Vision
So my chef. Well, not MY chef, but you know who I mean. All dressed up when he left work today, but I noticed a little extra weight around the middle - too much booze. And I’m hardly one to talk, with my extra few inches. And I’m certainly not criticising him for it. Or anyone else.
What struck me was my reaction to it. Which was a mild - oh, well that’s not good. I guess it made me realise how I’d seen him. He is basically testosterone on legs and I’d viewed him as a bit of totty, something good to look at (because I can’t touch).
And now he’s expanding a little I realised I wasn’t so interested in looking. Well, not in what he was wearing today.
I’m certainly not criticising a few extra pounds. My favourite boy from church has his fair share of extra pounds (and a good pair of legs I discovered this week - hot weather, shorts bring enlightenment!), but his body is not (solely) what I’m attracted to about him. It’s about him, who he is, how we get on. The chef - it’s been about his body (and his smile).
Funny that. Despite being a very visual-orientated woman (which is why I get my knickers in a twist with all the modesty stuff, because it implies only men struggle - some of the six packs I’ve seen in the park on a sunny lunch hour this week!), if I’m honest, I’m more attracted to the one who fits society’s attractiveness measures less.
