So back into writing again. I just sent the following personal essay to a writer friend of mine in Kalamazoo (who I used to work with - he was laid off just before Christmas). We thought we'd keep each other going and somewhat disciplined. Kinda like making each other go to aerobics class, I suppose. Anyway, here it is:

BEAUTY Salaysay 12/05/05
Another wintry Michigan morning, traffic slowing to a crawl as I drive closer to downtown. I’m on Woodward, the road that goes from ghetto to glamorous all in the span of 15 miles. Right now I’m in ghetto. Snow falls fat and lazy, big flakes taking their sweet time as they descend to the cracked, uneven side walks, covering abandoned cars with a white blanket of anonymity.
I sigh; the same sigh from the morning before, and the morning before that. I turn up my radio and the music becomes a soundtrack for the movie outside my car. Then, like a camera, I pan right and focus on a solitary figure walking my direction.
She is high-heel booted, tightly jeaned, hands shoved casually inside her denim jacket. But it’s the sweat jacket underneath that holds my attention - what’s in it is pretty much outside saying hello to winter and all of Woodward. Her zipper is pulled down to her belly button, and two ample, voluptuous chocolate globes are out enjoying the stroll. And they’re gorgeous. Positively mystifying, actually. Almost completely exposed, just enough to render you speechless as you watch the giddy snowflakes land onto their round mocha brown softness. Just about perfect, they defy gravity as they defy propriety, insolent and proud in their nakedness.
Wow, I thought. This should disgust me in some way, or shock me. But it didn’t, and the reason followed: This is beauty.
This beauty didn’t give a damn about who was looking at her and what people were thinking. Head held high, her closely cropped afro a shock of burnt orange, she conveyed contentment with her current place in the world. She was going to be who she truly was, at that moment and in that place. Such strength, I thought. So that’s what it’s about. I also found myself wondering . . . do I walk like that? How many women in Western society do, as we endure the constant assault of unrealistic images of physical perfection we are expected to emulate?
I kept looking at her generous figure while traffic crept. I thought there would be jeering and catcalls (or at least business inquiries), but there weren’t. It seemed we were all mesmerized, and perhaps as one mind agreed she didn’t deserve such treatment - only silent acknowledgement of her queenly demeanor. I watched until she passed out of my sight and continued on to my destination, wondering if I could ever carry myself in that way.
I recall this experience on days when I’m looking at myself in the mirror, wondering how much longer I have until it all falls apart without warning. Alas, at 36 I fear the worst is soon approaching, and I tend to have many of these moments. But it helps to remember that in one instance of clarity, I simplified that eternally confounding thing we call beauty: It’s there for me whenever I damned well want it to be. Walk like I got it, and everything else will follow.