whereabouts
June 19, 2008
10 things tuesday…
1) is there a t-shirt that says, “prone to melancholia”?
2) snuggling with your dog only solves so many problems.
3) why can someone else’s issues pull you so deep?
4) why does it take me so bleeding long to paint one room?
5) praying that the woodmiser portable sawmill will leave today. forever.
6) asking for strength to do what i know i have to do.
7) btw, i don’t even know what i have to do.
wouldn’t it be great if about 12 slices of hard salami, a handful of cheez-its, some fruit snacks, and an iced latte fixed everything? because i’d TOTALLY be fixed.
9) something tells me that i’m going to teach an ass kicker of a flow class tonight.
10) i need a hug.
i’ma see yer hillbilly, and raise you some redneck…
for belinda, i narrated this video tour of the logging camp. this liv voice brought to you on accounta’ her keepin’ company with the southernly senor deer killer.
also, peaches, fresh peaches… straight from the farm and into ice cream today.
feeling like friday.
i love summer fridays…little to no pressure to get out of jammies, kids with bed head, the whir of the air conditioner…intermittent nap contemplation.
the weekend started in lovely fashion on thursday night when the senor and i sat, side by side, on the dock gazing at a spectacular double rainbow that appeared like magic. i dashed back to civilization to receive my little people, and then sister came over for dinner. and then the senor came over again, because, you know, seeing each other less than twice a day would be unconscionable. (feel free to insert eye-rolling here)
today, i’ve been perusing the internets for recipes that would make a yummy dessert for a soiree that the senor and i are planning to attend tonight. friends just back from argentina are planning to share their journey before one heads back to california. lacking just a couple of ingredients for the delicious lime cake i am planning…
tomorrow, the kids and i will be out at the lake/logging camp swimming and running around while fresh peach ice cream churns and turkeys for father’s day get smoked. local peaches are just coming in, and the natives are restless for this goodness. it would be scandalous, scandalous, i tell you, to eat a peach from out of state!
on sunday, the children will go to their dad’s for the day. this means some precious poolside time for me, perhaps some senor time, and then dinner with my little ones when they come home.
all in all…good times.
wednesday obsessions: it’s complicated.
*deep breath*
I have set out to write this post many, many times. I have stopped for a number of reasons. Mainly they boiled down to the fact that I felt as if people would stop dead in their tracks and roll their eyes at me. The fact is that a lot of my obsessing is not about men. It’s not even about people or a person. It’s about my body.
I don’t hate my body. It’s been useful–carried a couple of kids, nursed same kids, gotten me around more than one country, and the like. It’s just well, it’s just that I probably ride a fine line between normal, western female body consciousness and something akin to body dysmorphic disorder. My thinking is not right, and I know it.
Today, at 5′7″ and size 4, I realize that there’s nothing really to be upset with my body over. I still feel like I have problems—a crepey, little handbag of a tummy; that squiggly vein on my right thigh; slightly tired breasts; the threat of a 3 generations old waggly chin.
It’s not as if I don’t know how I got here. I was the kid who got the “ain’t she pretty” comments nonstop. People stopped my parents everywhere. I remember there came a time when my younger siblings were officially annoyed by this. And then, middle school hit. I gained some weight. I was soft. And, just as people happily commented on my beauty, some decided it was okay to tell me about my fat. Most specifically, my mother’s best friend gave me a lot of heat about it. She was the too young trophy wife of a prominent physician with highlighted hair, a boob job and liposuction. She desperatedly wanted to “talk about my weight” because she didn’t want me “to suffer.”
What this woman didn’t understand was the untold level of self esteem damage she did to me. I hated myself for being ghastly and fat, but I couldn’t find a way out of it. When you hurt that badly on the inside, it’s impossible to want to work out. You’re miserable because of how you look in a bathing suit, but are powerless to change. Oh, and you love food. Don’t forget that part.
I spent most of high school embracing the trend towards grunge… the baggy jeans and oversized flannel shirts allowed me to hide a little. I was depressed. There can be no doubt of it. And, as usual, I ate. I did this until my freshman year at college. There, I started a maniacal program of running to the gym, running at the gym, doing circuit training, and then running to the dining hall where I’d have some combination of deli meat, lettuce, and sugar free lemonade. I got ridiculously skinny. And, I was still unhappy because I still felt like I was fat.
Later, I got married, and settled in at a size 8 for the most part. For a while, I felt pretty good about how I looked. The move south, a failed corporate transfer, unemployment, a bad job, a stressed marriage later, and I really found myself tipping the scales. Then, I got pregnant. And, then I got unpregnant. And, then I got pregnant again. Somewhere along the way, I was definitely wearing size large shirts and bigger jeans.
So, today, I’m 35 pounds down from the day that my I moved all of my personal belongings into the guest room at my old house. I feel good. I am aware, somewhere in my headspace, that I look good. The weird thing is that no matter how many times I go shopping, I still grab size large shirts and big pants. I think there’s still some place that believes I am bigger than I am. I still think of myself as a large person—a hoss.
My general rule is that I shop with someone who can see me try things on, and give me advice on sizing. Last week, I decided I wanted tank tops for summer. I, par usual, grabbed some larges because I thought the shirts looked small. Ultimately, I bought smalls. Why? Because I am small. (oh, crap. I wrote that.) I do not require large clothes no matter how many times my inner brain tells me that I do.
You know, it’s not that I’m sitting around feeling sorry for myself because of my “poor body image.” I just think it’s that I think it sucks that we collectively feel so shitty about ourselves—a quick glance at some chick blogs will bear that out. I also think it’s far too easy to blame fashion magazines, celebrities or (my personal favorites) “society and the media.”
From what I can see, we, the unfamous, do a pretty solid enough job of making each other feel like shit on our own. I mean, it’s not as if the latest copy of Vogue is walking up to you and saying, “Hey, you know what? You really should lose the fragging weight and wear Estee Lauder make-up like Gwyneth while being thin enough to carry off that new LV bag like ScarJo, and if you’d just put that mocha down you could probably fit in that Marc Jacobs dress.” More likely, there will be another parent at school or a girl in your bunko group who will ask you if you’re “a bit tired” or if you’re pregnant.
I’m not sure what the answer is or where this is going. I don’t expect anyone to be all, “poor little thin girl” anymore than I expect praise. I just see how lost I sometimes feel in my own skin, and wish that there was a way that we could all be a lot nicer to each other. I look at my own little girl, and I pray that she never writes a post like this.
