Body positive: musings

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I consider myself lucky in that I’ve never had to experience a true struggle with weight. Throughout my life I’ve always maintained what would clinically be described as a “healthy weight” (whatever that means). That being said…I’ve always had insecurities about my body, basically since puberty. My body started changing then, and it continues to evolve as I get older. Now that I’m in my 30s, there are some more noticeable changes. Namely that I keep getting curvier…and curvier. I am guilty of making “I’m fat!” lamentations on a way-too-frequent basis, with my boyfriend as my sole witness (I’m working on it). Most of my friends are bigger than me to various degrees, so it seems in poor taste to whine about my body insecurities when their concerns carry more weight (literally). And for the record, my boyfriend makes it very clear he’s still into my body, even though it’s not the same body I had when we fell in love (and neither is his).

But I do struggle. Most women do, even those of us who aren’t “overweight.” As we age, our metabolism slows down. If we aren’t meticulous with our diet and fitness regime, we tend to thicken out in various places. For me, it’s my lower stomach, hips, and thighs—my tummy being my biggest insecurity. At 5’2”, I’m very petite, so pounds tend to show up more visibly on me than they do on women with taller frames.

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I’ve “outgrown” most of my size 4 clothes and am now selecting a size 6, and trading most of my “smalls” for “mediums.” After being a size 4 for many years, it can be difficult to accept that my body is changing…growing…filling out. Rather than depress myself by trying to squeeze into my 4s, I bought myself clothes that actually fit. Wouldn’t a vigorous exercise regime and strict low-carb diet slim me back down to my twentysomething body? I suppose so, if I had the discipline to follow through. I try to eat healthy, and I try to work out/stay active. But I’m not a “fitness person” or a “clean eating person.” I have tried to be, and I’m just…not. I hate workout clothes, I hate sweating. I walk as much as I can. I like quinoa and salads. I have to be real with myself, and a strict fitness lifestyle will never be sustainable for me in the long-term. Every time I roll out my yoga mat for a quick 10 or 20 minute toning workout is a huge victory. And it is—something is always better than nothing.

Yesterday I treated myself to a new nightie from Target—soft, stretchy modal trimmed with lace. Comfy but sexy. But as I sat on my futon watching the latest season of House of Cards, my hands wandered down to my lower belly and began pinching the fat deposits on my lower abdomen. I was disgusted and angry with myself. How could I let this happen? I just wanted this “disgusting fat” off of me! Then I stopped, and went on Pinterest, searching keywords like “real women bodies” and “body positive.” I was inspired then and there to create my own Body Positive Pinterest board to create beautiful reminders that my body is 1) completely and utterly normal 2) healthy and 3) doesn’t need to be “perfect” to be loved TODAY. We all know how underrepresented “real women” are in today’s social media culture. But there are a growing number of women who inspire me and embrace “imperfections” like fat rolls and cellulite, and companies like Aerie that are being more inclusive with their models. We still have a long way to go, culturally, when it comes to body acceptance.

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I realized something else last night: I have been self-shaming my body for months, maybe even years. Because I’m not at my ideal fitness level, or my ideal weight, because my body is expanding rather than shrinking, softening rather than tightening. But why wage war on my body? Why not just accept that my thirtysomething body IS GOING TO BE DIFFERENT than the body I had a decade ago? If I go through pregnancy and childbirth, there are going to be more changes.

My goal is to move my body, nourish my body, and be gentle, kind, and loving toward my body. Are you with me?!

I stumbled across Fat Girl Flow and while I am not “fat,” I adore Corissa’s message, most importantly that being body positive isn’t about “health,” it’s about loving the body we have regardless. Don’t unhealthy bodies deserve just as much love as a “healthy” body?

On my body positive reading list: Body Kindness: Transform Your Health From the Inside Out—And Never Say Diet Again by Rebecca Scritchfield, and Planking for Pizza: A Body Positive Guide to a Confident, Healthy, Happy You by Jessica Pack (@plankingforpizza on Instagram).

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June poem

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If June had a flavor, it would be strawberry:
bright, sweet, juicy
If June had a color, it would be green
spreading everywhere its florid promises
If June had a sound, it would be
the irreverent laughter of children
over a jangle of dog collars,
a delicate chorus of insects
If June had a smell, it would be peony and cut grass,
the smoky waft from a charcoal grill
If June had a feeling, it would be
rich chocolate melting on the tongue–
exquisite and temporary
a place I wouldn’t mind staying forever

written 6.20.16
Over a year old but I wanted to share.

Threading the needle

I found this journal prompt and decided (as I often do) to make a list. When I liked the list I made, I decided to share it with you! 🙂

  1. Relax.
  2. Breathe.
  3. Slow down.
  4. Practice patience–the things you seek are already on their way to you.
  5. Your life is okay as it is.
  6. Don’t postpone happiness–it’s yours today, if you want it.
  7. You are so loved! More than you probably know.
  8. You can still do more of the things you love.
  9. It’s okay to say no sometimes. Give yourself a break.
  10. Do at least one thing today that will help your “future self.”

Then I found this image on Pinterest when I searched “patience art.”

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I was struck by its simplicity but also its message. Patience is threading the needle. You have to slow down! I drank too much coffee today–the caffeine is making me jittery and anxious. I can’t “thread my needle” when I’m like this! I’m going to practice 1-4 the rest of the day until I feel calm enough to try again.

Graduate school: the crossroads

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I just finished submitting my petition to graduate. If all goes well with my final class (!!) this semester, I will be graduating Summa Cum Laude with a Bachelor of Arts in English Language and Literature. I can barely type those words without being overwhelmed by emotion. I can’t believe I’ve finally gotten here. This is the direct result of four years of personal sacrifice, neglected friendships, adventures postponed, Sunday afternoons hunched over my laptop writing literary analysis papers. My education has always come first, and it shows in my GPA, in the feedback I’ve gotten from my professors. It’s hard for me to remain modest when I’m so proud of how far I’ve come and what I’ve accomplished. But what comes next?

I began pursuit of my Bachelor’s Degree with the full intention that I wanted to teach English. By and large, I never questioned that. Now that the applications for grad school are casting their long shadow over my days, I’m (true to form!) questioning that goal. There’s no money in teaching. Finding a job is really hard, and the job market is fiercely competitive (considering there is no money in teaching, I still find that odd). And of course: teaching is a ton of work. If I choose to teach at a public high school, I can expect a thankless flock of apathetic students, to which my boyfriend can attest. I’ve toyed with careers as an editor, or perhaps a librarian, which would require alternate Master’s programs. Getting my Master’s is not optional for me; it has been my intention from day one, to keep the wheels of education turning. I love education; I’ve thrived on it for years. More than anything, my love of literature and writing has propelled me forward. So it makes sense that I share that passion with others, to the best of my ability.

So now the question remains: Where do I apply to grad school? It needs to be online, because (sadly) I have to keep working full-time, as I have for my entire undergrad program. Do I pursue a Master’s of Education, or a Master’s of English, perhaps Creative Writing? I know to get certified to teach in New Hampshire I’ll need to pursue alternative certification routes. I can’t afford to student teach and not make money. All of the options out there are so daunting. In spite of my success in my undergraduate program, I can’t help but question my own intelligence and abilities: what if all those grades were just a fluke, dumb luck? (I don’t think so, but maybe.) Can I even do it? Am I tall enough to be a teacher? And scariest of all: what if I hate it? I couldn’t hate it more than what I do now, to be sure…but how do I know what the “right” program is for me? I feel like these are questions most people answered in their early 20s, but I am a late bloomer when it comes to higher education. I’ve learned that as long as you’re alive, it’s never too late to try something new.

If you are in the teaching profession, I would really love your input, so please comment. I’ll be sure to check out your blog, too.

 

Dear uterus: please hold

I’m 31 years old, will be 32 this year. I’m still not entirely comfortable with being “in my 30s,” and my reproductive expiration date is rapidly approaching. I can practically feel my uterus drying out, giving up. Last night my mom texted me: “Don’t forget your ticking clock.” OMG–please stop with all the ticking, I just can’t. Believe me, I’m feeling the pressure. I have my annual OBGYN appointment today and while I do like my doctor, when I turned 30, the visits took on a more urgent tone. “Are you thinking of having children?” he would ask me. “You still have time, but you’ll want to do it sooner than later.”

Of all the things in life, the greatest uncertainty and source of most confusion, conflict, and internal anguish has been the question: “Will I ever become a mother?” I have many feelings about this subject, which I plan to explore in a book–someday. But for today, I need to get some thoughts out. I’m just not fucking ready to have a child. Being single for most of my 20s, having a baby was a distant abstract. I met my partner when I was 27, and time still seemed abundant. He wanted kids “someday;” I wasn’t sure, then we both traded positions and have never been on the same page at the same time. Now he is back to wanting them “someday,” and I am not so much wanting a baby as I am feeling intensely pressured to have one. The fear of infertility (for which I cannot afford treatment) plagues me. The term “geriatric uterus” makes me simultaneously roll my eyes and twinge with fear. Never having a child seems scarier than having one right now.

Many women get pregnant by accident and they do the parenting thing just fine. I like to think that could be me. Having chance and biology make the imperative decision for you, and deciding to continue the pregnancy in some ways, is the easiest way to come to terms with becoming a parent. I have no doubt that I would love any child I had to the moon and back. But I have committed and promised my partner to stay on my birth control, and only go off it with his full consent (entrapment is not a good plan). Life isn’t conducive to babies right now. I’m about to graduate with my Bachelor’s in English come May, and am actively seeking graduate programs for an education degree. To be honest, I’m not sure what I’ll end up doing. But what I do know is that I’ve worked too damn hard to give up my dreams for a screaming baby.

There are so many things I want to do–travel, write, teach, paint, create, explore–and a child would undoubtedly hamper all of the above. My partner and I live in a very modest (read: small, cramped) 2-bedroom apartment and while we are not “poor,” we lack the means to buy a house and have relatively little saved. Having a child is a huge money drain, and that scares me. What a shame to bring a child into a world of struggle and scrimping. I don’t want to do that.

Unlike most other things in life, a woman’s fertility has a deadline. 35 is the recognized age at which pregnancies become “high risk,” and while many women deliver healthy babies in their late 30s and even 40s, I want to avoid the social stigma of having a dangerous pregnancy. I also have a fear that even if I tried to have a child, I wouldn’t be able to conceive, or my treasured pregnancy would end in a bloody miscarriage (I had one when I was 18, result of an accidental pregnancy of course, and it was so fucking scary).

So who knows? I’m feeling a lot of things, but the biggest one is pressured. Society is strongly natalist. Everyone loves babies. The self-centered, attention seeking part of me (which is big, I’ll admit) wants to be a pregnant goddess, protecting the swollen moon of my belly which contains the most precious thing of all: life. But I’m not ready yet…and that’s what I’ll have to tell my doctor today.

Please comment and share your thoughts on this subject–women and men, childless or parents, I would greatly appreciate your advice/opinions on this most personal topic. Finally, this quote speaks to me:

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raw around the edges

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But it seemed to me that this was the way we all lived: full to the brim with gratitude and joy one day, wrecked on the rocks the next. Finding the balance between the two was the art and the salvation.

Elizabeth Berg, The Year of Pleasures

Well. He is home. For now. But that doesn’t mean things are perfect. In spite of how comforting his presence is (albeit tenuous), I am struggling so hard just to get back to baseline of feeling “normal.” Which is funny because I have never been nor will I ever be, normal, by anyone’s standards. I take my pill religiously. I am not angry, I am mainly just depressed. I think about everything over and over again. How I feel about things. I check it like you do when you lose a tooth and your tongue runs over the empty spot, you know it’s gone but you’re still checking anyway. Still there.

I was ready to quit my job and do anything else. Take a huge pay cut. (That did not pan out.) Then I remember, insurance. Pills. Doctors. Oh. I am a slave to my job for these things. It is funny how you know inside you have so much to offer and yet you spend all day saying “how can I assist you?” and it really feels like your soul is actually dying.

I used to be obsessed with makeup videos and fashion blogs. I was always wondering what I could buy next. I have stopped that cold. I have no real desire to experience any superficiality. I have not painted my nails in a week (although I will probably never stop wearing full face makeup just because that is me). I have been coming back to my favorite books by my favorite author, Elizabeth Berg. (Durable Goods, Joy School and True to Form.) They are fast reads I suppose but being in that world, and being back in that world I remember being in so many times and for so long is just about the only thing I find real solace in. Absolutely, within the last few weeks, those are the moments when I find peace. In those books. She writes so well it hurts. It is just so true to the heart, it just pulls at me, all the way back to my own thirteen year old self.

But what else.

Then I thought well, I’ll save up a bunch of money, and take the road trip I’ve always wanted. All the way to California, via Route 66 as much as I could. From coast to coast. Dip my toes in the Pacific like I have always wanted to. I have thought about it many times but listening to Lana Del Rey always makes me want to just drive forever and ever. I guess I always pictured myself sharing that experience with someone else (special) but maybe it should just be me, some cheap motels, bags of Cheetos, truck stop food, lots of mix CDs and the open road for miles and endless miles. I would be like Kerouac. Maybe it would inspire me. I got bright little flips of excitement thinking about it. Then I talked myself out of it, at least for the immediate future. Money, time. Oh, those traps.

So the battle begins. I keep choosing safety, and “safety” seems to be keeping me pushed inwards, against myself. I really want to break free.

wake me when the hour arrives

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This song has seen me through some tough times.

I keep hearing keys rattling, cars pulling in. I always think it’s him; even though I know it isn’t because he is someplace else. 

I thought he would be home by now, and it splits me apart that he isn’t. I cannot lie. I miss his lips. I miss his everything.