Morning Ritual

Chapter 1 - Curves vs clothing

Many a sculptor has sought to transmute stone into curves, but none have paralleled their paragon, the woman forged from angelic suppleness who as I narrate wields the wings of dreams. She touches down, casting a resonant wave of colorful sound as the portal to the mortal realm suddenly exists. The soul un-caged in thought now reoccupies its imperial vessel. At this moment, the sun rises, and I do not refer to the raging reactor our planet orbits. Her twin stars, dual heavenly spheres, suddenly sing with a motion liberated from any restraint (which also triggers a 1.3 on the Richter scale), casting the most delicious pale light through their innocent dance. She rises to a sitting position, and there is no manufacturer of furniture whose products are ultimately indestructible to the tremorous endeavor of her superior posterior. (She makes a mental note to try IKEA next time, because if any consolation it is inexpensive.) Even the little paunch created by her posture, above the staunchest thighs, seems to grin - daydreaming about the levels of fattening fullness it sits between.

One relaxation of rain and soap later, she hardens her wits for battle. The dryer has betrayed her once more. Clothing seemed to exist on a different plane from her to begin with, as no matter the sort, she couldn't conceal her collection of concussive bursts and bangs - and this is with the correct sizes. The lower piece of intimate wrapping takes a whole two minutes to correctly align, digging in more than should be possible, creating succulent rolls on her front and sides. (The pants got up and ran away by now, so a skirt today, I guess.) Her upper holster has similar difficulties, but eventually creates cleavage so deep that a few dozen geologists suddenly feel an odd desire to conduct novel research. She pulls her attention away from the chasm (hey, no one's immune) to cuss out an old but favorite t-shirt, which fits in much the same way as crude oil could be used to quench thirst: very poorly. It's a matter of time before it concedes at covering her midriff and the navel which deepens with each cookie she sneaks (she really doesn't have to be clandestine, living alone) but why can't that failure be a secret thrill of its own?

Locking the front door, she anticipates sixty-seven (standard deviation 4.2) glances and all-too-audible comments on today's fashion. Wouldn't have it any other way.