Tag: body image

The Problem of Modesty

MissM3 Comments

“Modest is Hottest.” The all-too familiar chant for anyone who grew up in the LDS Young Women’s program. We grow up being taught that as women, it is our responsibility to cover ourselves up, in order to protect the thoughts of the young men in which we interact with. Exposing the shoulder, midriff, cleavage, or thigh causes young men to have lustful thoughts, and we best not corrupt them.

I never bought into this whole “modesty” thing, mostly because in this instance, the word “modesty” is being completely misused. I would suggest we substitute “modest” with “conservative,” but “Conservative is Hottest” isn’t nearly as appealing to say, and doesn’t rhyme, either.

Also, I never felt that the burden of controlling someone else’s thoughts was a burden assigned to me. After all, if I was busy controlling my dude friends’ thoughts, who was controlling mine for me?

Back to my point. So I was always that girl in high school who stuck out like a sore thumb in homecoming pictures because my dresses lacked sleeves, and rarely reached past my mid-thigh. Tank tops in the summer were a staple, as were two-piece swimsuits. (Except at Girl’s Camp, of course.)

Today, I was at the gym, minding my own little business on the weight floor, when an older man (estimated age 60) approached me.

“Excuse me,” He said as I ripped out my headphones, DMX blaring. “I know i’m an old man, but I just wanted to thank you for not wearing those tiny running shorts.” I looked down at my Ultimate Yoga Pants, my cheeks growing hot. I blinked.

“I’m new to this gym,” he continued, “I switched here because at my old gym, all the girls would wear these tiny, little running shorts. I’ve been coming here a week now, and I haven’t seen a single girl wearing those. I appreciate you covering up.”

Dumbfounded and jaw agape, I mumbled, “I like stretchy pants.” and marched out of the gym, ears fuming, and cursing myself for not having a better response.

To be frank, my dear old gym friend, I did not choose to wear pants as opposed to shorts for modesty’s sake. The last thing on my mind when dressing myself this morning was “gee, how can I present myself in a way that will promote clean thoughts from the men that see me?” Because let’s be honest, I will be objectified regardless of the length of my leg wear.

This cultural attitude that women must cover themselves in order to protect men from entertaining lustful thoughts and desires is problematic at best.It ingrains a sense of shame in young girls over their bodies. Girls as young as they come are being told that tank tops are immodest. The shoulder has been sexualized. Girls are shamed into conforming to some arbitrary dress code and told that if they don’t, they are causing men to have lustful thoughts.

And we layer EVERYTHING. Which is fine, if that’s what you’re into. But when it’s 112 degrees on a July afternoon, you can bet your bottom dollar I will not be sporting more than one layer.

So sure, let’s keep the fun “Modest Is Hottest” motto. But let’s stick to the literal definition of the words within that phrase, and let’s hear the boys chant this at scout camp, too.

According to our friends at Merriam-Webster, Modesty is defined as “freedom from conceit or vanity.”

Where, exactly, does the shoulder coverage fit in there?

M.

Parity

MissM7 Comments

I remember the Spice Girls. I remember all four of us: Cortney, Tasha, (my cousins) McCall, (my sister) and myself, dressing up and choreographing dance moves to all of their songs. None of us could be Baby Spice, because all of us wanted to be Baby Spice. I still think I should have been her, though. After all, I was the only one with blonde hair.

I remember long summer days at the pool, and our quad piling into the back of my mom’s minivan in our bathing suits. I remember sitting side-by-side with my cousins and comparing the sizes of our thighs. Mine were way bigger.

I remember asking my mom later if I was fat. She told me that I wasn’t, and that my cousins were simply too skinny. I was seven years old.

I remember the summer before 8th grade when I decided to participate in the Miss Kaysville Fruit Heights scholarship pageant. I won the Director’s Choice Award, but I know that the pageant was rigged, and the only reason I got any sort of award was because the director of the pageant just so happened to be my neighbor. I’m still glad she didn’t let me leave empty-handed, and still have that little trophy sitting on my dresser.

I remember Lakin Larsen, my favorite babysitter, who always made me two packets of Easy Mac and played Kim Possible outside with my little sister and me. She was always Kim Possible, and we were the bad guys.

I remember going to bed with one little sister, and waking up with two.

I remember when the only things that mattered to me were whether or not I would be sleeping over at my cousins’ house for the third time in a row, and who had the most Water Babies.

I remember when everything mattered.

I remember when everything mattered so much that I couldn’t bring myself to fall asleep at night because I had too much worrying to do about things that mattered.

I remember how in 8th grade health class, we had to practice reading each others’ blood pressures, and mine was so low that even Coach Downs couldn’t find it. I’d never seen a teacher look so concerned before, and I doubt he’d seen a student so underweight before.

I remember buying Coach a snow globe with a John Deer tractor in it for Christmas that year. The man was obsessed with John Deer tractors.

I remember our summer snow cone stand out in the front yard and how we got a whole gang of older kids on bikes to buy fourteen dollars worth of snow cones in one day. They came back once a week, and we’d always spend our entire earnings on syrup and ice so that we could re-open shop the following day. We owned that neighborhood.

I remember when I finally decided that I was going to stop taking myself so seriously, because, let’s be honest, nobody else does. Life has been significantly easier since I’d made that decision.

I remember starting high school with a brand new clique of friends. My best friend, Brooks, introduced himself like, “Hi, I’m Brooks! And I’m a giant teddy bear!” and then shook my hand. I knew right then that we were going to be best friends for a long time.

I remember Brooks coming over to my house for the first time. He laughed at the chubby third grade version of myself my family had mounted on our living room wall. I locked myself in my closet and wouldn’t come out until I felt that he’d adequately begged for my forgiveness.

I remember my Chemistry teacher, Mr. Stevens, and how one day, in front of the entire class, he advised me in his British accent to enroll in medical school for the sole purpose of finding a mate. He said once I’d done that, I could just drop out and be a trophy wife. That was the day I decided I was going to get a PhD.

I remember back in high school when I was a ballroom dancer, and I’d have to get spray tans for competitions. I remember being told by a fellow classmate that I looked like I “rolled in a bag of Doritios.” I blushed, but you couldn’t see it due to my artificial tan.

I remember waking up at 5:30 every morning to get ready for school, which gave me two whole hours before class started. I didn’t mind, because just like everything else, looks mattered.

I remember when I’d foolishly decided to sign with a modeling agency. The agents were all real smooth-talkers, and wrongly convinced me that I “had a great look” for modeling and said that if I worked hard, I could be successful. Guess who didn’t get an ounce of work through aforementioned modeling agency?

I remember how in junior high school, the proper way to tell a boy you liked him was to hurl Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups into his back yard while he was jumping on his trampoline with his friends. This method was successful on all trials but one.

I remember being labeled a perfectionist by some shrink my parents made me see one time

I remember deciding that things didn’t matter any more, and how that mindset resulted in really poor grades, and a lot of sneaking out of my house on school nights.

I don’t remember ever finding a balance.

Winsome

MissM9 Comments

You wanna know what i’m sick of? No? Okay, well grab a fuzzy blanket and a mug of hot chocolate with those mini marshmalllows and take a sit so I can tell you anyway.

I’m sick of being told that I am cute.

You read that right.

Woah woah woah, there, stop rolling your eyes and let me explain myself before you start calling me hurtful names like “stuck up brat-face.” That’s hurtful.

Lately, the gentlemen i’ve been interacting with seem to feel that by paying me such a compliment entitles them to something. I shall now illustrate with a real-life example.

Boy: You’re cute.(:

Me: Thank you.

Boy:…. No, really, though.

Me: Thanks.

What up with the “no, really though.” In no way did I indicate that I  disagreed with his calling me cute or discounted the compliment. I simply accepted it with a gracious “thank you.” Punctuation included, and intended to indicate that I was through with that topic of discussion.

“No, really, though.” Uhh, okay. Thanks, again. I really don’t know what more you want from me here, nor do I really have anywhere to carry our conversation.

I can’t help but feel like I owe these gentlemen my attention when they’ve paid me such a compliment. Even if I show no interest, I can’t help but feel like I OWE it to them for telling me that they thought I was cute. And that’s messed up. Maybe I’m the one with the problem, but i’d be willing to bet that you gentlemen of the universe could come to a consensus that when you pay a lady such a gracious compliment, you’re expecting a little something in return.

It shouldn’t be that way, though. This gentleman sought me out, not the other way around. I am not obligated to reciprocate anything.

In summary, yes, I do enjoy being complimented on my cuteness. Who doesn’t?! But do people even severely compliment each other anymore, or does everyone have a hidden agenda?

Help me in my fight against cynicism.

M.

Sapience

MissM20 Comments

I am the worst at dating. The literal worst.

I decided to take a little risk and attend an NBA game with some dudebro who sought me out via good old FaceBook. The whole “stranger danger” concept never really stuck with me, and I am of the naive youth who really believe that people are who they say they are on the internet. It will be my downfall one of these days, mark my words.

-Back to my anecdote-

Aforementioned dudebro was no psychopathic serial killer, though. Just a dude. Sorry to disappoint. I feel like this post would be a zillion times more exciting had he turned out to be a murderer or something. Anyway, he messaged me to tell me that he had two free tickets to the Jazz game the following day, and was wondering if i’d like to accompany him.

In my defense, the only thing I hear when asked out on a date is “free food, free stuff, come with!”

For the sake of personal gain, I obliged him and agreed to allow him to take me to the basketball game. What could go wrong, right?

Now, there are a few rules when it comes to dating dudebros on the internet. One of the most crucial rules is asking the right questions before agreeing to meet up with anyone. Of these critical questions, the most crucial is that of age. You see, I had failed to ask this vital question, and the consequence was tragic.

The guy was 26. There is a 7-year age gap between me and him. Now, that may not sound like much, but it’s hella intimidating to me. When I think ’26-year-old single male,’ I think ‘adult.’ ‘Big boy.’ ‘Not suitable dating material for a lady of my youthful age.’ To my dismay, I had not discovered this minor detail until we were rolling to the arena in his $600 Buick.

The night only grew worse as we drove to his brother’s house. Plot twist: Dudebro invited his 28-year-old brother, his brother’s wife, and their child, to come with us. Oh, and on the way there, he ran 4 red lights. Where were the damn cops?!

Call me crazy, but I find it exceedingly strange to go on a first date with some guy and his married brother’s family. Is that not weird? Tell me if i’m wrong, because I’m pretty weirded out by it.

Also, this 26-year-old dudebro had some interesting comments on my outfit choice as well as my outer appearance. He said, (and I quote) “I’m a picky guy when it comes to what girls wear. Picky, picky.” As you can imagine, my feminist-y mindset loved hearing those words spew from his picky mouth.

No need to worry, though, because he later told me that I passed the test and that my outfit choice was to his liking. Abstaining from violence was nearly impossible at this point in the evening.

It was a disastrous night, and I demanded to be taken home at 10:30.

Reveal yourselves, normal boys, I beg of you.

M.

A Fractional Indemnity

MissM10 Comments

Today, I experienced a situation that caused me to feel like a hypocritical, shallow imbecile. Partially.

I shall now set the scene for you. *Clears throat.* AHEM.

There I was, draped on a barstool, my legs resting on the adjacent chair (let’s be honest, I’m not lunching with anybody. No, really, I am eating alone.) in the university’s cafeteria. I snatched the Ziploc bag from my backpack and began self-consciously scarfing down my Mayo-less turkey sandwich on Sara Lee’s 45-Calories-And-Delightful Bread. (Cuz screw you, patriarchal fat-shamers, for making “getting fat” one of my biggest fears in life.) Mid-bite, I was approached by a fellow student-perhaps my age, maybe even a few months younger, but the opposite gender.

This fellow had on an untucked flannel shirt and jeans that were a size or two too big. He had on glasses-the kind that morph into sunglasses when you walk outside, and hadn’t quite yet changed back to glasses-glasses, giving the lenses a bluish tint. His skin was as clear as sand, and he had a “baby face.”

“Excuse me,” he said as he approached my lonely lunch table of one, and I jerked my head away from my sandwich, half a chunk of lettuce hanging out of my mouth. I sheepishly covered it and forced the giant leaf of lettuce down my throat.

“Ooops, sorry, bad timing on my part.” the lad said, apologetically, as if it were his fault that I have yet to figure out how to consume edible substances in a socially acceptable manner.

After I’d finally swallowed a mouthful of dry sandwich (more a chore to eat than anything else), I shot him one of my winning smiles, baring my slightly-yellowed-by-excessive-green tea-drinking teeth.

“This is going to sound weird,” the boy continued, “and you can say no, but, um, uh, can I have your number? You can say no.”

My social skills are a bit impaired, and I could feel all the blood in my petite body rush straight to my cheekbone-lacking face.

I let out one of those nervous half laughs and hesitated just a beat.

“I actually have a boyfriend…” my mouth said before my brain could give it the O.K. A flash of disappointment came over his spectacle-covered eyes, his thin lips curving into a gentle frown.

“Oh, okay, I understand,” he managed, “I hope you have a great day. Enjoy your sandwich!” and with that, he took a step back from my table, down the hallway of rejection.

Again, my tongue reacted seconds faster than my brain ever could, and I turned and blurted, “thank you, though! I am so flattered!”

My brain’s only thought was, “I hate myself.”

I remained there, a solitary slump of a girl in a Victoria’s Secret hoodie with a half-eaten sandwich in hand, letting guilt take over my mood, and in awe of my own hypocrisy. I couldn’t believe that I had done just exactly what I’ve been demanding our society stop doing-qualifying a person’s value based on his/her external appearance. I had become, in that instant at least, the epitome of what I have been working so hard, (via this website and my own personal behavior) to advocate against. I had lied to this boy about my relationship status simply because the way he presented himself did not appeal to me.

But then, good old feisty, feminist M crashed this guilt party.

Wait a second, boys and men are allowed to have preferences on the type of person they find attractive. On Tinder, it is not uncommon for men to post in their “description” section indications of physical preference. (i.e. “Blondes only. “Cup sizes C and Up.” “Real Men Like Brunettes.” “No Whales Allowed.*”) I highly doubt that these online heart-throbs ever have episodes of guilt for their own displays of shallow behavior. So why should I? I like what I like, and I know what I don’t like.

Granted, I should not have lied to this boy with the cliche “I have a boyfriend” line. Why do I owe him any excuse at all? I don’t demand a reason why “real men prefer brunettes” on Tinder. I don’t owe this boy an explanation for not reciprocating his feelings of attraction for me. But honestly, what were my options for gently rejecting this boy?

I have found a couple of societal pressures that I theorize could be the cause of the “I Have a Boyfriend” Phenomenon.

1. Assumption: 

     “Assuming makes an ass out of “u” and “me,” the saying goes. I assumed, (probably rightfully) that this boy inquired for my cell phone number in order to initiate some kind of romantic relationship with me. Because rare is a boy and girl who share a strictly “No, Really, We Are JUST FRIENDS” relationship. Which is rather discouraging, seeing as I’ve always wanted and older brother figure in my life. But then we get into the whole “friend zone debate” which is an entirely separate argument on its own. Point being, had I given this kid my number, we could have possibly become dear friends, although the odds are slim as rice paper.

2. Justification 

As I mentioned earlier, for some reason, (girls especially) feel like we have to apologize for everything. It’s a scientific fact-they made a Youtube video about it. And we all know Youtube is the all-knowing, 100 percent reliable, online video database on this world wide web. In this particular situation, I was apologetic for not being physically attracted to this boy as I assume he was to me. What is there to be sorry for, though? Why is it so hard to simply say, “no, thank you, I’m not interested.” I can think of a couple of reasons. First of all, some people seem to think that no means yes, so they persist until they finally get what they want. (In his case, a seven-digit number granting access to instant communication with me) which would make each time I had to reject his inquiry harder than the last. Second of all, I was trying to be considerate of his feelings. Rejection is hard. Nobody wants to be told “no,” which is why I linked an excuse on to my rejection to soften the edges a little.

In conclusion, I stand by my decision to withhold my phone number from this boy. I did not want to give it to him, it’s as simple as that. However, I do regret the method in which I avoided giving it to him, and am working on alternative strategies for the “boyfriend excuse.” If y’all think of anything, please don’t hesitate to let me know.

M.

*I got this horribly offensive quote off of a T-Shirt from my dearest ex-suitor, “Derek,” which is one reason amongst a dozen others as to why I am okay with his terminating our relationship. What an ass, amirite? (See  Prevaricator  for that whole story.)

Misapprehension

MissM3 Comments

Last week, I decided it was time for me to move out. So I did. (Well, sort of.) I decided to pack up my Camry with my seasonal belongings and make the 12 minute drive to Oma’s* house and become her brand-new, live-in best friend. Now, i’ve only been here a week, but this week has been the bomb-diggity. (Excuse my informal language.)

Living with her has been awesome because I have this sense of independence that I don’t get at my parents’ house, but also there is always somebody here to help me with my laundry or make Crepes even on a Thursday morning. And also, my favorite aunt lives right next door now, and enjoys taking me to Applebee’s for half-priced appetizers after 9 PM. It’s like the half-step between paternal dependence and complete independence. And that works for me.

However, regardless of the happiness this move has brought me, not all affected by this move walked away without their toes being stepped on. I think I hurt my parents in doing this, and that tears me apart. My dad, and probably one of my closest friends lately, was a little wounded by my choosing to live elsewhere. He told my mom that he felt like he was not a good father for not providing me with an environment that I can flourish in.

My mom is also not exactly happy by this choice of mine. She feels as though I am pushing her away. Geographically, this holds true, but you know what they say- “distance makes the heart grow fonder.” (Or something like that.)

I have an overwhelming burden of guilt for making my parents feel this way. I am more than frustrated that a decision that can make me so happy (or at least, less unhappy) could be seen as a ding to my folks’ parenting skills. My intentions have been entirely misunderstood.

Even though I can’t seem to clear up my reasons for leaving the nest to mom and dad, I am going to clarify them here.

Reason #1: No Curfew. 

My Oma works late a lot, and our schedules make it so that we are rarely home at the same time. Since she is so busy working and also being the best Oma in the history of forever, she rarely asks me interrogating questions. Which means I am free to go out and do teenager stuff with the abundance of friends I don’t have at 2 AM. It’s the principle of the thing.

Reason #2: New Environment=removal of temptation to be a girl with an eating disorder.

As silly as it sounds, living in a new house with a different kitchen has helped me start to mend my skewed relationship with food. I haven’t binged yet, and even my thoughts toward myself have improved. I am starting to lose the rigidity of my routines and rituals. This, on its own, is reason enough for me to not live in my house, as it saves me a significant amount of time, grief, and self-loathing.

Reason #3: No more Condescending, Contentious Little Sister

Woah, that was a rather bold and hurtful statement for a Monday morning, eh? Before you start grabbing your virtual pitchforks and picket signs that say “M deserves the ‘Worst Big Sister In The World’ award,” allow me to explain.

My relationship with my darling ‘little’ sister (quotes have been inserted around ‘little’ because my 16-year-old sis has probably 6 inches and 20 pounds on my short, non-athletic frame) is very unstable. We go through brief phases of alliance followed by extended periods of complete and utter hatred and/or avoidance. When we fight, homegirl gets pretty damn condescending and rude, radiating too many negative vibes for my already too negative self to cope with.

I haven’t spoken to her in a month. Not a word, nor an acknowledgement. And she doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. In fact, I’m not even sure she noticed I even moved out, and that stings. Granted, she’s a self-absorbed Junior whose entire world revolves around herself and her friends, but I just thought that I had a little higher ranking of priority in her life. But you know, it is what it is, and if moving out removes the possibility of yet another heated, estrogen-slathered quarrel, then so be it.

Reason #4: Java

I’m allowed to have a coffee maker here.

So that’s where I’m at right now. Still not making anybody happy with my life choices. Still trying to please everybody. Probably about to move back home to relieve myself of this overwhelming feeling of guilt for hurting the parents. Still on the quest to find the path to lifelong happiness. Still no where close.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to breakfast over crepes with my Oma and gossip about our wacko family.

*Oma: German for Grandma. No, I will not refer to her as my grandma, for she is not. She is my Oma.

Pretension

MissM4 Comments

I’ve been doing some over-thinking again.

Y’know, i’d be willing to bet that one of the main contributing factors to the modern woman’s demolished self-esteem is the paradox that self-adoration is wholly frowned upon.

When we give compliments, we practically expect the receiver of said adulation to refute our kind words.

When you say, “oh my goodness, Sally, that dress looks stunning on you!”, which response from Sally is most acceptable?

a) “Ew, oh my goodness you think? I think it looks like a sausage casing!”

b) “Oh please, you look better, though!”

c) “Really? I was just considering going on a diet.”

d) “Why, thank you! I quite like it, as well.”

Realistically, if Sally were to answer d), we would assume that Sally is a conceited, stuck-up snob.

Why is it so unacceptable to like parts of ourselves? Why is it such a crime to verbally agree with someone who has paid us a compliment?

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I am a hypocrite. Whenever I am paid a compliment, especially on my appearance, I automatically completely disagree, both mentally and verbally. It’s what i’m supposed to do, right?

Except for when I don’t. Believe it or not, I get an occasional comment of recognition from others in regards to my sense of humor. And you know what my response is every time someone tells me that they think i’m funny? A sincere “Thank you,” and an acknowledgement that I agree with their opinion that I am a notably comical young lady.That’s one thing i’ve decided I like about myself, and I appreciate anyone who concurs. Does this make me conceited? Snobby? Self-centered? If so, I want to be the most conceited, snobby, self-centered brat there is.

What i’m trying to get at here, is that it is absolutely more than okay to like yourself, granted that it’s virtually impossible to like yourself in its entirety, due to our toxic media and societal pressures to be discontent and self-hating.

It is possible to be humble while liking your own traits. No need to go parading yourself around, but I don’t believe that giving yourself a couple of put-ups will do your psyche any harm. It’ll be a refreshing change from that radiating stream of negativity that goes through a lot of our heads on a constant basis.

I think that if liking ourselves weren’t such a taboo, we’d be able to avoid all sorts of problems like eating disorders, guilt, jealousy, what ever else ails you.

The way I see it, i’m the only me I’m ever gonna get, so i’d better learn to start liking it, or it’s gonna be one long, self-loathing themed life.

Easier said than done.

But, like most things, it’s a work in progress.

Down with the societal encouragement of hating ourselves.

M.

Lucubrate

MissM6 Comments

I am in a particularly difficult stage of my life. Nothing makes sense. I’m right on the threshold of adulthood, but not quite there yet. Plans change by the second. Nothing feels right.

However, the hardships of this weirdish-almost-adultish state of existence, provide excellent opportunities for learning frustrating, reality-check giving life lessons. Here’s a few i’ve learned lately:

1. I am thoroughly convinced that moving out of my parents’ home will solve 99.4% of my problems. 

Before you slap a label on my disproportionately large forehead that reads, “Snobby, Spoiled, Over-privileged, Ungrateful Brat Whose Daddy Gives Her Everything,” check yourself before you wreck yourself. Then explain to me how you managed to fit so much writing on such a little label. And then hear me out.

One of my greatest growing concerns in my own life is being dependent on other people. I am a lone she-wolf. OWWWWW.

Seriously, though. All I want is to be able to take care of myself completely on my own. I acknowledge that I am nowhere near realizing this goal, but moving out would be a huge leap towards becoming Miss Independent. There is nothing I desire more than to be the dirt-poor girl in the tiniest, hole-in-the-wall apartment with thrift shop furniture and a budget just large enough to sustain life. It’s not even about feminism or having something to prove. I just want a modest place to call my very own-a place secluded from family and friends unless I choose otherwise.

On the other hand, i’m not exactly equipped to take care of myself entirely just yet. I moved out my first semester of college to a faraway land (well, about 350 miles away), and, long story short, I lost 10 pounds and took 2 trips to the E.R. over the span of 4 months. This occurrence should not be disregarded when it comes down to “should I stay or should I go?”

2.. Even if I survived on the thriftiest of diets (we’re talking ramen-noodle and cans of generic spaghetti-o’s) there is no way in hell I will ever be able to afford a place of my own. 

I am a very modest girl with a very modest-paying job. Turns out $700 a month is about 1/4th the income I need to get an apartment of my own with out a damn “cosigner.” Needing a cosigner makes me co-dependent and that makes me want to vomit.

Then there’s utility costs, which is a load of bullshit on its own.

3. When you’re done, it’s time to quit. 

Yesterday, I had a bad day. It was significantly worse than my typical bad days. I broke. My own papa taught me something very valuable that evening; when you’ve had enough, it’s time to pop an Ambien and watch New Girl until you fall into a deep, drug-induced slumber.

4. If Exercise Endorphins aren’t doing the trick, Comfort Food Endorphins sure will. 

Nothing makes me feel like an invincible warrior quite like a 4.5 mile run on the treadmill, fueled by Fall Out Boy and the current day’s rage. But even after that, the persistent Blues can proceed to cling to your back and weigh me down.

Fortunately, we have Molten Lava Chocolate Cake to remedy that.

5. When People Say, ‘I Care About You,’ Let Them. 

Probably due to my independent nature, I don’t allow other people to help me with my problems. I let my frustrations bottle up and attempt (in vain) to solve them on my own until I simply burn out. It’s probably a pride issue, but I need to let other people care about me sometimes. It’s a work-in-progress.

6. We All Have Problems

My problems aren’t any more or less significant than my peers. We all have plenty issues, but some of us are just better at coping with them. I prefer the “break down and bawl under my covers until I feel like my problems can’t find me” method. Other people choose the “be a reasonable, mature adult and push through it because it’s not going anywhere” method.

Hey, i’m learning.

I am quite the hot mess, my friends.

M.

Hedonic

MissM7 Comments

I don’t mean to be THAT girl, the one who’s always a minute behind the latest pop culture trends, but let’s be honest, I’m typically that girl who’s always a minute behind the latest pop culture trends. I live under a rock of Fall Out Boy and New Girl. My scope of pop culture exposure is fairly limited.

I listened to the radio the other day because I forgot my little tape cassette thingy that lets you play music from your smart phone. I hope I never forget my little cassette tape thingy again. Anyway, that preposterous “All About That Bass” song came on.

Aside from its reprehensible tune, I find the song’s lyrics to be absolutely ludicrous. Let’s take a closer look at the problematic themes of this song, shall we?

“My mama, she told me, don’t worry about your size. She says, ‘boys like a little more booty to hold at night.'”

Okay, Meghan Trainor, so your mama taught you to keep some junk in the trunk so that future suitors have something to grab at when you’re laying in bed at night? How is that any different than girls who starve themselves because everyone and their dog knows that the no boy doesn’t like the slim Victoria’s Secret Model body type? I have a really hard time picturing anybody’s mama telling them to do anything to their bodies that make men want to hold them more. In addition, this is a clearly anti-feminist theme because mama says the reason to keep your booty plump is for the sole purpose of attracting men, thus a form of self-objectification, which is completely problematic.

“Go ahead and tell them skinny bitches that.” 

So skinny girls are, by default, bitches? No, no. That’s called jealousy. If you didn’t at least partially covet those with a daintier frame, you wouldn’t feel the need to call them bitches. This ties in to a previous post of mine in which I discuss how women tend to degrade other women by attaching some kind of ridicule about their physical appearance to another insult, i.e. “skinny bitches.” (See “For Maximum Efficiency“)

“Cuz I got that boom boom that all the boys chase.” 

What in the hell is boom boom?

Skinny shaming is no better than fat shaming. I am a complete advocate of self-acceptance, but, in my opinion, (and the RIGHT one, on this website, anyway. Welcome to my totalitarian online world, people.) accepting and learning to love your body cannot be done while shaming those with body types that differ from yours.

This is going to sound completely adolescent, but if you have to shame other people to feel better about yourself, are you really improving your self-esteem?

Perhaps.

If mentally telling yourself that boys like your curves better than hip bones or vice versa improves your sense of self-worth and esteem, by all means, keep telling yourself that. But shall we not incorporate such themes into our media and allowing them to plague the minds of the young and easily-influenced?

As for me, I couldn’t give a damn whether REAL men like curves. Or thigh gaps. I have the body I have. It functions efficiently and I keep it healthy and feeling good. And that is good enough for me.

It doesn’t matter if you’re fat, skinny, tall, short, have an extra toe, have been christened”big-boned,” what have you. Learning to accept the body you have is an entirely separate process from shaming somebody else.

As a side note, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” –Some Profound Author/Poet/Inspirational Speaker.

M.

Conflicting Conscience

MissM11 Comments

Let me tell you a little story about a not-so-little girl. Legend has it she got not-so-little due to her picky palate and refusal to eat anything but starchy vegetables and Easy Mac. As the years passed, her excess intake of carbohydrates stuck to her in the least-flattering way that fat could stick to a person. You could see nothing but disgust and self-loathing in her eyes-merely a nine-year-old child! You would never catch this girl with more than a half-hearted grin in any photograph.

And the fat jokes, they came. As early as the fourth grade. They stung, oh they stung. But not nearly as badly as her own thoughts in her head. But she fought to suppress them, that is, until she was involuntarily thrust into the firey, unforgiving, pubescent realms of junior high school.  By that time, the voices had won. 

Just like that, from the end of seventh grade to the beginning of the eighth, the girl had dropped from her hearty, 110 pound chubbiness to a gaunt, skeleton-like 72 pounds. She thought that in doing this, she would satisfy the voices in her head, but they had only grown stronger with time. She was ugly, she was worthless, she was disgusting. And she believed it, too. 

Since then, she has crawled out of the hole she’d dug herself into, but her thoughts remain the same. Subconsciously, she still sees the portly fourth grader she’d shed a number of years ago. With every bite of cookie or cake or french fry comes an overwhelming and exhausting feeling of guilt, which results in her self-consciously pinching at herself in the mirror for the next half-hour. 

You guessed it, that girl is me. Living with a distorted body image is a living hell, I assure you. You take every fat joke, every weight-loss “secret” to heart, and you never feel good enough. It sucks. 

But Maddie, you’re a feminist! 

Feminists don’t believe in vanity or in giving in to societal pressures! 

Shut up you guys, i’m only human. 

And yes, I do believe that women are worth way more than their dress size or number on the scale and that “what matters is how you feel on the inside” and all that gushy, feel-good crap. On a conscious level, I really do agree to all of that. And I can counsel other girls till i’m blue in the face on how their size doesn’t matter and that they don’t have to be “beautiful” to be of worth, but I can’t apply a lick of my own words and “beliefs” to my own life. There, I said it. 

It’s a freaking drag. 

So here I am, conflicted as ever. Having the strongest belief in feminism and not owing beauty to anyone, when I am consciously indebted to myself with my vain bodily short-comings. 

Naturally, the blame falls both on the shoulders of the fat, carb-inhaling youngster I used to be, and also our disgusting, skinny-worshiping patriarchal society. 

A sincere thank-you to the both of y’all. 

I’m not sure what the point was for this post, but in the words of Nick Carraway from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, “Writing brings me solace.”

M.