Plastic.

Ok. I have one of my lengthiest most painful days, and I feel like cribbing and whining and crying about everything. (It’s not like I don’t do that by the way, I do it often).

So here we go. This is something I have been dying to crib about.

I cannot for the life of me fathom why I am not happy chubby. I mean why this need for every woman to be a ‘Sheila ki jawaani’ specimen. Zero-size et al. Why the pressure? I love eating, why don’t people get it and leave me be alone. And I have guys going on about how thin girls are sexier. I am actually bored of being jut cute.

So here is the brutal truth, I look in the mirror every morning and think I need to be thinner, prettier, sexier, make a list of things to do. And then, well I get lazy and push these thoughts far back and come to work. I don’t know if I am all that. But you know I think I can live with that.

Because then I walk into the real world and see enough plastic to know, well, what the heck, I am sure the world can do with some happy, chubby, non-sexy woman like me.

And while writing this, I realized why I like writing in the first place. Because when I write I know what really matters, it sorts my head and I am hoping there is one not so sexy cute woman who will read this and smile because she is not plastic.