A Verbal Self-Portrait

Hello, ducks! I went a creative route with the Description of Moi so that I could set up a scenario in which someone (I chose a man) was doing the describing. I find that having a set of eyes through which to see the character helps color the actual description. You know? So today you are seeing me through the eyes of a man sent to observe and describe me to someone else. This is, of course, a purely fictional occasion, but it is quite the truth. Hope you enjoy it. :)

(an actual picture of me in action, though less sparkly than usual)

What was she like? She struck one as being monstrously alive. That impatient toss of side-swept bangs, the inviting laughter spilled from one sentence into the next.. He'd been asked to describe her carefully. Easily requested, harder to fill. Her eyes might have been any color they were so caught up in her smile but he thought they were light. Light what? Green, gray, blue? Did she even know? As for pretty, he supposed she was in her comfortable way: generously curved in all the right places. Too curved in some. Womanly. Pleasing. In possession of all the required normal features in rather normal quantities and style. Brown hair bounced around her shoulders, got whisked to one side then the other as she spoke. Natural waves. Not uniform at all.

He drained his glass, glanced away as she shot an inquiry at him, and returned to studying her when she'd got distracted again. No, a million girls could fit the physical description: a stylish, plump brunette of middling height, moon-eyes, cracking grin. It spoke nothing of her. One didn't notice any of these things when she talked, and had he ever seen her stop in her ceaseless revolutions from group to group, caught in the bokeh-effect of her own light? He couldn't remember. She always talked. Talked with her whole body. Her head made as many motions as her hands. Her eyes expressed even more than her laughter. And when she was especially happy, she rocked her hips side-to-side, perfectly unconscious of the gentle swaying. She noticed his studying, flashed the moon-eyes just once, and hurried on with her next statement which, like them all, would be of a different tone than anyone else's. Shyness. There were bits of it still in her. Bits that turned her cheeks just a few shades lighter than her reckless lipstick.

He laughed at her, giving in, and was rewarded with a second moon-flash. He'd lost the battle; his laughter was probably what she'd wanted all along. But he'd given in to a worthy foe. After all, her whimsical charm was notoriously hard to resist, even for the most well-regulated of logical minds.