Good cup Bad cup

I harbor about a million pet peeves, chief among them being people who smell of nothing; not soap, or a polite deodorant, or rain. Of all the delightful scents on earth, you cannot choose to smell of nothing, it is not normal, please be a sport and go floral or musky.

Today however is dedicated to those who split their cups. I mean those whose cups overflow, because proper fitting to them is optional, and so are loose fitting cotton blouses. I say, why does the fact that you are displaying four boobs not bother you? Were you a bovine in your past life? This needs to end, and it needs to end now.

So here are two tips to help you save on the spillage and keep you boobage in place. Use them and share them, especially my sisters whose cups exceed D, I understand your struggle but believe me it can be managed.

1. Bend over
This is not a sexual innuendo, you will need to bend over and jiggle when buying a bra and wearing one for the rest of your life. I came to find out that after clipping your goods in place, you need to properly position your goodies WITHIN the allocated space ( which is the bra cup). After the bending and jiggling, stand up straight and confirm that indeed,you are not over flowing. Should there be extra boob left unattended, and looks squashed, kindly dispose of that bra BECAUSE IT DOES NOT FIT!

You need to appreciate that the unattended boob situation is not as a result of those amazing pieces called push up/ wonder bras ( and yes, the bend over procedure still applies here). The product of a wonder bra will look well rounded and happy. They will not appear pushed out and crimped, but will form well rounded delicate masses; floating globes of flesh if you will.  These are more often than not is very pleasing to the eye, I beg, you are not to confuse the two.

2. Extend, extend , extend
I gather that we of the wider girth do not always get the right cup to go with the required circumference. Which results in our already existing rolls being further subdivided into something akin to a croissant. A direct result of this forcing of issues is that your front area also suffers, with your girls not only spilling over at the top, but also at the sides near the armpits. This is beyond pitiful, but have no fear, a solution is here!

Some genius somewhere invented bra extenders! A nifty little piece of thingy that latches snugly into your bra and allows you up to an extra two inches ! Imagine that! Now your ribs can breathe easy and there is no need to add to your love handles! The extenders are discreet and come in all colors, only thing is…warn your partner, s/he may take longer than usual to unclasp… you are welcome.

bra-extender

So there you have it, please take care of the environment… my eyes should suffer no longer.

Go on, cup something!

Image credits.

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Dear chubby chasers

No pity party here.

Amused. The word I use to describe my outlook on today’s society as pertains to weight. We now reside in a world of extremes… you either are pro extremely thin, or extremely fat. Being in between is too mainstream and normal never excited anyone.

So here we are, or rather, here I am. Shamelessly cheering for the team that has more to the bone. I understand there is a club that finds pleasure in mingling with the chub team… the so called chubby chasers (It should be called chubby feeders or chubby cuddlers because we cannot run… not that far anyway).  I however do understand what it is they see, and why associating with a thick girl will be nothing but corporeal.

Thing is, we know we are fat, believe me we do. Some have been all their lives, others found themselves here. We have been the butt of every joke, we have been scorned and  harangued to lose weight. We have lived to tell the tale.

By the time you interact with a thick sister, you will be swimming in positive vibes! Despite all the negative attention, we have dealt with it, and come out tops. Also, the fact that we seldom suffer Hypoglycemia does help keep the bitchy at bay.

This is Gakenia , true to her name she makes everyone happy! She is hands down the nicest person I know, with a big heart and an even bigger rack, this girl has lived through it all and now… the world is her run way.

Fatbashers please take a seat, Gakenia is curve approved!

Gakenia 2

She is sassy….watch out now!

Gakenia 3

What I see here is a “kiss my chubby ass!” pose…

Gakenia 4

Bold… doesn’t only come in colours.

curve

Raw

what’s not to love?

Have you ever watched a drunk man sell his sobriety? When he tries to cover his slur with an accent, often American, only to come off slightly mad and more drunk than he actually is?

Have you ever watched a girl in heels that are out of her comfort zone? As she tries to maintain her natural equilibrium only to come across like a drunken antelope running towards danger instead of away from it.

Have you ever seen anxiety dressed in a grey suit and dark tan leather boots, all neatly tied together by a loosened red neck tie and presented in a tasty musky cologne. It all looks very appealing until a shaking lip and slight tremor of a nervous hand presents the true position.

Yes.

We have become masters of disguise, polishing our exterior and presenting perfection, because vanity is everything.

We all posses flawless skin, firm thighs, perky breasts, deep baritones, never receding hairlines, more testosterone than an Arabian race horse;  on IG at least.

But how do we deal with the reality of who we are, and the disappointments that present themselves in bodies that refuse to comply to internationally accepted standards of beauty?

I have heard it said time and again… that there is nothing more appealing in a woman than her confidence. These here ladies exude it in truck loads! To see women who are comfortable in their skin, accept their “flaws” and make no apologies for the space they occupy has been nothing short of a beautiful high!

They are raw!

Raw skin

Raw figures

Raw flaws

Raw confidence

Allow me to introduce you to Emmah…a beautiful woman who has a bounce in her walk that will bring a tear to your eye (in a good way). Bold , confident and not apologetic….this one is the one to watch!

I welcome you to feast your eyes!

Ema 3

How the light dances on her skin…

Ema 4

Comfortable in her own skin….

ema 1

Life is too short to wear boring heels!

Emmah is also…

curve

 

Image credits : More Kodhek 

Eve, why I blame her!

Introducing the original Momo.

I have got a million problems, and Eve is one of them.

Why?

She started in me a bad habit, which happens to be more pronounced in my kind of women than others .

Let me explain.

The woman was convinced. She saw that the tree was beautiful and its fruit looked delicious, and she wanted the wisdom it would give her. So she took some of the fruit and ate it. Then she gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate it, too. Genesis 3:6

Therein lies the genesis of my problem… She ate!

I do not know what kind of fruit that was. Maybe back then, because it was Eden, fruit smelled like freshly baked cinnamon cupcakes about to be drenched in vanilla frosting. Or perhaps the fruit tasted like carbs.

I can see how resisting a giant grape, that you know too well tastes like perfectly crisp salted French fries, at 0300 hrs after imbibing industrial amounts of alcohol from Westy can be a challenge. Yes, I know how the battle against a hyperactive sense of smell and watering taste buds is lost at the sight of juicy eats that are forbidden, is it just me or do all forbidden foods look brighter and smell better when on diet?

I cannot count the number of times I cheated on Atkins especially when near the end like on day 12, because my mother broke out the heaviest wok and worked her magic on the demon infested wheat flour to produce those perfectly sized chapattis that I swear melt in your mouth. I do not know where tea appears from, but before I know it, its four cups and two chapattis later and I am regretting but still chewing on a chapo as I ponder my next move.

How I desperately try to mind my own business, making a bee line to my car from a meeting only to be assaulted by the delicious smell from that horribly located Kenchic. I am led by my nose like Salmon on bait to the counter, where the intense aroma slaps the mint from my mouth and replaces it with greasy chicken and fries “zakuonjesha”.

Yes, I know what it’s like to pack a dressing free salad to work, on the day that the boss decides to order pizza for the team, Something meaty becomes something you want to murder. My one bite turns into two slices washed down with Coke Zero, because the calories must be kept to a minimum.

The battle with food is an everlasting one. One that would not have happened if Eve had known some choice words that would have kept he who slithers at bay. Perhaps if Adam had opted to be extra romantic at that hour, and held her hand the entire time, she would not have been available to be tempted, but that is a story for another day.

Eve, I have beef with you… pun intended!

I would rather not fit in…thank you!

Why fit in when you were born to stand out? Dr. Seuss.

Where do I begin?  I will start in the middle.

Life has a funny way of putting you in your place, often via embarrassing moments such as a proper dress down by your boss in full view of your juniors. Life can also put you in your place by closing all doors, windows and cracks; especially the ones you insist on using when God clearly has better plans for you.

My current season, has me reflecting, trying and failing, and using routes that I would never have dared travel. I have come to realize my strengths, and am battling with my weaknesses, much to God’s amusement (if only I can learn to lean not on my own understand…). There are things, however that make me stand out…nay, stick out like a sore thumb. I would not trade them for the world, even though with some, my opinion was not sought, I was born with it.

So let me begin with the obvious.

Fat.

Presently trending as plus size. Meaning, I have refused to be the socially acceptable size 8. Because desert is stress spelt backwards, and how I do love my pastries.  Some plus size friends and I recently visited a market, in hunt of couture gowns with which to grace the runway. And boy did we turn heads! A shower of unwelcome comments followed us, at some point we drew a crowd.

“sister…si umekula sana!”

“Sioni ukitoshea kwa hii kiti!”

“ Hapa hakuna size yako!”

“Shukuru Mungu…si umeumbwa!”

Whoever said that sarcasm is the lowest form of intelligence was the smartest fool in class. The responses coming from my lady friends is worthy of an entire article. In this market, sarcasm was like pearls on swine . Nevertheless, I had a barrel of laughs.

Nappy Haired.

I have a glorious head of hair, which depending on my mood is a blessing or an absolute bother! I was very much the mbalas wearing type, before I got tired of sitting under steaming bowls, and having to “burn” my hair to achieve what society thinks is the hairy version of neat. To that I showed my middle finger and cut it all off. I felt like I had been reborn, I could stand under the shower and enjoy running water while in a vertical position (as opposed to seated at a sink in the salon, facepalm!).  For the longest time I refused to use an umbrella, and enjoyed watching Uchumi and Nakumatt gather instant brand ambassadors (another reason why we will not embrace paper over plastic). I just learnt that some professions will not allow dreadlocks, because of a stereotype. The day people understand that I am not my hair will be a cool day in hell.

Bow legged.

We are a very limited and small club. Comprising of folk such as myself, Beckam and Beyonce. So you can see how talent and all things nice comes with a bow?

Sarcastic.

Often mistaken for rudeness.

Please do understand that I mean well. However, when an opportunity presents itself, my tongue conspires with my brain and all manner of utterances are born.  Depending on your mood, you may choose to be amused… or offended. I will often fail to notice which way you have chosen to go, because life is short, and I have things to be, such as sarcastic.

So you see, ladies and gentlemen, I am many things to many people, and the earth has 8 billion people. What other people think of you is chiefly their business (except he who wields the power to terminate your employment or render you homeless), so go on and be bold. Refuse to be average, blending in should be the business of Marangi and company, find other people who will sharpen your person and make you want to be better. Go on, prosper!

The brief: Strut it!

You think you know, until you are shown that you don’t.

I have a confession.

I am deeply ashamed.

Long have I cherished, thrived and shamelessly embraced the thought, peddling my theory to anyone with ears.

I was by all means correct in my opinion, irrevocably above reasoning with or correction. I was never to be proven wrong, because I usually am right (call me Mrs. Smarty pants). I knew, from my observation and limited interaction, that models are the laziest crop of human beings to ever walk the earth (pun intended).

And then the truth was handed to me, in a mucus inducing type of slap in the face.
I was brought to justice, trembling in my six inch heels.

This is the genesis of my stereotype.

My mother, being the queen of glam and runner of marathons, had us watching Elsa Klench and reading magazines that had more high fashion photos than literary content from an early age. I must have watched painfully skinny girls walk around the globe, for the number of hours spent consuming all manner of designers parade the latest in fall, summer and winter collections. I knew, beyond doubt, that all “they” did was party all night, have someone dress them, slather them in makeup, and have them sashay down a runway every morning. Worse yet, they actually got paid a queens ransom to do this!

Aaaargh! Some people have it too easy!

Then came the day, when I entered the Miss Plus size Kenya pageant. Several auditions later, and I made the top 15. Then the real work (which I had not anticipated) begun. It really was very simple, until the practical’s begun.

The brief was to catwalk. That is it. Just walk like a cat. On a high wall. On a very very slim wall.

My mind accepted the challenge.
My hips sniggered and asked me to stop being silly.
My legs refused.

The thing is… I am very bow legged. So much so , that crossing my legs still leaves a yawning “O” between them. I am also flat footed, which meant the dream of legally owning a machine gun, and walking the night eliminating terror was not to be, members of the disciplined forces can stand for days and feel nothing, I cannot do a half hour.

So back to the catwalk.

Our instructors demanded that we wear double sole heels, which meant I ended up in six inchers. I thought nothing of it, until a demonstration was done on what we were to do on the cat walk. It is safe to say that my ready mind beat a hasty retreat.

“Stop swinging your arms” they said.
“Walk in a straight line” they said.
“Take smaller steps” they said.
“Your head should be last to turn” they said.
“Spin on your heels and lean back, do not fall!” they said.

In a nut shell, I was left in a heap of sweaty quivery body parts that had previously not felt so much movement.

Whatever possessed me to think that being a model was easy and for lazy people? That anyone would willingly do this for a living continues to puzzle me. Forgive me Lord!

I have found myself residing in a house that I had taken far too much pleasure pelting with stones. Put down your stones, lest you find yourself living where you despised.