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Wake up calls take all shapes and sizes. This is my wake up call. From here on in, this is me. Sober. Single. Proud.

The image is an old one. It has past down through the centuries preserved with a reverence worthy of the Holy Grail. It is the image of the aging woman, childless, alone. Except for her big old fat cat.

With every wrinkle her chances of a different life, a life that includes the love of a man and the pitter patter of tiny feet withers. The passing of the seasons is crueler to no one that a single aging woman.

She is brandished as desperate; her child-bearing years have come and gone and borne no fruit and as a result she served no purpose to society. She failed in the one eternal human pursuit: propagation of the species.

Forgive my lofty language but being a single woman approaching forty I feel I have the right to use whatever friggin language I damn well choose. After all I’m only half the person I’m supposed to be and if nothing else bitterness is expected of me.

But I’m not bitter. I have tons of other negative emotions and depending on the time of day or time of month I’m likely to unleash them all. Anger, frustration, jealousy, impatience tumble out simply because I’ve burned the toast or fallen over the dog. Some say if I had children I’d be calmer, my hormones would be more balanced. I say bollox. If I had kids, most likely I’d just fall over them instead.