Little Woman

Behind tinted window, I quietly watched a little princess who couldn’t be more than 8 walk a walk that even at 18, I couldn’t manage. With miniature teenage clothes (and she wasn’t even a tween): blue miniskirt and a fitting pink top, she was pretty and prim. And she knew it, even through tinted windows I could discern that. She was a mix of two worlds by the way. Her hair was soft and hued with brown while the base colour was primarily blonde. Her nose was flattened below the bridge and the skin, had the polka-dots of red beneath a mighty layers of yellow epidermis. If you haven’t guessed already, she was White and Chinese combined in one.

While I still pondered how women could do better without a uterus; pelicans carrying bundles of joy to be dropped at front doors would be a marvelous sight, she flicked her hair like how the models would in a television commercial. As to whom, she was flaunting it all, remains a mystery as I couldn’t see a prince charming in the vicinity.

Click-clack, click-clack, her slippers (or sandals) vandalized the concrete floor as I turned to look at my feet and consolingly saw my sport shoes encasing them – they are a box of comfort alright. The noise ceased suddenly, and I looked up to find our little lady of 8 stop dead in a pose; weight balanced on one knee, hips jutting languorously on the opposite side, one hand clutching the waist, something like an intermediate pose in between the forward stroll in a catwalk and the backward.

Her legs gleamed, exactly like how legs are meant to be (in context of today’s fashion). How can see assume her feminine faculties so darn easily while am caught in a web of cogitation as to whether or not I should spend an extra 30 minutes to strip myself of the layer of protection against the elements of nature (fur). And why? Just to wear that permanent resident of a skirt which has only been worn twice since its introduction in my closet 5 years ago.

Well, in a few years, she would have to grimly embrace many untimely circumstances, as part of being part of the female of the humanoid species. See, the male will only come to terms with diapers when he’s too young to remember or too old to even care (brain infected with senility). However, the female: woe betide us with the plastic-y felling at least 5 days a month….The thought itself is depressing…

She looks more like a Jessica than an Elizabeth, the famous twins of Sweet Valley, I said to myself as she bullied her little sister and inducing a screeching wail and a flood of tears from the latter. I was unfortunate enough to read one book in which Jessica was green with envy as Elizabeth was given an invitation to womanhood earlier with the visit of Aunt Rose (menstruation).

Would our Jessica welcome the intrusion of under-wires as willing? Honestly, bras with under-wires fit to be classified as a medieval instrument of torture than an undergarment of the fairer sex. Try washing a bra in a washing machine. The result will horrify you. The deformation of the cups would tear away your skin, including the cleavage area unless you whip it to place.

As she walked beyond the field of my vision, I exhaled with a sigh of relief. Let me live in bliss without being reminded repeatedly that I’m in between the cavity that separates male and female. I would rather play retarded football that walked with high-heels if I know I’m bound to stand for more than 15 minutes.

The smell of food calls me….