1. Slim women are usually found attractive
They have thin legs and arms, tight body and absolutely no folds. You bet they are indeed attractive. They are able to slay body fit dresses effortlessly, rock high heels like crazy with their straight posture. And not to mention when they are in lin,,gerie… (ok, bye)
2. Slim women are perceived as sekzually agile
Ok, not hating on my plus size queens but let us face it, slim girls r0ck them fellas really good. You know, they are lighter in weight, easily controllable in bed and all that stuff. So the guys who are equally active in bed wouldn’t want to be cheated. Its like Game of Thrones (think about it).
3. Slim women are usually seen as healthy
I know you might be surprised because probably you know a slim girl who can’t even walk 3 blocks and eats junk like no body’s business. Yeah, my bestie is just like that. But since they are the ones with the flat bellies and smaller waistlines, brisk walks like they are on the Victoria Secret runway and so on, guys naturally want to think they are healthier than the plus-sized ladies. (I know you rolled your eyes again)
4. Slim women seem healthier for having babies
Slim women are perceived healthy, it is like the system is prepared for anything and they have lesser fat, it is believed that the womb is stronger and can easily carry the fetus with no complications.
I Allowed a Homeless Woman to Stay in My Garage—One Day I Walked in Unannounced and Was Shocked by What I Saw
I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
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