defense of pubic hair, cotton granny panties, sweat pants and extra large t-shirts. 
-Google gynecological health. Hair is for a reason.
-Silks, satins, Lycra and all things wedged up your butt crack do not breath and vaginas need to breathe.
-No body wants to sleep with under wires jabbing, panties creeping, garters and thigh highs. And let’s be real after the fun I’m going to pass out like a brown bear going down for winter hibernation.
-The realest of the real reasons, the pomp and circumstance lasts about 5 seconds. Then we get stripped naked any way. Let’s do the math: 15 minuets exfoliating, shaving and plucking. 20 minutes figuring out how the G-damn hookey contraptions work, 5 minutes getting your winged eyeliner just right- we know how every man loses his shit over that perfect angled tip… 5 more minutes tucking and sucking and doing 360s in the mirror, fuck gotta readjust at least one of the straps and bobbles. That’s a total of 45 minutes for 5 seconds of glory. I’m no mathematician but God damn.

So yesterday because I’m a selfless person and sympathetic to the cries of, “You just don’t understand what men want” (I may have asserted the aforementioned arguments a time or two) I strapped my self in. It took just as long as I thought. And then I turned a round. HOLY FLIPPING LORD I literally looked like a centerfold for some B rated nearly-porn magazine. I’ve got booty for days. Not news. But still somehow shocking in the right rig.

There’s some bizarre disconnect in seeing your business casual, mom hair cut self so sexualized (for me,  if this isn’t your struggle then good for you sister let’s hear your raawwwrrrr). I don’t know if it’s easier to walk into a room where the spectator is the love of your life and one of the silliest people you know or if I would prefer a total stranger. It’s hard to embody a persona to fit your body. I did a good job of not taking myself remotely seriously. Because I just, couldn’t.

So, who won? No one and both of us. J learned that the impossible was a possibility. And I learned that I have to go through this entire ritual more. Not for him or any one else but for me. Because I’m so damn used to looking at my self covered in dog fur, tussled hair and ratty pajamas that my body in… well fitting… attire looks utterly foreign. Last night I literally looked in the mirror and didn’t remotely recognize the girl woman before me. Even if I look like one of those rap guy’s girl friends and that’s not who I am in my heart of hearts I need to make friends with that reality. All of me is mine. 

This morning I woke up trying to make heads or tails of all of this. So I put on leggings and I wore them as pants. Not because I love that look, but because I have to get used to seeing alllllllll of my ass in it’s full glory instead of tucking it into something in hopes that it won’t look so obscene. Hi my name is Reagon, and I have a ginormous beautiful full derriere and I’m not apologizing for it anymore. If it shocks you, entices you or repulses you well that’s your business not mine. I’m doing ALL of me from here on out.

Rawwrrrrrr, and love.




when sparks fly


Are you stuck at:
“There was no spark.”
“We had no chemistry.”
“I can’t put my finger on it, I just wasn’t feel in’ it. “

I’ve got to admit that the lack of magic or fireworks had been the least of my worries for most of my adult life. For years I was concerned with the relationship fundamentals: safety, respect, kindness, loyalty, essential daily functions. Sparks, shit, not even on my radar.

I gave my self a very stern talking to one night, “Reagon, let go of the notion of prince charming- he doesn’t exist”.

That was the beginning of a path that lead me to other reasonable 21st century dating conclusions:
There is no “one”. A great love may not exist. Settling is a commendable achievement. It’s unrealistic to expect for your romantic partner to fulfill all of your emotional needs that’s why we have other friends. The great ones are taken. And finally, the most real of them all, you come with “baggage” that complicates every enduring  relationship and takes most of them off of the table before they even start.

You may have noticed that I left out any details about my brilliant, loving, supportive personality that may make winning over my dream man a bit of a challenge. It’s not me, it’s you, really.

Well, I’ve got bad news mediocre man. Exactly one year ago today this really cute guy that I used to work with sent me a Facebook message (the beginning of any good modern romance) filled with way too much flattery and a few too many winky faces, plus he called me lovely. Put a fork in me.
Within a couple of days I was a wash in the warm waters of lust. Which quickly evolved into hours of talking and laughing with a cyber version of a man that seven months earlier was breath and pulse the next desk over.

It has always been so easy to talk to him, probably too easy.  (We still accidentally stay up until 2 in the morning one upping each others silly stories.) The ease of saying the outrageous things that regularly come out of my mouth without wincing in anticipation of his reaction is a rare find. I met my crazy match– not intended as a compliment to either of us.

He is so much of my happiness. I’ve realized that when one of us is off… Okay when J is off, because when I’m in a bad mood, stressed or just want to take a g-damn nap I’m not particularly concerned with how that impacts other people’s life. Maybe I should look into that. But any who. When J is in the midst of his zombie days (after working night shifts) or when he’s grumpy because he spent 3 hours on hold with the IRS that day and he isn’t sunshine, rainbows, quippy comebacks and full of fun facts then I get really sad.
Maybe that’s selfish. Okay, so it definitely is. But, the reality of our reality is that our hamster wheel of life isn’t exactly the most uplifting story. That though there are tangible changes in the very near future that the present is kinda shitty. I lean on (my) this man so much for my healthy mental state. Literally the surge neurotransmitters that keep me so lovely.


If you’re a super nerd like me go here and buy one of everything.

I’m pretty sure that he likes me too. (In fact for Valentines day he’s either proposing to me or taking me to an all you can eat buffet at Furr’s Cafeteria. Maybe both. No pressure bro.) So, I’m going to go ahead and conclude that we’ve got the chemistry thing down.

I get all a twitter over new love interests all too easily. Hence my litany of failed relationships. But with J I just kept and keep falling in love with him over and over again. Of course I was doing so in a very mild-mannered way, I would never do something as creepy as this and send it to him or anything….


Jeeze, just kidding, I just made that. I’m not at all worried about being a level 10 psycho stalker anymore.

But fo real. Despite being absolutely enamored with this man I was really confused about how he felt about me and what the real romantic potential of our relationship was. Mostly because we were blessed with a terrible curse. We lived three states away. Other than that one time on Okay Cupid and those awkward years with your Brad Pitt poster have you ever fell in love with a man that you could’t reach out and touch? That you couldn’t remember how he smelled (probably a blessing… just kidding J is an incredibly hygienic man and was only afflicted with this terrible funk for a few months well after I decided that I loved him for better or worse smells). That you had no idea what your physical chemistry would be like?
It’s a magical combination of a leap of faith and the assurance that no matter what it ended up being in immediate proximity that you fell in love with his soul first.

Because sometimes my mind wonders to a morbid place I think about how terrible that it would be to be auditioning life partners again. Not only because it’s extremely rare that I meet a man that I can stand for more than 15 seconds, let alone one attractive, funny and brilliant all new standards in my life. But because I know what it is like for the first time in my life to wake up everyday in the midst of explosive sparks that I can put all of my fingers on. He’s my one. He’s not a prince but he is charming. And mostly because just by simply being committed to Ever and I’s happiness he has fulfilled more of my emotional needs than the combination of all of the other beautiful people in my life.

I’m a lucky girl.