A Well-Rounded Woman
In the Chicago neighborhood where she grew up, everybody loved the girls with the curves. Decades later, she loves her own.
Thank God for tiny kitchens . Somewhere between the stove and the refrigerator, I get my daily confirmation from my husband, Stephen, that he is well pleased with what God gave me.
"What's that, baby? I didn't hear you," is my standard comeback, because I always want to hear him say it again -- and he does.
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"Lord, have mercy. Look at what I got. All mine, mine, mine."
And so our dance begins. And dinner is put on hold.
You love these? I whisper as I point to the dozens of freckles on my face.
"Yes," he says.
"And these? You love these?" I ask, bringing my lips to a full pout.
"Yes, I love those," he says with his trademark brow raise.
"But what about this and this and this and that and . . . ?"
"All of you," Stephen interjects, pulling both my hands in to his chest. Still I continue like a stock boy taking inventory. Kinky hair balls on the back of my neck . . . check . . . stretch marks on the back of my upper arms . . . check . . . hips . . . check . . . thighs . . . check. And how about the scar on my knee I got when I was 13, running full speed to the corner store when I was supposed to stay on the porch?
"That, too," he says, nodding.
"All of this, huh?" I ask, tracing my silhouette -- all 5-foot-5-inch, 188-pound, D-cup wearing me, with my 30-inch waist and 43-inch hips.
