Trimming the Fat

I don’t remember the first time I felt the urge to carve away my excess. Maybe it was when I was around 6, and one of my friends harmlessly pointed out that of all the little girls sitting on the bench, my thighs spread out the most when we sat in our shorts. Maybe that was the first time my hand itched for a butcher knife. Or perhaps later, a different group of friends this time, 6^th graders drunk on Bonnie Bell and JTT, trading size 2 jeans and tank tops. Me off to the side, nearly convincing even myself that the accessories were the only things that interested me anyway. I’m sure by that time the lure of the blade had entered my mind. It was a common fantasy by high school, when my mom told me I looked like a prostitute for showing too much cleavage, and I had already learned to dread visits to my grandma for I knew they would come with lectures on the ties of size and beauty and success and happiness. The family camping trip, when everyone got milkshakes but my dad still asked “if I really needed to eat that,” surely brought on a sullen gaze, perceived as insolence, but merely a cover for the scene playing out in my head. One where I could stand naked in front of the mirror, knife in hand, and start painfully, but at last, shrinking. I would stand in my bathroom staring, mentally drawing the lines as a plastic surgeon marks corrections in the way an English professor might mark an unworthy essay; “extraneous, cut this down,” “more definition here.” How fucked up that as a child in the single digits, I would plan how many ACE bandages I would need to wrap my middle tightly, hopefully quelling the bleeding of my mutilated flesh after I had finally achieved a better form.

The older I’ve gotten the less I’ve ached to be “skinny,” yet my curves aren’t in all the right places, and it is a rare week that the thought “If only I could just cut this off” doesn’t flit through my heat at least once or twice. Plus size is all the rage right now, but only if you still have a flat stomach and taut, smooth skin. Maybe, I fantasize momentarily, if I lop off my stomach, the scar tissue that takes its place will at least be firm…

Sometimes I want to weep for my 8 year old self.  A little girl so hyper aware of being too big, ironically always found lacking for the sin of being too plentiful.

Sometimes I want to weep for my 29 year old self.

Some Girls Are Prettier Than Others. And It Doesn't Matter.

Assuming most of you also use some combination of Pinterest, Facebook, or Twitter, you may have seen this blog post going around:

http://www.themilitantbaker.com/2013/03/things-no-one-will-tell-fat-girls-so-i.html?m=1

(I can't figure out how to link right now, copy-paste it old school style will ya?)

It's a good read, I really like it. If you haven't read it yet, take 5 minutes. I'll wait. No I won't, because I'm not actually writing this as you're reading it, unless you watch Dr. Who, in which case, tell me how much I should watch it because I think I would love it.

I think it's an important message for many plus size ladies, but I have one little problem with it. If anyone reads this I'm probably going to get crucified for saying this but..

Ladies...

I think some of you are way hotter than other's of you.*

And it doesn't matter.

Being average looking or, dare I say it, unattractive by conventional views DOES NOT make anyone less worthy of love and affection, a rocking sex life, self-esteem, equal wages, respect, human rights, etc.

I get a little tired of the "all women are beautiful" self-esteem because it makes beauty the most important part of who we are, and by definition requires SOMEONE to set a standard. Obviously our Western/American media/culture standard is too narrow, but  who then?

It shouldn't be an issue because how ANYONE sees our physical attractiveness shouldn't be at the top of the list of what defines us. Feeling self confidant and worthy shouldn't rest on feeling beautiful. People are worthy of much more than just being looked at.

Being able to see your own beauty is an extremely convoluted issue, one that I imagine 99% of women have some problems with, as Dove recently pointed out (though surreptitiously harmfully in my opinion, but that's another blog. Well, actually it's pretty much the same issue as this blog but I'm tired of talking about Dove because I already did for so long on Facebook and I'm lazy, maybe I'll copy-paste later). It's been one of the biggest struggles in my life, and likely will be for a long time. Definitely not something I can take to heart all the time.

This has been written about all over the interwebz, and much more eloquently than I just did, but cut a sister some slack, my blogging muscle is a bit atrophied. There are a ton of other things I could have written about, but this one was floating around in my brain today.

*I say this in the most, I-dig-guys-so-hard way possible, though I'd be lying if I didn't also admit I'd be ALL over Christina Hendricks.

How Easily Disheartened I Am

It's sort of sad how easily I can be disheartened. I've been eating super strict paleo for Lent, and I actually started a day early, so I think I've done like 16 or 17 days now. I've gained a pound (lame but oh well), but worse I've gained three inches around my waist.

How is that even possible?

So frustrating. I know it shouldn't be about the numbers or how I look, but I would be lying and foolish if I said aesthetics wasn't at least a part of why I try to be so healthy. And to have it go the opposite direction. That's rough.

It's unfortunate how fragile the psyche is sometimes. How easily it goes from "I'll never lose weight," to "I'll never be pretty," to "No one will ever be attracted to me," to "I'll never find love."

How much of this can I blame on our societal obsession with slender perfection, and how much is due to my own mixed up mental and emotional state?

I'm too exhausted to have to take responsibility for it now...

Unease

I think I figured out partially why I'm uncomfortable when people say I'm beautiful. As I posted a few posts back, I don't get much male attention, therefore I don't see the evidence for me being attractive. Already gone over that. But I don't think I'm uneasy with the thought I might be beautiful simply because I'm not sure I believe it or I feel like people are stretching the truth or fooled; I think I'm partly scared that it might be true.

Because if it's true that I'm beautiful, then the lack of romantic attention throughout my life would have to be for another reason, and that would have to me a shitty personality or gaping character flaws. I know I have my share of insecurities and a penchant for the melancholy, with significant lazy and cynical streaks, but I've always thought of myself as bright, loyal, and funny. Could THAT be untrue?

That's even more worrisome, so I'm left to hope that the lacking is only with my physical appearance.

On that note, here are some pictures from a fun shoot a few weeks ago with Fleur de Lis Photography.

If strong is the new skinny, why are all the girls in your "fitspirational" pictures skinny?

Let’s be real.

I found every single one of these pictures on “Crossfit” labeled Pinterest boards or searching for crossfit tags. In response to the abundance of anorexic thinspo, there is a huge “fitspo” movement right now, touting the motto “strong is the new skinny.”

But let’s be real, these pictures are not about health. These pictures are simply holding up another beauty ideal unattainable by the vast majority of women.

I do not mean these aren't beautiful women, or that I don’t admire the hard work and dedication they've put in. They are undoubtedly gorgeous girls who likely eat well and train hard (though as all I’m seeing are pictures, I can’t rule out unhealthy habits as well; you cannot completely judge health by appearance), and I don’t question that they can perform the impressive feats to back up their appearance.

But if strong is the new skinny, why are all the girls in your fitspirational pictures skinny? Sure, they've got quads and abs and traps, and they certainly don’t look anorexic. But none of them are above a size 4, or MAYBE 6 (and then only because of the quads and glutes).

If you want to show strong girls, show girls doing strong things. Maybe they have low body fat percentage and muscle definition and flawless skin and flaxen hair and bright eyes like Camille Leblanc Bazinet and Miranda Oldroyd.

But it might be a picture of me, 200 some odd lbs and by BMI definitions morbidly obese, lifting over my body-weight  Maybe it’s a picture of a girl without makeup or who is wearing more than a sports bra and Lulu lemon shorts.

Maybe a woman who’s middle aged, or even past middle age.

Maybe someone with a disability.

For God’s sake, be impressed and inspired by the achievement of the muscle-up or clean and jerk, not the tan and oiled abs in a photo-shoot. If the focus is on how a woman LOOKS, (whether extremely lean like Kate Moss, curvy and voluptuous like Christina Hendricks, or strong and muscled like Camille and Miranda) we haven’t done away with beauty ideals, we've just switched them out.

I’ll admit I post pictures that celebrate beauty ideals; I love the world of plus size modeling and haute couture. Nothing wrong with celebrating the aesthetic of the human form, as long as it doesn't become obsessive.

But don’t confuse it with fitness.

Ramblings of evidence and self worth

I've never been asked out on a date. Closing in on 28 years old, never even had a guy ask for my phone number. I have to conclude that this means I'm not attractive to the opposite sex. Not alluring. When I was 17 it could be believed that boys were shy or mean or whatever. But I can't make that assumption anymore.

But here's the thing. I get told pretty frequently that I'm pretty. Not everyday, but maybe a few times a week, in a good week. It just happens to only ever be by women. Sometimes friends, sometimes family, sometimes acquaintances, occasionally strangers. Always female. And while I truly believe that most of these instances are honest and well-intentioned, the motive for a woman telling me I'm pretty is quite different from the motive for a man to say the same thing (For the sake of ease, as I'm heterosexual, I'm going to make a big assumption and say everyone telling/not telling me I'm pretty is also).

The only man who has ever told me I'm pretty is my dad, which is wonderful and sweet and John Eldridge-y, but there comes a point when it doesn't count anymore. My friends tell me I'm pretty and they can't understand why I don't get asked out, but I need evidence. Evidence for me being attractive to the opposite sex would require some signs that at least on occasion the opposite sex has been attracted to me.

It's wonderful to have loving friends and family. I'm blessed with some of the best. But just as I fill a part of my friend's hearts that their husbands/boyfriends can't, their men fill a part that I can't. And it's frustrating when they act as if I should be totally fine without romantic love simply because I have so much platonic love. Is it so wrong that I want someone to want to kiss me, in addition to making my friends laugh and feel safe?

idk, maybe I should be ok with it. Feminism and all that.

I'm sick of being told I'm pretty when there is no evidence to back it up.

Not screen-caps, ha :-)

Finally uploading my favorites that aren't screen shots. I can't believe this shoot was a year ago, time has flown. I would love to work with Debbie again, but I don't live there anymore. I'm hoping to do a shoot with a local photographer where I am now, hopefully soon. Moving down to LA in the spring to pursue music and modeling. Never thought I'd be that girl, but here I am :-)

Photographer: Debbie Schwab

Hair and Makeup: Kendra Hittinger