HOT CHICK, you said?

It’s been a long time since I’ve been called a HOT CHICK.

And why would it matter to me, anyway? Aren’t I past all that?

Well, no. It seems not. I heard through a friend that those words were used by a stranger to describe me a few days ago when I had occasion to be in their workplace. My spirit was lifted for several hours. Well, maybe a little longer than that, if I’m being honest.

And to make it even better, the person who knows me told this stranger that the HOT CHICK is over 60, which didn’t seem to matter to either of them. I was still a HOT CHICK.  

Which wasn’t the case a few years ago. My gym membership card had a thick layer of dust on the plastic cover, if I could find it at all.  My closet had a dual personality, too. The larger sizes were in the front where the good light was, while the smaller ones cowered in the dark in the back. It was like two women lived in my house. And the smaller one didn’t appear to be coming back.

Full length mirrors had become my enemy. The pressure of my life pulled the corners of my mouth down into a perpetual grimace. I had weight everywhere, body and soul. No hot chick lived in my house, that’s for sure.

Then I attended a party one evening, a wonderful gathering with friends. One of them had a camera. Not only were photos taken, they were posted on Facebook. I truly didn’t recognize myself. How does that happen, our bodies taking one fork in the road, while our minds refuse to follow?

I had my butt kicked by a picture. It was that simple 

And today, I’m a HOT CHICK.  Forgive me as I gloat a bit.

 If you want to look young and thin, hang around old fat people.

Jim Eason