Aida Zabidi
She stepped out of the shower, wet, dripping from the cold water, looking at her naked self in the bathroom mirror.

Her body had aged, lost the youthful plumpness of youth, but she had accepted a long time ago that she would never be one of those women who would have the voluptuousness of other more earth motherly types. Her shoulders were defined from the physical work that she did, and she flexed experimentally, watching the light cast shadows on her breasts and her back. 

Rivulets dripped down her body, and she traced the path absentmindedly, noticing how her stomach had lost its tautness throughout the years and through childbirth. There were even stretchmarks, a scar of sorts that she wore with a certain amount of pride.

She had always been proud of her body, of her muscle and sinew. It reminded her of warrior women from tales of adventure.

Her body had changed, no doubt, the same way that time had softened the youthfulness of her face, but she was glad for those changes. She had often wondered if she would run to fat, the same way so many had done, but somehow she had not.

Age was a wonderful thing, she decided.
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