by Bolade Ogunfuye
What is the perfect age for a woman? What is the optimal tooth-length for the fashion-loving, private-room swearing, trash-talking, liquor-swigging, TV-show bingeing, hubris-prone female human specimen? I say, thirty two years old. Give me a minute, allow me to introduce you to the 32 year old Nigerian woman.
Step back, see the wonder of the beauty of a thirty two year old woman; see the possibility that the thirty two year old woman has not yet begun the dogged habit of looking endlessly behind; at all the things she has lost, the regrets, the dreams never pursued, the relationships she didn’t invest in, the man that got away, the job she turned down, the questionable night of sex that may have given her herpes. And she has gotten over the habit of looking endlessly forward; at the plans she is yet to achieve, the new year’s resolutions forgotten before end of January, the kids she is yet to conceive from the boyfriend she is yet to admit she needs, decorating the house she is yet even know she needs to save to buy, the holiday she promises herself to go on every year.
If you have known this thirty two year old woman for a while you will see the woman that is smart because she was once stupid, wise because she once fell victim to her own hubris; you will describe her in terms of what she has known, what she has been, her battle-scars worn proudly, what survived from the girl you once knew; her sarcasm, her fluent smartass, her scathing double-speak, honed over the years, and strong enough to plough through a man’s blocked insight; the love-hate relationship with social media she hates to admit to, but acknowledges for the private laughs; the friends she has forsworn for the sake of her own sanity.
The way her face reflects her emotions, her tired eyes swollen with secrets carried around with her; her skin gradually softening around the edges because she never finds the time to hit the gym, the miracle of how her scent fills the room, your room; the amazing erotic architecture of her back, with its staccato indents, unblemished in their blemishes. The hair she painstakingly nurtures back to life after the regimen of chemicals she has now sworn to never again use.
But not only to see in the light of what has been, to also see her in the light of what is and what will always be: her unique sexiness, her personal aura, her simple wisdom, her tinge of darkness and bitterness, added on because of what has been taken from her; her distaste for stupidity, apparent only in her signature dirty look; her dark humour, her throaty laugh, the knowledgeable sexiness.
And, let’s not even begin on her beautiful body; the statement-of-fact “pooch” a.k.a. love handles that make her look amazing in the nude. Her body with its many troughs and pleasure spots that you can never tire of touching, of kissing, of worshipping; because, if you’re into the beautiful female form, to drink her in makes a mountain of sense to you as her partner; her hands to touch you and be touched; in their beauty, their history, their form and alternating firmness and softness, and their knowing experience.
And that’s where you stay, with the thirty two year old woman, because she is a dream you didn’t even know you wanted fulfilled. You stay because you tell yourself that you deserve her, but in truth, she is out of your league and always will be, and you admit, deep down, that you are lucky to have her even consider to be with you.
So, let’s hear it for the thirty two year old woman, the new face of perfection.
Bolade is a writer and multi-media development professional. He began as a writer, and has since expanded his repertoire to include media content design and development, brand strategy, new media, advertising and PR with a career spanning the last decade. He is addicted to caffeine, sartorial excellence, sarcasm, true crime and media content of the highest quality; and is very fluent in double-speak.
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