One, Two, Three, Buckle My Lady | Akido Wijayarathne

2 June 2018

Hiya ladies. Hope y'all've been catching some sunny rays.

Bundle up, let's get sharing.

So, I was up at one of the girls' lofts,a dusting of friends,work-buddies and their neighboring girls, chilling, amping on the after work vibes, doing what girls do, networking through killer gossip(wink), sharing a bottle of Moscato (or two) when a heated argument broke loose. Two hours later I gathered (coz watching the real housewives go at it on the Big T was livlier than the real neighbors) it involved poop and men and a grumble, "you know ladies aren't even supposed to poo other than in secret" and me being me and not having the will to let shit go (pardon the pun), I'm here sweating out my thought-pores.

Long story short, Neighbor Red was riled up because Neighbor Pink (shrug, they've got vivid hair) had the "absolute audacity" to mention a bathroom mishap in the vicinity of a guy.

Where am I following my trail?

Floodlights on Penelope. Penelope's your typical corner-street girl with a long line of one night stands to her name than weeds in your aunt's backyard, and correlative arm candy each night, 200 pounds of linebacker brawn between an acre of shoulders and more air between the ears than what the Atlantic gusts can afford so it goes without saying she's had her head up a few swanky restaurants. It's the same order every night, plain salad, no dressing. You might say she's a health nut (trust me she's got genetics in favour of her, she doesn't need the abstinence) but no, it goes around "I can't eat much infront of a guy. Plus he wouldn't wanna do a woman who cleans up plates." (Let's just pretend we didn't hear that, shall we.)

Why do most ladies limit their "myselves" to the privacy of their woman-caves and fellow girlfriends?
Well, appearing "unladylike" is an apparent major phobia.

In this age and time, you'd think we'd have escaped Scarlett O'Hara's grandma wouldn't ya (rolling my eyes!)

Warrant me to air out some shit-you-need-to-hear, pragmatic, dulcet fairy dust in your ear. You aren't superhuman! You aren't Rebekah Mikaelson on the go! Suppressing the will to indulge the free roams of your very human body and to refrain giving in to the wanderings of your again very human mind is not expected of you. I repeat, not expected!
(Well, at least not in the sake of keeping up  frivolous facades.) Duh!

While I am at that, permit me to finish my burrito.

And womb the redefined new generation "LADY."

You are looking at the fading cracks in your soles under the Jimmy Choos, the healing ugly scars crisscrossing your back, the shadows of ghosts past flickering in the depths of your descends as you reach over to zip up your white Balmain shift getting ready for Sunday Service infront of the full length mirror in your walk-in closet.
You recall the horrors,the fear, the pain, the gauntless nights as you tuck a stray strand behind your diamond studded ear. You recollect the dawn, the walk, the journey, the strength, the sheer resilience, the battle and the freedom. You celebrate your story as you open the remote-controlled gates and you triumph in your winnings as you ease the Veyron out of the six car garage and into the chirpy morning.

You are a champion, a blinding torch of fortitude.

You are a woman.

You are a Lady!

I'm at Randy's, my usual corner in the VIP section ( friendly favours called in!),  a piña colada (and, so?) at my fingertips revelling in some me-time when my sights wafting over to the woman clearly holding court at the adjacent open booth catch me unaware. She's drawing gazes, the way Wonder Woman attracts energy, a mixture of admiration and envy but mostly beguiled, mesmerized reverence. And the little cogs in my skull start churning. Assesing. The mile long legs sheathed in barely there Burberry (which could have been trashy on anyone else but anything- but on her) crossed at the knees tipped in four inch Manolo Blahniks, fingers curled around the neck of a flute of Dom, lips painted a screeching look-at-me-and-only-me red all giving off an intoxicating aura of power and dominion,  her sultry sensual movements dictating all-woman resonance, gyrating zeal and wielding dominance, demanding audience without imploring.  She's got it all together and she knows it and with the bees-to-honey magnetic eyeballs around, so does everyone else.

She's got no two fucks to rub together to entertain anyone's opinion about her.

She is the Queen.

Welcome to the new school Power Woman.


Say hello to the new age Lady.

Shout-out to all the pink Nikes and ponytails jutting against the sidewalks at 5 a.m in the morning, the leotards and flats bringing the house down on tiptoes, the Spandex leggings squatting 100kgs, the Anastasia Steele walk ups tip tapping across marbel floors to head up deal breaking meetings, the boxing gloves and sports bras throwing sucker punches, the bikini clad muscle stealing shows, the Louboutins sealing 5 million dollar deals and the Soccer moms in white sedans soothing golden retrievers stuck in the 10 o'clock traffic.

It can't get anymore real than you, Ladies.

Devour a double cheeseburger, break-in your sweats, whip out a Black-belt, bench 200 pounds.
Pursue what ignites your fire, girl, and burn the moths that can't handle the flame.

Oh, and;

Own your damn shit!

Drop it, drop it, drop it down 👇 all that you've got to say.

With all my love,

Latest Instagrams

© Curls Aunaturel. Design by Fearne.