I do not want to live my life with manufactured beach waves in my hair.
I want to braid and pile it on top of my head the way my Scandinavian great-grandmother did while she worked.
I do not want to sell skincare, work-outs, or expensive oils to my friends.
I want to gather with them under the full moon and howl.
I do not want to have a “perfect home for entertaining”.
I want a sanctuary for my own soul.
I do not want to buy designer clothes for my children that they will wear three times before outgrowing or destroying.
I want to stop filling landfills with more bullshit.
I do not want to spend my free time redecorating my home, my body, or my face.
I want my free time to be a mystery — even to me.
I do not want to dress the part.
I want to be myself completely.
I do not want to fight aging.
I want to grow old.
I do not want to smile unless that warmth comes up organically from below.
I do not want to celebrate a body transformation
unless it is the miracle of gestation, or remission from disease.
I do not want the way I look to stir admiration or envy,
I want the looks I give to be honest and penetrating.
I do not want to meal plan or prep
unless it is for a feast, funeral, or party.
I do not want to pretend that polite conversations are stimulating,
and I do not want to pretend that non-stimulating sex is anything other than demeaning.
I want my lungs to remain full of the wild wind I was born with,
and I refuse to surrender any of that power to those who may find me frightening.
— Whitney Roberts Logan