Slim Fit Quotes

Eating healthy nutritious food is the simple and right solution to get rid of excess body weight effortlessly and become slim and healthy forever.

...playing with the Barbie-size keyboard on my new phone. Phones are like toys now. They fit in your pocket, light up and vibrate like joy buzzers. Plus, you can get-I mean, "access"-the Internet and find anything you want. Music. Maps. Porn. Anything. If cell phones came with a cigarette dispenser, they'd be the greatest stupid invention ever.

I'm going to be fit and slim and beautiful. I'm going on a diet as of today." "Why? You've always said that looks don't matter and women only diet for men and life is obsessed with the superificial." "Yes, I know, but then I thought, hey wouldn't it be fun to be sexy?

She looked for the deposition transcript she had dropped, she turned around and— —the entire audience in the galley cried out in shock. Unbeknownst to Payton, when she had fallen her skirt—those damn slim-fit skirts she liked so much—had torn at the seam and now gaped open, and sweet Jesus, she was wearing a thong and two tiny white butt cheeks peeked out from between the folds of her skirt— J.D.’s jaw nearly hit the floor.

Doctors won’t make you healthy. Nutritionists won’t make you slim. Teachers won’t make you smart. Gurus won’t make you calm. Mentors won’t make you rich. Trainers won’t make you fit. Ultimately, you have to take responsibility. Save yourself.

Jesus Christ. He was wearing a suit for once, a dark gray ensemble that looked tailored to fit his wide shoulders, full arms, slim hips, and muscular thighs. How the hell did he go through the day without getting slipped a Rohypnol by every woman he came in contact with?

I’m thinking of starting my own Fat Club. Talking to Sue it sounds like money for old rope. £15 membership and fleece them for another fiver every time they come along to get weighed

The Mask Always a mask Held in the slim hand whitely Always she had a mask before her face— Truly the wrist Holding it lightly Fitted the task: Sometimes however Was there a shiver, Fingertip quiver, Ever so slightly— Holding the mask? For years and years and years I wondered But dared not ask And then— I blundered, Looked behind the mask, To find Nothing— She had no face. She had become Merely a hand Holding a mask With grace. —Author unknown

The Bear had once confided to me that Durrell's ego could fit snugly in the basilica of St. Peter's in Rome but in very few other public places. This runaway megalomania marked him as a blood member of the fraternity of generals. If looks alone could make generals, Durrell would have been a cinch. He was built lean and slim and dark, like a Doberman. A man of breeding and refrigerated intelligence, he ordered his life like a table of logarithms.

But, when I was growing up, the one thing that did help me not to feel so isolated and crazy was reading - especially books by authors who fearlessly examined and exposed their highly imperfect inner lives. Books like "Confessions of a Mask" by Yukio Mishima; "Tropic of Cancer" by Henry Miller; "Try" by Dennis Cooper; and, of course, the works of authors like Bukowski, Salinger, Hesse, Bataille, Iceberg Slim, and Murakami. These writers revealed the things that existed beneath most humans' seemingly secure and confident exteriors. I suddenly realized, after reading their work, that I wasn't unique - that my doubts and fears and insecurities were more universal that I could've ever imagined. Their words gave me strength. They have me permission to start trying to accept my flaws, my darkness, my insanity. They let me know that it was okay not to fit in with everyone else - to be a sensitive person - and that others struggled just like I did. It was such a relief when I finally began to understand this. It was like I could breathe - maybe for the first time.

Every day we’re bombarded with information and images—with adolescents in heavy makeup pretending to be grown women as they advertise miraculous creams promising eternal beauty; with the story of an aging couple who climbed Mount Everest to celebrate their wedding anniversary; with new massage gizmos, and pharmacy windows that are chockablock with slimming products; with movies that give an entirely false impression of reality, and books promising fantastic results; with specialists who give advice about how to succeed in life or find inner peace. And all these things make us feel old, make us feel that we’re leading dull, unadventurous lives as our skin grows ever more flaccid, and the pounds pile on irrevocably. And yet we feel obliged to repress our emotions and our desires, because they don’t fit with what we call “maturity.” Choose what information you listen to. Place a filter over your eyes and ears and allow in only things that won’t bring you down, because we have our day-to-day life to do that.

She wore a fitted white scoop neck shirt under a thin jacket, slim brown pants and tennis shoes. He bet she looked hot in four-inch heels. He wondered how long she’d last in this town, and he decided he wanted to sleep with her before she left.

What’s the difference?” I asked him. “Between the love of your life, and your soulmate?” “One is a choice, and one is not.” I’d never thought of love as a choice. Rather, it seemed like the un-choice. But if you stayed with someone who was self-destructing and chose to keep loving, I suppose it could be a choice. I waited for him to go on. To explain how I fit in. “There is a string that connects us that is not visible to the eye,” he said. “Maybe every person has more than one soul they are connected to, and all over the world there are these invisible strings.” As if to make his point, his finger traced a black ribbon that ran through my horse’s mane. “Maybe the chances that you’ll find each and every one of your soulmates is slim. But sometimes you’re lucky enough to stumble across one. And you feel a tug. And it’s not so much a choice to love them through their flaws and through your differences, but rather you love them without even trying. You love their flaws.

Behind those doors was, in a stunning anticlimax, another set of doors, which slid open. A lift. They descended for many floors, until it was clear that they were several stories beneath the ground. Neither of them said anything, but Myfanwy took the opportunity to eye her secretary in the mirrored walls. Ingrid was tall, in her late forties, and her auburn hair was immaculately coiffed. She was slim and fit-looking, as if she spent every afternoon playing tennis. She wore a few pieces of discreet gold jewelry, including a wedding ring. Myfanwy breathed in gently through her nose and smelled Ingrid’s good perfume. The business suit she wore was of a light purple, and exquisitely cut.

I prefer Abomination. It fits better on a T-shirt. I’d comp you one, but we don’t have any big enough for your ego.

Things that we do every day make up who we are and the results we have in our life. Bank accounts collect from constant deposits and good health is achieved or maintained from what we put into our bodies daily.

Blonde movie stars in the 1950s seem to have been pretty much divided between breathy bombshells (Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield) and slim, elegant swans (Grace Kelly, Eva Marie Saint). Producers didn’t really know what to do with Judy Holliday, a brilliant, versatile actress who simply didn’t fit into any easy category. Though she left behind a handful of delightful films, one can’t help feeling a sense of waste that her gifts were not better handled by Hollywood (or, for that matter, by Broadway). Perhaps, like Lucille Ball, Judy Holliday would have blossomed with a really good sitcom; but, unlike Lucy, she never got one.

It’s more than coping. It’s adaptation. You go into the dark one species and mutate to fit your surroundings. Grow better eyes and ears. Get used to the feel of the air so you can tell when something is coming at you. After a while you’re so suited to the environment you’re a whole new species.

I do understand. Every day we’re bombarded with information and images—with adolescents in heavy makeup pretending to be grown women as they advertise miraculous creams promising eternal beauty; with the story of an aging couple who climbed Mount Everest to celebrate their wedding anniversary; with new massage gizmos, and pharmacy windows that are chockablock with slimming products; with movies that give an entirely false impression of reality, and books promising fantastic results; with specialists who give advice about how to succeed in life or find inner peace. And all these things make us feel old, make us feel that we’re leading dull, unadventurous lives as our skin grows ever more flaccid, and the pounds pile on irrevocably. And yet we feel obliged to repress our emotions and our desires, because they don’t fit with what we call “maturity.” Choose what information you listen to. Place a filter over your eyes and ears and allow in only things that won’t bring you down, because we have our day-to-day life to do that. Do you think I don’t get judged and criticized at work? Well, I do—a lot! But I’ve decided to hear only the things that encourage me to improve, the things that help me correct my mistakes. Otherwise, I will just pretend I can’t hear the other stuff or block it out.

They went on in this way for nine years. And then, one autumn day, it ended. Freddy had changed, of course, from a twenty-five-year-old to a man in his midthirties: a high school teacher in blue short-sleeved button-ups and black ties, whom Less jokingly called Mr. Pelu (often raising his hand as if to be called on in class). Mr. Pelu had kept his curls, but his glasses were now red plastic. He could no longer fit his slim clothes; he had filled out from that skinny youngster into a grown man, with shoulders and a chest and a softness just beginning on in his belly. He no longer stumbled drunk up Less's stairs and recited bad poetry every weekend.

There was no doubt about it: more heads turned for me in this slim, fit body. Businessmen, men with women on their arms, women in lipstick and others too beautiful to ever notice me normally: face after face examined me as they passed, and, as they gawped, I couldn't decide if I loved the attention more or less than I despised people for their predictability.

Often, when tempted to peek into the drawer too early, Wendy could assuage her longing by pulling out the tiny notebook she always kept with her. It had a very slim blue pencil that perfectly fit down the spine, and was nearly full of her neat, enthusiastic words. Well-thumbed pages were titled with things like "Peter Pan and the Pirates and the Unexpected Zeppelin" or "Peter Pan and Tiger Lily versus the Cyclops of the Cerulean Sea." And she had illustrated "Captain Hook Is Taught A Timely Lesson by Peter Pan" with a little picture of a clock she had carefully copied from the mantel, as well as the eyes and nostrils of a fierce crocodile- the rest of whose body she had no hope of depicting accurately, and thus chose to submerge.

Perhaps, if I had a new fountain pen instead of this wreck, or a fresh bouquet of, say, twenty beautifully sharpened pencils in a slim vase, and a ream of ivory smooth paper instead of these, let me see, thirteen, fourteen more or less frumpled sheets . . . I might start writing the unknown thing I want to write; unknown, except for a vague shoe-shaped outline, the infusorial quiver of which I feel in my restless bones, a feeling of shchekotiki . . . half-tingle, half-tickles, when you are trying to remember something or understand something or find something, and probably your bladder is full, and your nerves are on edge, but the combination is on the whole not unpleasant ( if not protracted) and produces a minor orgasm or 'petit éternuement intérieur' when at last you find the picture-puzzle piece which exactly fits the gap.

Your Inner Critic thinks that pushing and judging you will protect you from hurt and pain. It thinks that if it can get you to be a certain way—perfect, successful, cautious, nice, slim, outgoing, intellectual, macho, and so on—then you won’t be shamed or rejected, and you might even get approval from people who are important to you. It tries to get you to fit in by prescribing rules and then attacking you if you violate them. Even though attacking you actually backfires and causes you more suffering, your Inner Critic is doing what it thinks is best for you.

Contractions. Kane’s stomach dropped right out of his body. He stared down at her, his mind going fuzzy. That was one of those words like menstruation, period, or female products . The list just wasn’t uttered in male company. Contractions fit right in there. God. This was not happening. He forced his brain under control, ignoring the pounding in his head and the roaring in his ears. He studied Rose’s body carefully. She wasn’t due for another four or five weeks, right? He knew when she got pregnant. When he’d first seen her, she had looked slim, but that had been an illusion. On the other hand, she never looked as— big —as she did at that moment.“What?” Rose demanded, glaring up at him. The warning signal flashed bright red in Kane’s head. Telling a woman she was as big as a beach ball wouldn’t win any points. How did one describe how she looked? A basketball? Volleyball? He studied her furious little face. Yeah. He was in trouble no matter what he said. Description was out of the question. He needed diplomacy, something that flew out the window when he was near her and she said words like contractions.He’d jump out of a plane without hesitation in the heart of enemy territory, but damn it all, ask him to kill someone, not deliver babies. She didn’t take her eyes off him, and that expression on her scowling face demanded an answer.

(FIRE) THE BOOK OF SATAN THE INFERNAL DIATRIBE The first book of the Satanic Bible is not an attempt to blaspheme as much as it is a statement of what might be termed 'diabolical indignation'. The Devil has been attacked by the men of God relentlessly and without reservation. Never has there been an opportunity, short of fiction, for the Dark Prince to speak out in the same manner as the spokesmen of the Lord of the Righteous. The pulpit-pounders of the past have been free to define 'good' and 'evil' as they see fit, and have gladly smashed into oblivion any who disagree with their lies - both verbally and, at time, physically. Their talk of 'charity', when applied to His Infernal Majesty, becomes an empty sham - and most unfairly, too, considering the obvious fact that without their Satanic foe their very religions would collapse. How sad, that the allegorical personage most responsible for the success of spiritual religions is show the least amount of charity and the most consistent abuse - and by those who most unctuously preach the rules of fair play! For all the centuries of shouting-down the Devil has received, he has never shouted back at his detractors. He has remained the gentleman at all times, while those he supports rant and rave. He has shown himself to be a model of deportment, but now he feels it is time to receive his due. Now the ponderous rule-books of hypocrisy are no longer needed. In order to relearn the Law of the Jungle, a small, slim diatribe will do. Each verse is an inferno. Each word is a tongue of fire. The flames of Hell burn fierce... and purify! Read on and learn the Law.

I hope at 50 I'll be dancing like Gianluca Vacchi Party, whiskey, Bellini, Martini, Bloody Maries Bad & Boujee, Tutti Fruity booty, type that really moves me Kundalini rising, energy fill me completely I hope at 50 I'll be writing books like JK Rowling Pen and paper take me places, countries far and foreign Find a cafe up in Edinburgh, write in Scotland Let the stories in my head come out, bloom and blossom I hope at 50
I'll be wealthy like Carlos Slim Buying yachts and mansions and my mother shiny things Encrusted diamond dial on a new Patek Philippe Chill in Maldives but do charity in Ardabil I hope at 50
I'll be funny like Stephen Colbert Cracking witty jokes, making everyone laugh in tears Laughter it goes round and round like a carousel Chronic comic sonic sounds of haha everywhere I hope at 50
I'll be stoic like Robert De Niro Zeno school of thought put an end to my evil ego I hope at 50
I'll be fit as The Rock, Dwayne Johnson Hard rock abs to be paired with an even harder mindset I hope at 50,
I'll be wise like Denzel Washington
Wisdom, knowledge and the faith of God under my skin I hope at 50,
I'll find real love like George Clooney
Amal Alamuddin clone is the type that really moves me

As we had agreed, I met Jack downstairs in the lobby. I was a few minutes late, having lingered to give a few last-minute instructions to Teena. “Sorry.” I quickened my stride as I walked toward Jack, who was standing by the concierge desk. “I didn’t mean to be late.” “It’s fine,” Jack said. “We still have plenty of—” He broke off as he got a good look at me, his jaw slackening. Self-consciously I reached up and tucked a lock of my hair behind my right ear. I was wearing a slim-fitting black suit made of summer-weight wool, and black high-heeled pumps with delicate straps that crossed over the front. I had put on some light makeup: shimmery brown eye shadow, a coat of black mascara, a touch of pink blush, and lip gloss. “Do I look okay?” I asked. Jack nodded, his gaze unblinking. I bit back a grin, realizing he had never seen me dressed up before. And the suit was flattering, cut to show my curves to advantage. “I thought this was more appropriate for church than jeans and Birkenstocks.” I wasn’t certain Jack heard me. It looked like his mind was working on another track altogether. My suspicion was confirmed when he said fervently, “You have amazing legs.” “Thanks.” I gave a modest shrug. “Yoga.” That appeared to set off another round of thoughts. I thought Jack’s color seemed a little high, although it was difficult to tell with that rosewood tan. His voice sounded strained as he asked, “I guess you’re pretty flexible?” “I wasn’t the most flexible in class by any means,” I said, pausing before adding demurely, “but I can put my ankles behind my head.” I repressed a grin when I heard a hitch in his breathing. Seeing that his SUV was out in front, I walked past him. He was at my heels immediately. -Ella & Jack

Right clothing in Exercise is Important because an Old T-shirt Can't inspire us for Workout. Stay fit and Wear Good at Palace Social

I say, “Lights,” and the place is suddenly like premiere night at the Egyptian Theatre. How can I describe the place? The walls and ceiling are rounded, like we’re living in a goddamn UFO. The tables and cabinets have rounded backs to fit against the walls. There’s an orange shag carpet and an avocado-green sofa covered with enough plush pillows that you could break a leg if they ever avalanched. The place is ringed by oval windows, and I can see lights beyond them. Aside from the sofa, the rest of the furniture is all smooth molded white plastic with the same warm seventies hipster colors on the chair seats and backs. The apartment is basically a Hugh Hefner bachelor pad in a Star Trek swingers’ resort.

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As Devon made his way to the footman, he saw him talking to a stranger wearing baggy clothes, the kind of good quality but ill-fitting castoffs that a clerk or tradesman might wear. The man was young and slim, with heavy dark hair that wanted cutting. He bore a striking resemblance to West in his days at Oxford, especially the way he smiled with his chin tilted downward, as if reflecting on some private joke. In fact… Holy hell. It was his brother. It was West. “Devon,” West exclaimed with a surprised laugh, reaching out to shake his hand heartily. “Why aren’t you in London?” Devon was slow to gather his wits. West looked years younger…healthy, clear-eyed, as he’d never thought to see him again. “Kathleen sent for me,” he finally said. “Did she? Why?” “I’ll explain later. What has happened to you? I hardly recognize you.” “Nothing’s happened. What do you--oh, yes, I’ve lost a bit of weight. Never mind that, I’ve just arranged to purchase a threshing machine.” West’s face glowed with pleasure. At first Devon thought he was being sarcastic. My brother, he thought, is excited over farming equipment.

Being a girl, being That Girl, is easy if you’re white and averagely pretty. There’s no trick to it. You don’t even have to totally excise the parts of your personality that don’t fit, the parts that are smart and difficult and loud and angry and ambitious and masculine and mature. You just dial those parts down until they become background noise, dial them down and down until the male ear can’t pick up their frequency and pretty soon you won’t even be able to hear them inside your own head. Tune them out and swallow them down like the hot meals you can’t eat any more because That Girl must stay slim and fragile if she wants to be beautiful and loved. And you do want to be beautiful and loved.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” “Then you’ll fit in just fine around here,” he says.

10 Best Weight Loss Exercises The best exercises to lose weight in the gym are aerobics, for example: 1. Hiit Training The hit workout burns about 400 calories per hour and consists of a set of high intensity workouts that eliminate localized fat in just 30 minutes per day in a faster and fun way. The exercises are performed intensively to raise your heart rate a lot and so it is more suitable for those who already practice some kind of physical activity, although there are beginner hit exercises, but they consist of a series of exercises 'easier'. 2. Cross fit Training Cross fit training is also quite intense and burns about 700 calories per hour, however, this type of workout is quite different from the bodybuilding workout that people are more accustomed to seeing in gyms. Different weights are used, ropes, tires and often the exercises are performed, outside the gym, outdoors. 3. Dance Classes Dancing is a great way to strengthen muscles and burn some calories, 1 hour of ballroom dancing burns approximately 300 calories, and the person still increases flexibility and has fun, having a greater contact with other students. In this type of activity besides cardio respiratory benefits, and to lose weight, it is still possible to promote socialization. The university is a very lively type of dance, where you can burn about 400 calories per hour, in a fun way. In the buzz you can burn up to 800 kcal per hour. 5. Muay Thai Muay Thai is a type of intense martial art, where you can burn about 700 calories per hour. The workouts are very intense and also strengthen the muscles, as well as help increase self-esteem and self-defense. 6. Spinning The spinning classes are done in different intensities, but always on top of a bicycle, in a classroom with at least 5 bikes. The classes are very intense and promote the burning of about 600 calories per hour, and still strengthens the legs very much, being great to burn the fat of the legs and strengthen the thighs. 7. Swimming A swimming lesson can burn up to 400 calories per hour as long as the student does not slow down and keeps moving. Although the strokes are not too strong to reach the other side of the pool faster, it takes a constant effort, with few stops. When the goal is to lose weight, one should not only reach the other side of the pool, it is necessary to maintain a constant and strong rhythm, that is, one can cross the swimming pool crawl and turn back, for example, as a form of 'rest' . 8. Hydrogeology Water aerobics is also great for slimming, but to burn about 500 calories per hour you should always keep moving, enough to keep your breath away. As the water relaxes the tendency is to slow down, but if you want to lose weight, the ideal is to be in a group with this same purpose, because doing exercises at a pace for the elderly to stay healthy may not be enough to burn fat. 9. Race The workouts are excellent to burn fat, being possible to burn about 600 to 700 calories per hour, provided that a good pace is respected, without pauses, and with an effort able to leave the person breathless, unable to talk during the race . You can start at a slower pace, on the treadmill or outdoors, but each week you must increase the intensity to achieve better goals. Here's how to start running to lose weight. 10. Body pump Body pump classes are a great way to burn fat because it burns about 500 calories per hour. This is a class made with weights and step, which strengthens the muscles, working the main muscle groups. These are some examples of exercises that help you to lose weight fast, but that should be performed under professional guidance, to be performed correctly and to avoid injuries to muscles and joints.

At least now he finally had her to himself. He slid an intent gaze over the vision she presented. The pure white of her gown was cinched tightly beneath her breasts before falling gently past the generous curves of her waist and hips. Her bodice was overlaid with lace and fitted securely over her bosom, suggesting the lushness there but revealing only a modest expanse of bare skin. Her slim neck was arched proudly as she endured his perusal. Her gloved hands were clasped in front of her, and her lips, a perfect rosy pink, were shaped into a gentle bow as her gray eyes stared back at him. There was caution in her gaze. She was the epitome of the sweet and modest maiden. And she had agreed to be his. Deep disquiet rolled through him. He had begun something that went way beyond his capabilities. He knew it, but he couldn't stop his forward progression. He wanted her.

Always a mask Held in the slim hand whitely Always she had a mask before her face— Truly the wrist Holding it lightly Fitted the task: Sometimes however Was there a shiver, Fingertip quiver, Ever so slightly— Holding the mask? For years and years and years I wondered But dared not ask And then— I blundered, Looked behind the mask, To find Nothing— She had no face. She had become Merely a hand Holding a mask With grace. —Author unknown

He suggested that all lieutenants, captains, and inspectors be fit to walk ten miles a day on three consecutive days, or in some cases that they ride thirty miles a day for the same period. Fourteen years later, as Mayor La Guardia went on the radio to read "Dick Tracy" to "the kiddies" during a newspaper strike, he offered an aside to Police Commissioner Lewis Valentine, wondering why Dick Tracy was slim and trim and so many New York police detectives were fat.

He screams sarcastic, freaky, reserved, and somehow soft. He looks like a Greek sculpture, carved into perfection. Well-built curves show through his clothing. He’s brawny-looking but boyish at the same time. His jawline is razor-sharp, lips so rosy and plump, making me slightly jealous. Let’s not forget the small tattoos that linger on his long fingers. A few strands of silky brown hair pop out from under a black beanie that lies over his head. If I take off that hat, I’ll be met with gorgeous, smooth hair. Black jeans fit his toned legs well. A gray sweatshirt with colorful graphics covers his torso. Under that hoodie, I know there’ll be a six-pack. And what makes him even more droolworthy—which I don’t know how that’s remotely possible—are the rings on his slim fingers. Someone, catch me. I’m going to faint. He wears rings!

Now, he’s in an all-black slim-fitting suit with a deep red tie, his dark curls tamed with some sort of product.

She had long, flowing Farrah Fawcett hair and wore a form-fitting white jumpsuit that accentuated her dark skin. The sleeves of the jumpsuit were cut short, showing off her long, slim arms, and wedge heels beneath her bell-bottomed legs made her look taller than she already was.  As she glanced quickly around the room, I didn’t manage to catch her eye. I was a bit distracted for the rest of that training session, and knew I needed to find out more about this beautiful young woman. I kept glancing across the room as the afternoon wore on, noticing little things about her. She wore a charm bracelet on her left wrist, and what looked like a family heirloom ring was nestled on the slender pinkie of her right hand.

Gather around the campfire of crimes committed against children, bodies located an hour from home, in a place so remote screams were muffled to those dark stars. It remains a mystery, they say but there is no mystery when someone knows, and others won’t speak, and all that is left of this investigation at one point fit into a slim manila envelope, because detectives of the past did not seek further, did not track down the road of violence for the violated you won’t name suspects. Shame on those that cradle those girl’s cries in their memory. Bookshelves now tell of their suffering

I tried to explore the likely possibilities of any one of my brothers having the tissue type that would be a match for Maggie. Maggie and I were born in Iraq, maybe we were made of different material. We certainly had a lot in common. I definitely had a good chance of my tissue being a match for Maggie, more than that of my brothers. I immediately ruled out Haim. It seemed he would not fit. He was a redhead, like my father. His chances seemed slim.

I want a pair of jeans—32–28,” I said. “Do you want them slim fit, easy fit, relaxed fit, baggy, or extra baggy?” she replied. “Do you want them stonewashed, acid-washed, or distressed? Do you want them button-fly or zipper-fly? Do you want them faded or regular?” I was stunned. A moment or two later I sputtered out something like, “I just want regular jeans. You know, the kind that used to be the only kind.

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I imagine it wasn’t easy for you to come back here. Took a lot of courage.” Wyatt peered into his empty cup. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like being put in my place.” Her sigh came out part laugh, part huff. “I was so angry with you.” “Yes, ma’am . . . I know.” “And a part of me . . . still is.” He slowly nodded, respectful of that anger. But even more respectful of her—for admitting that to him. He looked over at her hands clasped loosely around her cup and wondered what it would feel like to have one of them fit snug into his. Her hands were small. Not delicate, but slim. Her fingers had strength to them, just like she did. He felt her staring. “I don’t want to start anything back up, believe me, ma’am, but . . . I do want to tell you that my saying all that yesterday wasn’t done with any intention to hurt you.” She worried an edge of loose hem on her robe. “I know that . . . mostly.” Her smile was weak. “But still . . . it did.” Words failed him. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in the soft umber of her eyes, he reached for her hand. She jumped like a skittish filly. But she didn’t pull away. He held her hand in his, memorizing the feel of her soft skin, and of how her fingers gripped his, shyly at first. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For hurting you.” And he was.

Whatever form your body takes from a fierce and healthy lifestyle is a beautiful body. Beauty isn't looking a specific way or having a specific body fat percentage. It just so happens that a fierce and healthy lifestyle forms a slim and athletic body. We who do fitness for the right reasons still end up being judged as superficial just because we end up as slim. When we can't really help it, it's just biology doing its thing.

No sooner was she twenty-three years old than she was twenty-eight; no sooner twenty-eight than thirty-one; time is speeding past her while she examines her existence with a cold, deadly gaze that takes aim at the different areas of her life, one by one-the damp studio crawling with roaches, mold growing in the grout between tiles; the bank loan swallowing all her spare cash; close, intense friendships marginalized by newborn babies, polarized by screaming sweetness that leaves her cold; stress-soaked days and canceled girls’ nights out, but, legs perfectly waxed, ending up jabbering in dreary wine bars with a bevy or available women, shrieking with forced laughter, and always joining in, out of cowardice, opportunism; occasional sexual adventures on crappy mattresses, or against greasy, sooty garage doors, with guys who are clumsy, rushed, stingy, unloving; an excess of alcohol to make all this shine; and the only encounter that makes her heart beat faster is with a guy who pushes back a strand of her hair to light her cigarette, his fingers brushing her temple and the lobe of her ear, who has mastered the art of the sudden appearance, whenever, wherever, his movements impossible to predict, as if he spent his life hiding behind a post, coming out to surprise her in the golden light of a late afternoon, calling her at night in a nearby cafe, walking toward her one morning from a street corner, and always stealing away just as suddenly when it’s over, like a magician, before returning … That deadly gaze strips away everything, even her face, even her body, no matter how well she takes care of it-fitness magazines, tubes of slimming cream, and one hour of floor barre in a freezing hall in Docks Vauban. She is alone and disappointed, in a sate of disgrace, stamping her feet as her teeth chatter and disillusionment invades her territories and her hinterland, darkening faces, ruining gestures, diverting intentions; it swells, this disillusionment, it multiplies, polluting the rivers and forests inside her, contaminating the deserts, infecting the groundwater, tearing the petals from flowers and dulling the luster in animals’ fur; it stains the ice floe beyond the polar circle and soils the Greek dawn, it smears the most beautiful poems with mournful misfortune, it destroys the planet and all its inhabitants from the Big Bang to the rockets of the future, and fucks up the whole world- this hollow, disenchanted world.

Abrams voice cut in over the comm. “My God, this place is breath-taking!” “It is a palace for the gods,” added Brock. The group stood gawking at the magnificence of the hall surrounding them. Delanda went to the table, placed her helmet and pack on it, and began pulling tablets, scanners, and other accessories out. She wrestled off her gloves, but had trouble with the suit torso so Wilson had to intervene and help. Without a thought to the revealing fit of the white stretch suit liner, she escaped the spacesuit bottom and placed it on the table. Then, with still no self-consciousness at all, she stripped the suit liner off down to athletic bra and slim panties and pulled her pink, rolled up vacuum-packed flight coveralls and cloth boots from the suit pack. After excitedly dressing, she hurriedly grabbed a scanner from her pack and began investigating the hall. Show over, one by one we all removed our suits and became visitors in white suit liners. Wilson gave his fatherly warning. “Everyone be very careful removing and folding those liners. If you tear or damage the thermal control system in any way you could have an unpleasant trip back to the ship. Also, be careful to tuck in your suit communicator since we’ll all be using wrist coms from now on. That is if they actually work here.” Delanda ignored his comments and headed for the far end of the hall. Wilson pulled on black coveralls, R.J.’s were farmhouse blue, Brock and Wen light green, Abrams in hospital scrubs green, and Sharma’s and Ansara’s in tan. Mine were captain’s blue. As we studied our celestial surroundings, Delanda returned and spoke in a commanding voice. “Gentlemen, if you would grab your tablets and gather around me here at this magnificent table we should get started.” For the first time there was a unanimous look of annoyance, although everyone quickly complied. R.J. and I stood opposite her feeling like two school kids being ushered around on a field trip. Delanda checked to be sure everyone was paying attention. “Okay, I’m assuming our intranet will work in here even though we’re out of contact with the ship. Let’s try it. All of you use your tablets to access mine and copy the file titled: Translations. Let me know if anyone has trouble.” Delanda’s tablet appeared on our screens. As she had guessed, there were no problems getting in. Once copied, I opened the file and found dozens of Altair symbols, some highlighted, most grayed-out. “Okay, everyone got in? Right? Okay, the symbols you see highlighted are the ones I believe I have a rudimentary translation for. Those that are in gray, your guess is as good as mine.” “How do you propose we proceed?” asked Brock. “Speaking as an experienced field researcher, I would suggest one of us photographs and documents this first chamber thoroughly while the rest of us split up and do the same with other chambers, periodically reporting back here after each excursion. We should have one central person remain here to monitor the progress of everyone in the event they get into trouble. I would think that would be you, Commander Mirtos, since you are the best at rescue. Does anyone have any objections?” R.J. leaned over. “I believe this is a non-hostile takeover. Are you going to step in?” “Not until she says something I disagree with.” Delanda continued. “So, if no one has any objections the first order of business will be to photograph every wall symbol we find along with any artifacts possibly associated

She looked up, hoping to see Hiram Caro. She was disappointed. Hiram didn’t walk through the door. Instead, his personal bodyguard stalked in. Joey Roman. CHAPTER 90 JOEY ROMAN closed the office door and locked it. Then he leaned against the door, folded his arms across his chest, and gazed down at Jenny. Roman’s attire distinguished him from the other security personnel. He was dressed in a slim-fit sport coat over a crisp white shirt paired with indigo jeans. Joey didn’t need to wear a security uniform or badge to give off a dangerous vibe. She knew he wanted to intimidate her. Locking her into a room with three men and blocking the door so she couldn’t get out—it was an act of aggression. Jenny was determined to send a message right back: I’m not scared of you. She gave Roman a side-eye before returning her attention to the advertising brochure. Reading aloud, she murmured, “‘Loosest slots and hottest table games in Biloxi.’ Wow. Impressive.” Silence in the room. She counted to ten before she spoke again. “Is Hiram on his way down?” Roman sounded almost friendly when he said, “Mr. Caro’s not available. What do you want? I can pass along the message.” Jenny’s impatience gave her voice a sharp edge. “I don’t want to go through the messenger boy, Joey.” The two young security guys tensed up and exchanged a look of surprise. Jenny noted their reaction. She figured it meant that Joey Roman was rarely disrespected on casino property. She would have to proceed more cautiously. She forced a smile. “Joey, you know I’m a private

Dr. Miracle’s approach was much less confrontational and more civilized. According to him, there are two selves in each of us: the one who wants to be slim and healthy and the one who wants something else. One sees the big picture—well-being, self-esteem, fitting into the latest fashions. The other wants pleasures aplenty, and now.

Dr. Miracle’s approach was much less confrontational and more civilized. According to him, there are two selves in each of us: the one who wants to be slim and healthy and the one who wants something else. One sees the big picture—well-being, self-esteem, fitting into the latest fashions. The other wants pleasures aplenty, and now. One is Narcissus leaning over his pool; the other is Pantagruel leaning over his table. The key, he said, was not to conquer the second, but to broker a rapprochement: make friends of your two selves and be the master of both your willpower and your pleasures. That was the French way.

Doctors won’t make you healthy. Nutritionists won’t make you slim. Teachers won’t make you smart. Gurus won’t make you calm. Mentors won’t make you rich. Trainers won’t make you fit. Ultimately, you have to take responsibility. Save yourself.

Peter would have said that behaviors are determined by principles, theories. That the difference between Theory of God and Theory of Not God was actually quite slim, each a slightly different lens through which to choose to view the world. One a shade lighter, the other negligibly darker—what mattered was that both were held up to the eye and used to filter our experience. It was easier to change the lens than to remove the vehicle of understanding, easier to adjust my sense of how I fit into the world than reconceive of the world entirely.

This single exercise, when repeated enough, provides huge benefits in fat loss, muscle gain and cardiovascular conditioning.  Perhaps more than any other exercise, the kettlebell swing helps you slim down, pack on muscle and give your heart a healthy workout. This is why an entire book is devoted to it and to helping you do the swings that will revolutionize your fitness, strength and endurance.

Curves, Clothes, Character (The Sonnet) Your abs won't last, your racks won't last, Eventually everything ends up in wrinkle. Polish the outside all you want but, All curves are crookery if the heart is wrinkled. Slimness is not the same as fitness, Skinship is not the same as kinship. Etiquettes don't elevate the world, Apparels don't bring liberty and leadership. Waste not the life on measuring your waist, All waist is waste if the backbone is malnourished. Fitness is fiction when shallowness runs rampant, All curves are filth if the being remains prejudiced. Curves and clothes have no bearing on character whatsoever. Better a character out of shape, than a shape without character.

Slimness is not the same as fitness, Skinship is not the same as kinship.

Saving Yourself Doctors won’t make you healthy. Nutritionists won’t make you slim. Teachers won’t make you smart. Gurus won’t make you calm. Mentors won’t make you rich. Trainers won’t make you fit. Ultimately, you have to take responsibility. Save yourself.

Frustrations in attempting to conceive of and feel God's relationship to creation tend to lead, as they did in Gordon Sinclair's case, to the unfounded conclusion that, because we cannot think, picture, or understand how it is possible, then God does not exist. The atheism that arises from our incapacity to conceive of God is an idolatry that results from not properly respecting God's holiness. A God that has been slimmed down to fit the limits of a finite heart and mind is unable to measure up intellectually because (and this is a strange paradox) an intellectually conceivable God is, ultimately, inconceivable intellectually. Where does that leave us? If God cannot be conceived of, how can we know God? Are we doomed to either agnosticism or blind faith based solely on authority and revelation? For the Protestant contemplative tradition there is another option: awe and wonder! God cannot be thought, but God can be met. He can be experienced, touched, and encountered. In such a posture to God, we live in contemplation.

Slimness is not the same as fitness, Skinship is not the same as kinship.

Waste not the life on measuring your waist, All waist is waste if the backbone is malnourished. Fitness is fiction when shallowness runs rampant, All curves are filth if the being remains prejudiced.

In our Western culture, there’s a definitive ideal of what the “perfect” body should be for women: tall, slim, feminine and symmetrical. For men, it’s lean with broad shoulders and a thin waist. Anything that doesn’t conform to these visions of a “perfect” physique is cast as bad. Which can feel tough if we don’t fit those stereotypes. But the good news is that we don’t have to.

I don’t think Carstogi really grasped that the only thing between him and a first-degree murder charge was a prostitute whose name was Gloria, most assuredly not the name her mommy gave her. He couldn’t remember her address, and the description he gave us would have fit half the females in the U.S. Average height, kind of light brown hair, lightish eyes, slim. Carstogi’s life was hanging by a slender thread.

But there was no mockery or disapproval in Cassandra's gaze as she approached. She was smiling as if she were glad to see him. She gave him her slim gloved hand, a gesture of closeness and familiarity. The day instantly became the best one he'd had in weeks. His heart thumped joyfully at her nearness. The shape of her hand fit his as if every joint and fine muscle and soft ligament had been designed for perfect alignment. It had been like this when they'd waltzed, their bodies fitting together, moving together, with magical coordination.

If a woman can earn money to buy lovely things while she’s young, she should have the privilege. I know a woman who said once, 'I’ve worked all my life. And now that I can afford to buy myself diamonds, my hands are too old.' This woman was only forty-eight or fifty but she had work hands, ugly hands, that were no fit background for the beautiful big diamond she had just bought. The same thing goes for lovely clothes. A woman should have them, if she can earn them, while she’s young, straight, graceful, slim, and can show them off like an angel.

For serious problems you should schedule two sessions a day: half an hour before lunch and half an hour before dinner. Write them down in your engagement book. Give them priority. […] For less serious problems, ten minutes morning and night will get you into trim and keep you there. Or twenty minutes once a day, if that fits your schedule better. And don’t forget the while-you’re-doing-something routines. You can be pampering your body most of the day if you remember them, and your body will be very grateful.

Frameworks like Laravel — and Symfony, Lumen, and Slim — prepackage a collection of third-party components together with custom framework “glue” like configuration files, service providers, prescribed directory structures, and application bootstraps. So, the benefit of using a framework in general is that someone has made decisions not just about individual components for you, but also about how those components should fit together.

A slim body doesn’t mean a healthy body just like a smiling face doesn’t mean a happy face.

I have weak sperm?” “Incredibly weak.” “Maybe you just have an inhospitable environment. Probably all the junk food you eat.” “Watch it, Monaghan. You have a pretty good record with me, but those are some fighting words. If you don’t back it down, then I’d say the chances of you scoring anytime soon are pretty slim.” “We’re separated by three states. I can’t even see your end zone.” Lake giggled. “Just as well. It’s really more like a war zone right now.” “I love you. I need sleep. Long day.” “You don’t want to discuss my period anymore?” “I’m sure Penny would be a better fit for that conversation.” “No. Penny lost her uterus. I don’t think she wants to discuss this with me.” “Jesus, has she reported it missing? I bet the same asshole who stole your leg has her uterus too. I suspect they’ve both been sold on the black market.” There it was—her laugh. I’d make crazy shit up all night long for more of her laughter.

As Devon made his way to the footman, he saw him talking to a stranger wearing baggy clothes, the kind of good quality but ill-fitting castoffs that a clerk or tradesman might wear. The man was young and slim, with heavy dark hair that wanted cutting. He bore a striking resemblance to West in his days at Oxford, especially the way he smiled with his chin tilted downward, as if reflecting on some private joke. In fact... Holy hell. It was his brother. It was West. "Devon," West exclaimed with a surprised laugh, reaching out to shake his hand heartily. "Why aren't you in London?" Devon was slow to gather his wits. West looked years younger... healthy, clear-eyed, as he'd never thought to see him again. "Kathleen sent for me," he finally said. "Did she? Why?" "I'll explain later. What has happened to you? I hardly recognize you." "Nothing's happened. What do you- oh, yes, I've lost a bit of weight. Never mind that, I've just arranged to purchase a threshing machine." West's face glowed with pleasure. At first Devon thought he was being sarcastic. My brother, he thought, is excited over farming equipment.

As Devon made his way to the footman, he saw him talking to a stranger wearing baggy clothes, the kind of good quality but ill-fitting castoffs that a clerk or tradesman might wear. The man was young and slim, with heavy dark hair that wanted cutting. He bore a striking resemblance to West in his days at Oxford, especially the way he smiled with his chin tilted downward, as if reflecting on some private joke. In fact... Holy hell. It was his brother. It was West. "Devon," West exclaimed with a surprised laugh, reaching out to shake his hand heartily. "Why aren't you in London?" Devon was slow to gather his wits. West looked years younger... healthy, clear-eyed, as he'd never thought to see him again. "Kathleen sent for me," he finally said. "Did she? Why?" "I'll explain later. What has happened to you? I hardly recognize you." "Nothing's happened. What do you- oh, yes, I've lost a bit of weight. Never mind that, I've just arranged to purchase a threshing machine." West's face glowed with pleasure. At first Devon thought he was being sarcastic. My brother, he thought, is excited over farming equipment.

Hey!” Someone’s banging on the door of the ladies’ loos: we all jump. Kelly blinks, and one big tear is released. It starts to trickle down her red cheek. “Hey!” the voice calls again. It’s a guy, and not an Italian; they don’t yell “Hey!” here, but “Oh!” instead, which is weird until you get used to it. I’m closest to the door. I grab my dress, hold it over me with one hand, and ease the door open a crack with the other. Behind me, the girls, excited, scream at a pitch that would deafen bats. We’re all ridiculously worked up at the thought of a man seeing us in our underwear, even though we’re planning to go into the river in exactly that. In front of me is a wide male chest. I look up, over the swell of the pectorals, the broad tanned neck, the square jaw, to the cheerful blue eyes and cropped blond hair of Evan, Paige’s brother. Like Paige, he’s built on a massive scale, especially by comparison with the slender, slim-hipped Italians. He completely blocks any view of the club behind him. “Violet!” he says. His eyes widen as he takes in my state of undress, but he’s manfully resisting looking anywhere but my face, which I thoroughly appreciate. “Look, I made the other guys give me their shirts, okay? I thought you’d need all of them.” He’s holding a bunched-up ball of fabric in one big fist, which he pushes toward me; it leaves me in a quandary, as I don’t have my hands free. I wedge the door with my shoulder, which means I can still hold my dress over me and take the shirts with the other. “Thanks!” I exclaim gratefully, realizing that this means Kelly can come swimming with the rest of us, that I can cover my bra up. But Evan isn’t done. He reaches down, takes the hem of his own T-shirt, and pulls it up in one swift movement, dragging it over his head, baring his tanned chest. I can’t help staring. Evan is at college on a football scholarship, apparently, and from his muscle definition, I can’t imagine he gets any time to study. He looks as if he spends every waking minute in the gym. And he’s really close to me. I feel a blush rising to my cheeks, and I try to step back a little, confused by my feelings about this sudden striptease, his physical proximity. His hand reaches out to me again, giving me the T-shirt still warm from his body, still smelling of him. I take it, realizing that my mouth has fallen open at the sight of him. I clamp my lips together as he says, grinning, his white American teeth perfect: “Give this to Paige, okay? Those skinny little Italian guys’ shirts won’t fit around her, and I don’t want my little sister showing her junk all over town.” “Hey!” Paige shouts back crossly. “I do not show my junk all over town! You better not go around telling people that!” Evan’s grin deepens as he looks down at me; he winks. “It’s just too easy to get her going,” he says to me confidentially, seeing my eyebrows raised: I’ve rarely heard Paige this wound up. Evan certainly knows how to press her buttons.

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Whenever I have to pick something off the floor I bend down, keeping my legs straight. Dutifully touching your toes fifty times every day is a crashing bore. But there are almost as many times when something has to be picked up anyhow — or a lower drawer has to be opened — so I automatically do it in a manner that keeps me fit. I try to make a graceful gesture out of reaching for things on high shelves, too. I don’t make it easier by dragging out a little step stool. While I’m on the phone I take a small bottle — a Pepsi bottle, of course — and roll it back and forth under my instep. I touch first the heel to the floor, then the toe, ten times for each foot. [...] These exercises strengthen the foot, stretch the calf muscles, and result in lovely feet and legs. When I’m standing — scraping carrots, or just waiting somewhere — I dig my heels into the ground, draw myself up to my best posture, and pull my stomach muscles in hard. [...] When I’m dictating to my secretary I may raise my elbows level with my shoulders and press the heels of my hands hard against each other. (The whole idea behind isometrics is to make the muscles work against each other.) This exercise, lasting for just six to ten seconds, is wonderful for the inside of the upper arms — the place that can go flabby almost overnight and make it impossible to wear sleeveless dresses. For the backs of the upper arms, do the same exercise with the hands raised just above the level of the forehead.

Whenever I have to pick something off the floor I bend down, keeping my legs straight. Dutifully touching your toes fifty times every day is a crashing bore. But there are almost as many times when something has to be picked up anyhow — or a lower drawer has to be opened — so I automatically do it in a manner that keeps me fit. I try to make a graceful gesture out of reaching for things on high shelves, too. I don’t make it easier by dragging out a little step stool.

There was no doubt about it: more heads turned for me in this slim, fit body. Businessmen, men with women on their arms, women in lipstick and others too beautiful to ever notice me normally: face after face examined me as they passed, and, as they gawped, I couldn't decide if I loved the attention more or less than I despised people for their predictability." - If Only

There was no doubt about it: more heads turned for me in this slim, fit body. Businessmen, men with women on their arms, women in lipstick and others too beautiful to ever notice me normally: face after face examined me as they passed, and, as they gawped, I couldn't decide if I loved the attention more or less than I despised people for their predictability." - from "If Only

6 Powerful Fruits To Lose Weight And Burn Belly Fat Instantly These half-dozen superb fruits will definitely assist you lose those additional pounds: 1. Watermelon Because ninety % of a watermelon’s weight is water, it’s one in all the most effective fruits to eat if you’re attempting to slim. A 100-gram serving contains solely thirty calories. It’s conjointly an excellent supply of an organic compound known as essential amino acid, that helps burn fat quickly. Additionally to serving to the body keep hydrous, a watermelon snack can cause you to feel full therefore you won’t have cravings between meals. 2. Guava A powerhouse of nutrients, guavas may facilitate weight loss while not compromising your intake of proteins, vitamins and fibre. This delicious tropical fruit is jam-choked with foodstuff, vitamins, proteins and minerals. It’s a win-win after you think about these edges with its tiny variety of pre-digested carbohydrates and also the undeniable fact that guava contains zero steroid alcohol. Raw guavas have abundant less sugar compared to fruits like apples, oranges and grapes, and that they keep the metabolism regulated. 3. Apple An apple on a daily basis might keep the doctor away, however it may assist you slim additional quickly. the great news is that consumption only one apple on a daily basis — with the skin on — offers the body and average of four.4 grams of fibre, that is concerning simple fraction of our daily would like. Apples area unit a fashionable supply of a strong fibre known as cellulose. Consumption apples or pears before meals resulted in vital weight loss in step with a study printed in Nutrition Journal. 4. Grapefruit This delicious fruit, that was initial created by crossing a pomelo with AN orange within the eighteenth century, is additionally an incredible supply of cellulose. It contains an excellent quantity of vitamin C, vitamin M and K. Pink and red grapefruits area unit jam-choked with anti-ophthalmic factor and carotenoid, a phytochemical that protects blood vessel walls from aerophilic injury. consumption 0.5 a grapefruit a couple of half-hour before daily meals can assist you feel additional sated, which can lead to less consumption of food and calories. 5. Banana Considered the proper pre- or post-workout snack, bananas area unit healthier than most energy bars, which regularly contain various sugar and chemicals. though the typical banana contains twenty seven grams of carbs, the fruit will facilitate stop weight gain as a result of it's solely one hundred and five calories and 3 grams of filling fibre. Bananas are proverbial to fight muscle cramps, keep force per unit area low and stop acidity. simply try to persist with one banana on a daily basis. 6. Tomato Let’s not forget that the tomato could be a fruit and not a vegetable. This powerful red ally is packed with antioxidants and may facilitate cut back water retention's. It conjointly fights leptin resistance. (Leptin could be a style of macromolecule that forestalls our body from losing weight.) Plus, tomatoes area unit terribly low in calories; AN average-sized tomato is simply twenty two calories and an oversized one is thirty three calories. Tomatoes are thought of AN appetite-suppressant “high-volume” food, which suggests they need high amounts of water, air and fibre. It ought to be evident, however you can’t simply burn fat and shed weight by merely consumption these seven fruits alone. you may slim after you burn additional calories than you consume. By physical exercise and work high-calorie food like cheese, meat or rice with low-calorie fruits like tomatoes, you may be able to reach your ideal weight.

He was about six feet tall, slim and fit-looking. The eyes in the lean, slightly tanned face were a very clear grey-blue and as they observed the men they were cold and watchful. The narrowed, watchful eyes gave his good looks the dangerous, almost cruel quality that had frightened me

Here’s the thing about men: I like them. I like their laughs and their dirty jokes and their complete lack of ability with their emotions. And I really, really like their bodies. I like male shoulders and chin stubble and the slim line of a man’s hips. I like a man who’s fit as much as the next woman does, but to tell the truth, I’m not even that picky. I can handle a little softness around the middle. Just give me a cute ass and a nice pair of hands and a hard dick, and I’m a girl who’s in her happy place.

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Meet Olivier Cheval: When I looked up our eyes met and I felt my heart stop. They were the deepest forest green, encircled in thick, long lashes and placed in round, wide eyes that were so expressive I immediately knew he was aware of, and amused at, my staring. I blinked longer than necessary to collect my thoughts and when I reopened my eyes I took in the rest of him. He was about my age, tall, around six seven, with brown hair that was long but trim and neat. The angular features of his face were slightly hidden by a bit of a five o’clock shadow. His broad nose was somewhat crooked, like it had been broken in the past; supporting a pair of square, slim eye glasses. He was trim and muscular with broad shoulders which couldn’t be hidden under the button up shirt and sports coat, which fit him perfectly. He wore jeans on the absolute longest legs I’d ever seen on a man. While any woman would be excused for momentarily losing her wits at the sight of him, what took me most by surprise was the overwhelming feeling of comfort and calm I felt in his presence. I instantly knew he was right for so much more than just our teacher position and he hadn’t even said a word.

How's it go--- Whoa." Jae stood in front of the full-length multisided mirror in the back as Quinn fussed with his outfit. He was dressed in a slim-fitting maroon suit that somehow highlighted all of his best assets and drew attention to ones I didn't even know he had. He met my eyes in the mirror. "You approve?" It took everything in me to not shout, YES, ABSOLUTELY, BUY IT NOW AND WEAR IT OUT OF THE STORE, so I just nodded like a bobblehead on the dashboard of a car hitting every single pothole on a Chicago street.

If a church-going woman is what you value, pursue a church girl. If a stay-at-home wife aligns with your vision, then that’s who you should look for. If you prefer slim women, then seek out a slim woman. If you’re drawn to thicker women, choose a thicker woman. If fitness is important to you, find a fit woman. If you admire a career-oriented woman, go for that. It's perfectly okay to have your preferences. But what you shouldn’t do is marry someone who isn’t your type and make her feel less than others because you’re unsure about what you want.

If a church-going woman is what you value, pursue a church girl. If a stay-at-home wife aligns with your vision, then that’s who you should look for. If you prefer slim women, then seek out a slim woman. If you’re drawn to thicker women, choose a thicker woman. If fitness is important to you, find a fit woman. If you admire a career-oriented woman, go for that. It's perfectly okay to have your preferences. But what you shouldn’t do is marry someone who isn’t your type and make her feel less than others because you’re unsure about what you want.