Greetings,

It is another Monday and here in Kingston Jamaica, it is also as the Reggae band Third World declared in their song of the same name – 96 degrees, in the shade. Still, despite the almost unbearable heat, I am giving thanks for life, for the many prospects of engaging it with joy-filled gratitude and simplicity, as I approach in a couple of days, another anniversary of my birth.

Two weekends ago, I was gifted with a weekend at one of the hotels on the north coast. The truth is, I stayed indoors most of the time, venturing out only at mealtimes. My sister-friend, with whom I shared the weekend, just could not fathom the logic/reasoning behind my not wanting to walk on the beach or explore the extensive hotel grounds, preferring instead what she summarized as the uninteresting boredom and monotony, of being cooped up in the hotel room.

Under normal circumstances, I would have agreed with her assessment, but that weekend was the culmination of a number of weeks, which could not be considered normal. So much was going on; there were deadlines to be met and while the weekend was intended to provide a getaway, a significant part of it, was given to work related matters, including two zoom meetings. You will therefore understand, I hope, why all that my exhausted body and mind required was the quiet, airconditioned comfort of a room, where I did not have to: make [or get out of] the bed, clean the bathroom or be concerned about arriving somewhere late.

Although my sister-friend thought I wasted the weekend, the truth is, I thoroughly enjoyed the time and space it provided for me to exhale, but more than that. Having caught a glimpse of the bold, dare I say vulgar display of artificially enhanced, physical attributes of a younger generation [with a few of mine own] of foreign and local women, for whom the adage less is more is more of an expletive than a proverb, I realized why a simple, natural and unpretentious way of being and mode of dress, is still my preferred choice!

On those trips to and from the dining areas, I saw various displays of derrieres and bosoms, with strips of cloth pretending to be bikinis, that only drew attention to what they did not – scratch that – what they could not cover. Then, there was the parade of hair, with lengths that would have given Rapunzel a run for her money! Black women, of African descent, boasted long flowing tresses [of varying colours and styles] with lashes that could rival any wind screen wiper, strutted their stuff, demonstrating why the hair industry, has become such a lucrative and thriving one…Lord, have mercy!

One evening, as my modestly clad sister-friend and I made our way back to the room, having had dinner, we were just about to pass the open doors of one of the hotel’s restaurants, when the sound of a high pitched voice, followed by words which explained the reason for its decibel level, caused us to stop and take in the spectacle.

To cut a long story short, a well-endowed and voluptuous young woman, dressed in a duster, made from fabric resembling the nylon sheer that adorn the windows at my home, stood at the restaurant’s entrance, frantically gesticulating to a weary looking concierge and his female assistant. Beneath the duster were the clearly visible thongs and a bra straining to hold the woman’s healthy looking body parts in place. She argued animatedly, with the man, obviously failing to understand why he thought she was inappropriately dressed for the restaurant.

I did not have my phone on hand, or I would have taken a quick photo, to give you an idea of the vulgar display of female anatomy that stood before us. As my friend and I eventually walked on, back to our room, shocked by the spectacle we witnessed, we both asked each other and any of the angelic host who might have been listening, while covering their celestial eyes, whether she really expected to be allowed into the restaurant. Did she suppose it was a cook shop, where she could get a food, with no one paying attention to her attire, or an extension of the beach perhaps? I am still wondering.

One of the lessons I learned that weekend is that while I believed myself to have an open mind about current fashion trends, what I saw and experienced, made me realise how dinosauric I really am. Since then, I have noticed that maternity wear is no longer a necessity for pregnant women; baring their bulging tummies with the minimum surrounding it, is considered en-vogue.

Well, as I approach my birthday, I am giving serious thought to what I will wear to celebrate the occasion. A flat sheet from my linen press draped around my sixty-two-year-old body, secured with a few strategically placed safety pins, just might work. Then again, I am not sure what to do about the hair. Perhaps a mop head could be donned. Ah well, I think I’ll just celebrate the natural me, the real me, a gift from God no doubt, with no strings attached!

By the way, Covid-19 seems to be here to stay so, do me a favor and continue to keep safe and well until next time.

Grace+