I love the word ‘willowy’. I immediately see a woman in a long white gown. the woman herself can be any color, but the gown is pure, she might be heading to a picnic. she might be wearing a hat, but there will be a stream and an actual willow. there is no other way, for me.
I am too short to have been willowy at any point in my life. It is also not the province of the overly busomy, I say. We can debate that at leisure, if you are so inclined.
Its the green in the background that completes the willowy woman. I wonder, dearly, what it is that completes me lately.
I’ve been noting the difference between maintenance and pleasure, I’ve uncovered some avoided things, I’ve recognized my penchant for obsessing over a friend’s health. (Someone somewhere needs me, is what that one boiled down to. I MUST SAVE THEM.)
I want to be willowy in the face of my needs. Graceful, sloped. Flowy. I want to be draped on the chaise of my discontent, swooning in my matcha milk bath.
I want to be willowy, damnit.