Jump Into July: Love My Body Project

While at the beach this weekend, I asked my husband to take some "pretty pictures" of me in my sundress because I was feeling cute and the sunrise was doing great things to my skin. I told him to take a picture of me that *I* would like, so get those angles right, buddy!

Here's what I got. 

Waveland, MS, June 2020

After seeing this and a dozen other photos that looked roughly the same, I couldn't believe how ugly I looked. I asked for a PRETTY picture, man! His response was that these pictures were gorgeous and he loved this and that about them. All I could see was my fat arms, my protruding belly, my chubby cheeks, my flabby shoulders and my saggy boobs. What on earth was HE seeing? The pink clouds and the calm ocean in the background?

I've had a lifelong problem with my body image. (Surprise! I must be the only human on earth with this issue, right?) I've also had a lifelong issue with food. (Again, 100 points to me for being so unique, right?) I am either starving myself for days on end or gorging myself with goodies. Sometimes I eat healthy and sometimes (most times) I eat garbage. But delicious, tasty, mood-satisfying garbage!

Then I stare at my naked body in the mirror and loathe what I see. My husband can come behind me and see something totally opposite from what I see, and sometimes I believe him, sometimes I don't. I tell him he's biased. I tell him he's looking at me with rose-colored glasses because he loves me. Sometimes I can tell by the hunger in his eyes that he really DOES think I'm a legit snack, but honestly, what is wrong with his eyeballs?

More importantly - what is wrong with ME?

Why am I so obsessed with thinness? Why do I still, after all these years, have this belief that I'm supposed to be bone-thin and stretch-mark free to be beautiful? Indeed, there are beautiful women who are bone-thin and stretch-mark free. But there are also beautiful woman who are full-bodied and soft all around. In fact, I myself am really attracted to women with those sexy curves, just as much as to women who could model for Vogue. If I can see the beauty of others in a variety of bodies, why am I so mean to myself?

Let me also say for the record, that I'm not fishing for compliments here. I'm also not knocking any other body types. There will be people thinner than me that I don't want to insult and there will be people bigger than me that I don't want to insult. I genuinely look at other people and think how beautiful they all are, in every shape and size. I see beauty in so many other bodies. I just can't seem to apply the same principles to my own body. Again, I'm not unique in this; I'm willing to bet 90% or more of you readers (all 6 of you!) have the same issue. Please don't get mad at me if you are bigger or smaller than me for anything I say. Body image is such a sticky subject. It's hard to hit the right tone! I'm just speaking from my own perspective.

A few years ago, I started the Love My Body Project. Along with some very practical disciplines like getting more exercise and eating better, every day I would stand in front of the mirror and tell myself  "I am beautiful." I'd find some feature to praise, however small. And I'd repeat it over and over until I believed it. 

This year has been, well, it's been 2020. What else can I say? I've been working from home for three and a half months. I started out wearing work clothes to keep myself in work mode but soon resorted to jeans and t-shirts. If I have a video conference, I might where a nicer shirt. Today, as I prepare for a day-long virtual meeting, I've put on a dressy blouse paired with shorts. Who's going to see my lower half anyway? 

And makeup? What's makeup? Hair? Why, a dirty bun looks fine through a pixelated screen.

Plus, this working five steps from the kitchen hasn't been good either. I have LEGITIMATELY gained the COVID 15. Like, I weigh exactly 15 lbs more than I did in March when I left the office for the last time. When we do return to office life, I am afraid none of my work clothes will fit anymore. I've been reticent to try them on because the longer I don't know, the longer I can keep eating Spaghettios With Meatballs (mmm) for lunch without guilt. 

So here's where I'm going with all of this.

It's time to kickstart the Love My Body Project again. It's time to take some practical steps to care for the body I'm in but also to love the body I'm in. I'm starting with a small goal of waking up early enough every day this week to walk at least a mile. Maybe I'll even run! But baby steps. Along with that goal, I would like to watch what I eat. I'm still working on what a food plan would look like, but the baby step is being more aware and deliberate about what and when I eat. The third part of that goal is to look at myself every day in the mirror and say "I am beautiful." And repeat it over and over. Not "my husband thinks I'm beautiful" or "my mom thinks I'm beautiful" but "I AM beautiful." 

And in typical Lori fashion, every project I start has to have a name, so the Love My Body Project is just one step in my Jump Into July Project which also includes working on my financial health and my mental health, which I'll dive further into in the next couple of days.

(Getting back into writing, by the way, is part of my mental health improvement. I have missed writing so, so much.)

To kickstart July (though it's technically still June), I woke up this morning and took a walk. I walked 1.8 miles while listening to an audiobook. Granted, when I got home, I was really hungry and did NOT think deliberately before heating up a slice of leftover pizza for my breakfast. Baby steps, y'all! I'll do better at lunch. 

Or maybe since it's still June, I'll finish off that last can of Spaghettios so it's not tempting me tomorrow on July 1st. 

DON'T JUDGE.

New Ink: Into the Looking Glass

A few weeks ago, my main squeeze and I went on a date, where we ate bison burgers and sweet potato fries dipped in marshmallow sauce, and got ourselves inked.

This was Scott's first tattoo, and it was a big deal. He got this:


(We've been kind of amazed at how few people have been able to figure out what it is.)

Me, this was my fourth tat, so not quite such a big deal.

As a reminder, I have a tattoo trio already of faith, hope, and love, all in Arabic calligraphy. And yes, I know enough Arabic to know that they all say exactly what I think they say. I may not remember much from my year of studying Arabic, but I still know enough. Enough to read something to you but not have a clue what it says.

I considered going a totally new direction for this fourth tattoo, leaving behind the Arabic calligraphy theme. I also considered seamlessly continuing with the Arabic calligraphy theme by getting the word peace in Arabic. But I kept turning around this other idea in my mind... a slightly cheesy, somewhat embarrassing idea, but one that really meant something to me.

Illusion.

It's a beautiful design. (I'm sorry I can't give credit to the person who designed it though, because she seems to have removed it from the web. I'm glad I downloaded it before she took it down. I wonder, does tattooing yourself compromise intellectual property rights?) This is also Arabic calligraphy. The idea of getting illusion tattooed on my skin did seem cheesy and possibly misleading, but at the last minute, it's the one I chose to go with.


I love it. However, the inevitable question has since popped up repeatedly: "What does it mean?"

An old friend once cautioned me never to get a tattoo that didn't mean anything, because you'd spend the rest of your life shrugging when asked that inevitable question. Those three squares on his arm mean nothing.

The word in Arabic, وهم (pronounced "wa-HEM-a") specifically means "illusion" but can be loosely translated in other ways. I've been finding it easier to loosely translate it as "imagination" for the average person on the street, rather than explain what "illusion" means to me.

But I'll explain it here.

When I look at myself in the mirror, I see a fat girl. There, I said it.

The word "fat" is supposedly banned in our house. It's our family's f-word (and is way worse than the other one). I am so very against body shaming, so supportive of positive body image and loving your body... for everyone else but myself. I still look at myself and see a mess. Even though I'm now at a healthy weight and have a pretty healthy lifestyle (let's not discuss the Easter chocolate though, please), I still have very poor body image. It probably wouldn't matter if I lost yet another 30 lbs, I'd probably still see someone twice my actual size in my reflection.

I have to tell myself consciously, explicitly, daily, that this is an illusion.

What I see in the mirror is illusory. It's something my brain invents to tempt me to do all sorts of stupid things. I have to constantly tell my brain, You're wrong. I'm beautiful. I'm healthy. I love my body.

This tattoo now stares back at me in the mirror too. It tells me the same thing. I am healthy. I exercise regularly. I *generally* eat well. I am beautiful. Anything I believe about myself otherwise is an illusion.

It is الوهم.

But if I pass you on the street, and you ask me what it means, I'll probably just say "imagination". Because that's easier to admit.

Say Yes To the (11 Year Old) Dress

Everyone knows it's good to clear out your closet every once in a while and to use the "If I haven't worn this in six months, get rid of it" rule.

Well, while I waited nervously for my husband to get home in this brewing ice storm (took him two hours!) I distracted myself by having a good clear out. I've been working really hard since last summer to lose all the depression weight I put on last year, eating generally low carb and working out at the gym regularly, and I am finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel... just a few more pounds until I'm at my target weight - a number I've not seen on the scale since college! So tonight, I tried on just about everything in my closet and chest of drawers, and everything that is too big now (and can't be taken in with my sewing machine) and everything I simply never ever wear got thrown into the garage sale pile.


But the really exciting thing is, I also got to go through my "One day I will fit back into this again, dammit!" box and pull out lots of old things I just could not part with "in case I ever lose enough weight to wear it again."

Well, folks, let me just tell you. There is nothing wrong with keeping a box like this, whatever the rules state. Even if it's eleven years later, you might just surprise yourself.

December 2003

March 2015

Someone please go back and tell 21 year old me to take off that sports watch.

Don't Go There

"I think I've changed," I casually mentioned to Scott as I glided the flat iron through a strand of my light brown shoulder-length hair. "I've never gone this long without coloring or cutting my hair." It's true; I am always changing my hair color - I've been platinum blonde, jet black, all shades in between, every shade of red, and even blue, pink and purple - and usually when I say I'm "growing my hair out", I get to this stage and chop it all off, desperate for a change, for something a little more daring. But for the first time in my life, I am perfectly happy with my natural hair color and its length, and I have been for a while.

Scott responded with something like this:
"Maybe you're just more comfortable with who you are now."

A small, insignificant throw-away comment, but it jarred me. It stirred up a very uncomfortable feeling inside me that I've never even known was there until that second.

"Don't go there," I said smiling a little queerly.

I put the flat iron down and turned to look at him.

It was a disconcerting thought. I've always considered myself an individual, a confident, do-my-own-thing sort of girl. I like to make an impression, I like to be different. But what if, what if some of that was a reaction against the meek prototype people expect of Christian women and girls? What if, what if without me ever even realizing it, I was making a statement about who I was, separating myself from "those" Christians, by my wild hair colors, cheeky hair cuts, piercings and tattoos?

As much as I did not like to think of myself this way, it struck a very dissonant chord somewhere very deep within me. A very unhappy, unpleasant chord.

I was always pleased when people were surprised to find out I was a Christian. I took it as a compliment when people said I didn't seem like one of "those people". While I hoped that my lifestyle and actions portrayed Christ, I in no way wanted to be associated with the Bible-thumpers. Sure, I technically believed the same things as the Bible-thumpers, but I hoped my approach was entirely different. I was happy to be a Christian, don't get me wrong. My faith was my identity, Jesus as my purpose, and I wholeheartedly tried to live as such. But I never ever wanted to be the cardigan-wearing, sensible haircut-sporting, leather Bible cover-carrying type of Christian that comes to mind with the label. I never wanted to be identified as the stuffy, humorless, uninteresting Christian goody-two-shoes. So I chose to be different.

But I was still just being me, right?

I never considered it before, but now I wonder. I am still the same person, but I am so different now. I have nothing to react against anymore. I do not have to separate myself from a stereotype anymore, but surely that has nothing to do with how I look. Am I maybe just getting older, is that all this is? Maybe I'm just calming down a little with age. Or is it something deeper than that, am I actually just more at peace with who I am and not who I'm trying to convince everyone I'm not? With no flavorless stereotype to push away from anymore, have I lost the need to dye my hair pink and insist I'm something more interesting?

As much as I'd like to say absolutely not, that's ridiculous, I'm just not actually all that convinced.

And even after convincing my friends and acquaintances that I was not "one of those", I wonder if I was even reacting against something much deeper inside me. Bending without breaking to the little voice deep inside that I repeatedly hushed as she cried, "But WHY are you expected to be meek and quiet and unadorned? WHY is your attention to your looks considered vain and attention-seeking when God made you to be beautiful? WHY is being outspoken and opinionated considered coarse and ungodly for a woman? For that matter, WHY did God make you the way you are if the way you are isn't the right way for a woman to be? And furthermore, WHY are you not allowed to preach when you are so knowledgeable about the Bible? WHY are you not allowed to lead prayer in front of men when you are an equal child of God? WHY are you required to be obedient to your husband, who should be your equal partner, when you are both equally good and fallible? WHY WHY WHY?" It's as if my compromise between that voice and God's expectations was to just slightly push the boundaries of what was considered modest and appropriate for a Christian woman, without sinning but without fully submitting to the recommended model of a perfect little Proverbs 31 woman, or the recognized stereotype of a boring, squeaky-clean Christian.

But now, today, with no boundaries left to push...

Out With The Old, In With the New

In April 2013, before our family moved back to the US, I came here for a short visit. While I was here, I rented a storage unit and started putting some things in it for when we would all get here a few months later - the bunk beds my stepdad had found for us on Craigslist, a mattress my brother gave us, that sort of thing. I also put in some lime green dishes I'd found at the Dollar Tree. I love that green color, and there the dishes were, a dollar each, in the Dollar Tree, so I bought a set of eight to get us started.

Those dishes have served us well, but I don't love them. They kind of make food look a little unappetizing. There are no matching side plates and the mugs don't stack.  However, they are functional, they serve a purpose, and so we've been eating on my Dollar Tree dishes for a year and a half.

I've dreamt of getting new dishes, imagining what I'd buy if I could start all over. I've longingly gazed at beautiful designs and fabulous colors in department stores and shopping centers but sighed and moved on. We have dishes. We don't need to buy new ones.

I've kind of become a little obsessed with yellow lately. (Haven't we all?) I keep seeing yellow things that I like and could imagine looking great in my kitchen - if I were to redecorate in yellow. But my house is decorated in duck egg blue, because that's the color the walls are painted in our rented home. I've added some lime green accessories that I love, but they don't really match the blue; they never have. But yellow would be so cute with the duck egg blue! I'm always thinking. And then I move on because I don't need to frivolously buy things in yellow when I already have what I need in whatever color it's already in. (Greyish green sofas that were a steal on an online yard sale, the hunter green and wood coffee- and end-tables we found in a flea market, the comfy olive green tweed rocking chair I picked up at a garage sale for next to nothing- along with my lime Dollar Tree dishes and to-die-for handcrafted green pottery that I adore, you'd think we had a thing for all shades of green, no matter how they clash with each other).

I saw a lovely yellow set of dishes at Target a few weeks ago. I didn't linger long with them, just long enough to sigh with the pleasure of looking at pretty things, before meandering along to the next aisle to admire pretty Christmas decorations. Then tonight, while shopping with my stepmom, I passed by the dishes again. I pointed them out to her, and she loved them too. We fawned over them for a few minutes before I noticed the price tag - very inexpensive! I was tempted - very tempted - but I was ready to move along. I don't need to buy something I already have just because it's pretty. But they were so reasonably priced... 

I hemmed and hawed for a few minutes, then decided to call Scott. He's incredibly practical and if he said we didn't need new dishes, then we don't need new dishes. So I called him, and right away he told me to buy them. Didn't even ask what they looked like. He just said to get them if I liked them, that it was absolutely fine.

I still wasn't sure. I put them in my cart. Guiltily. I guiltily put them in my cart, feeling like this wasn't necessary. Yet they were so pretty. And next to the duck egg dishes on the same shelf, they looked incredible, so instead of getting two four-piece sets of yellow, I put one yellow back and replaced it with one duck egg. They looked so nice together. They would match my walls so perfectly.  It was so hard to justify to myself, but Scott (and my stepmom) convinced me it's okay to treat myself once in a while.

So I treated myself. My lime Dollar Tree dishes are going in the garage for a rainy day (or a garage sale), and my new grown-up dishes are ready to replace the old ones. Meet my new bowls, mugs and plates. They are so pretty!

2014: A Hair Oddessey

For the past sixteen years of my life, I've been dying my hair. Sometimes natural colors, usually not. I've had pink, purple, blue, red, orange, black, brown and blonde hair over the years. I have only looked 'natural' a for a few months within the second half of my existence. (I'm thirty-two, it's literally been some unnatural color for basically half my life.)

For a few months lately, though, all I've really wanted to do is to stop dying my hair. I'm not entirely gray yet, and I know when I go gray I'll want to color over it more often, but until then, I kind of just want to stop messing with my hair. I'm also once again wanting to grow it out, and if I stick with it this time, I don't want most of it to be disgusting and fried. A few months ago I attempted to match up my hair to my roots, and I actually did a pretty good job of matching it. I now had about two inches of root that was nearly indistinguishable from the dyed hair.

My hair on Monday.

The only thing is, I had put that dye on over bleached hair. Knowing what I know now (I've learned a lot about hair in the past twenty-four hours), that is why it had a slight greenish/gray tinge to it in certain lights. Apparently bleached hair pulls in more of that cool ash color in the color I'd chosen, and thus gives off a greenish hue. That was my only complaint about my hair; in certain lights, it definitely looked a little seasick.

I wanted to brighten it up without changing it completely, so I began considering an ombré. For those who have been living under a rock for the past several years, ombré is the hair trend of having darker, more natural hues at the roots with gradually-dyed lightening at the ends (or with a reverse ombré, it goes from lighter to darker). I'd been resisting this trend for a long time, but it looks like it's here to stay, and it kind of did achieve the goal I was aiming for. I wanted to stop having to touch up my roots all the time, and this would allow me to have fun hair without having all the upkeep.

I was going for something like this:


Or maybe even this


Scott didn't want me to do this out of a box. He was afraid I'd mess it up. I on the other hand didn't want to spend a fortune (upwards and over $100). I settled on a compromise. I'd go to the local beauty college to get it done, so it wouldn't mess up my hair but I also wouldn't spend a fortune. Oh the irony. The painful, sad irony.
I printed off, not one, but four pictures of acceptable ombré styles. I didn't want to take any chances. I then of course left the pictures on my kitchen table and drove off to my appointment. Mistake I Should Never Make Again #1.

I had to take Jaguar with me too, by the way. It was unavoidable (well, except I could've booked it for another day, but I have him all day five days a week, and I work on Saturday, and I wanted my hair done by next Thursday, so there wasn't really any other day to book it for). He was actually pretty good considering he's a two-year-old boy stuck in a stroller for almost three hours. Mistake I Should Never Make Again (Or At Least Do My Best to Avoid) #2 - Take toddler to get hair done. But he wasn't really that much of a problem. It just meant I couldn't sit in that chair and make her fix it after it was all done. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I arrived right on time and was taken to my chair promptly, no waiting. I explained to the girl, who was a student graduating in a month, so assumably trustworthy, what I wanted. I explained I'd forgotten my photos but tried my best to explain. I used some words I realized immediately are bad buzz words in cosmetology, and tried to rectify them, but some part of my soul knew the damage had already been done by uttering them. Mistake I Should Never Make Again #3 - Never use the word 'bold' in the same conversation as 'ombré'. I tried to take back the word 'bold', but it was too late. I only meant I didn't want it to be so entirely bland and subtle that it was unnoticeable, but 'bold' is just a word you should never use. Especially with a student.

I explicitly stated I did not want to look like my roots had grown out. Explicitly. I said that very plainly. I used the word 'fade' with 'ombré' multiple times. Even as she was applying the lightener, I reiterated I wanted it to fade to blonde. She assured me it would fade beautifully and 'not to panic'. Her supervisor came by and complimented her on the color. I took this as a positive sign. In retrospect, her supervisor probably didn't know I'd wanted ombré. She probably thought I wanted the bleach blonde crack addict look.

She wrapped my hair up in a cap to process for a while before washing it out.  It looked awfully.... brassy.... to me while wet and not very.... blended... but I didn't get worried right away. Surely there was still toner to go over it to create that coveted faded, blended look I'd spent hours on Pinterest looking for.

But no.  She dried my hair (with no soft, silky product, which is the best part of getting your hair done), and left it feeling sticky, mushy and frizzy.  She didn't style it, which I didn't expect her too, but it looked, well, AWFUL.  It was such a mess. She proceeded to 'trim' it, and by 'trim' I mean she snipped a few ends off here and there.  I was waiting for her to fix the dark roots/ bleached blonde hair line, but the supervisor came, handed me my ticket without so much as looking at my hair, and that was that. She was done.

I squirmed. I HAVE to say something, I thought. I hate confrontation, and I hate hurting people's feelings, especially people who are just learning, but I had to say something.

"I have to say, it's not really what I expected...' I said slowly.  I told her, overly apologetically, that I expected the blonde to start much lower and for it to fade better.  She looked surprised (hurt?) and said she could fix it if I wanted, but by this time, we'd been there almost three hours and wee Jaguar, who'd been sitting in his stroller spitting at everyone and throwing his shoes, socks and Spiderman all over the place for three hours, had had enough. I needed to get him home.  She said she could fix it if I came in again, so I took her card, paid the $38 ($5 of which was for Jaguar's haircut, which she did fine on) and left. Fifighting back the tears, I got to the car and immediately called Scott.

I didn't want him to see this disaster before I'd warned him.

Also, he was right. He's always right, by the way, which is one of his more intolerable qualities. Mistake I Should Never Make Again #4 - Doubt Scott.  If I had just gone to a salon in the first place, my hair wouldn't have ended up looking like this:





Why - no seriously - WHY would anyone think this is what I wanted?! Is this considered ombré? Is this even considered a hair style?! I spent almost $40 making my hair look like I needed to get my hair done. My hair was in bad enough condition before this, but now it was absolutely, positively, utterly destroyed.  I'm talking Death Star destroyed.

I googled home hair repair remedies.  I needed something to make my hair feel more natural than phony plastic doll hair; my twenty-year old Barbie's hair looked more conditioned than this. I gave myself a hot oil treatment with real coconut oil and a steamy hot towel. I later washed it out and conditioned it as well as I could and went to bed with wet hair. Maybe I'd wake up to realize this was all just a cruel warning dream.

It was not.

Thanks to Facebook, I had lots of messages with recommendations for what to do about my hair - go back to the college to get it fixed, go visit so-and-so's salon, DON'T color over it, etc. I eventually went with my friend Angie's recommendation of a local friend who would be sure to know how to fix it. I called this girl at 8am this morning, crossing my fingers she'd be able to see me today. Luckily, she finishes early on Fridays and her last appointment was at 2pm.  I warned her that my hair would take a long time, as it is very thick, and if she was willing to see me after her last appointment, she may not get that early Friday.  I'm not sure if she really believed me when I told her my hair would take two to three hours. I wasn't exaggerating.

I printed off several more pictures.  I wanted to offer her several different options, since I didn't know how realistic it was going to be to fix my hair.

I figured she'd maybe just be able to go over most of the hair with a dark color and leave the bottom tips that bright yellow. I even brought a picture of pink hair - Scott's suggestion - since part of me was thinking that since my hair was already bleached and ruined, I might as well take advantage of it and go crazy. But really, all I wanted was to be normal for once in my life. Just once. 

At 2:30, having left Jaguar with Scott who was working from home today (bless him), I spread my photos out before Marissa and told her the story of my hair.  She gingerly touched my hair, hiding her cringe face, and admitted it was pretty, er, bad.  We talked about each picture and how possible it would be to do each.  She really liked the idea of the pink too, and I think she kind of wanted me to go with that one, but I just wasn't sure I wanted to commit to more upkeep; the idea was less upkeep. And normal.

We decided on a plan best for my hair, and Marissa got to work.  I felt nervous, understandably, but really, she couldn't have made it any worse than it already was.  Yet by the time she'd put in the toner, foils, and over all color, I felt very confident that this was going to turn out really good.

I had been at the salon already for two and a half hours. My hair is thick, ya'll.  Once all the color had been washed out, she got down to the problem of the damage.  I haven't had my hair cut in almost a year, so the ends were pretty messed up already, not withstanding the recent bleach fiasco.  She trimmed it up beautifully though, thinned it all out with thinning shears, taking out a lot of the damaged hair without sacrificing length, and put in some nice oils.  Then she hot ironed it and worked that hairdresser voodoo on it.

The girl performed a miracle.

Now that's what I consider ombré!  We had decided that with the shape of my hair (that year old grown out bob) I should only keep blonde in the front and do the back all the same color. It turned out really pretty, and my hair feels so good now! It's still damaged, but it doesn't look as damaged anymore.

I had been at the salon for over three hours at this point.  I wasn't going to be home in time to make dinner, so I ordered pizza while Marissa finished my hair. That meant that including the thirty minutes drive beforehand to get there*, and the pizza pickup afterwards, I'd left Scott for four hours, three of which were with five kids**.  (I'm pretty sure he wins Father and Husband of the Year.)

*That's considered 'local' here. America, sheesh.

**Fifive kids because we've been watching my neighbors' two kids this week while they've been house-hunting out of state.

My hair looks so much better. I'm so happy with it! And now, after all this faffing about, I have also made myself a pledge to never do my own hair (or go to a beauty school - sorry, trainees) ever again.  I'll even go in for fringe trims. By trying to save money, I ended up spending way, way more than I intended. Mistake I Should Never Make Again #5 - Trying to cut corners in all the wrong places.  Which, incidentally, messed up my September Shopping Challenge. After that $110 getting it fixed, and the wasted money at the college, plus the pizza, I spent well over my allotted budget for hair this month. Oh, and throw in a pity Sonic shake I bought for myself on the way home yesterday in which to drown my sorrows. Sweet, chocolatey sorrows. But all's well that end's well, and my blonde ends are looking well***!

***Actually they are looking 'good', not 'well', to be grammatically correct. But that ruins the parallel structure of my wee quip, dammit.

Love My Body Project - Final Postscript

For over a year, a tripod has been on my wishlist. A 50" tripod is only like $15, but every time I went to buy one, I found I couldn't justify it. My purpose for a tripod is so totally self-absorbed that I felt guilty spending $15 on one.

Well, with the October Dress Project coming up in just over a month, I finally decided to break down and get my tripod. Without a small child around to take photos of my October dress, I'd need it for selfies, right?

Self. Absorbed. I'm embarrassed.

Anyway, so I got it out this morning for my first selfies. Workout selfies. Eek.

The thing is, it just goes to show how far I've come. Not weightwise. I've lost some weight, and I'm super proud of that, but that's not what I'm talking about. I've come so far in another way.

You see those shorts I'm wearing? I've NEVER been comfortable wearing shorts to the gym. Like ever. Even when I was fifteen pounds lighter than I am right now, I couldn't wear shorts to the gym. Too self-conscious, too ashamed of my legs, my body. But since doing the Love My Body project in July, I've gained a totally new confidence about my body. My thighs will always be disproportionately large compared to the rest of my body. My hips will always be wider than my shoulders. But you know what? I don't care! I actually, truly do not care. As it turns out, I love the way I look now.

I have never been able to say that with such honesty and confidence before. In my life.

I'm not as thin as I used to be, but I'm so much healthier. I have more control over what I eat now. I don't deprive myself (which is why strict diets never worked for me), but I choose my "battles". I feel that I truly control what goes in my mouth - for the most part. Sometimes I choose poorly, but in general, I feel I have learned to make good food choices.

I am stronger. I go to the gym just about every day, Monday through Friday, and work out from one to three hours. GRANTED not everyone has that luxury. I'm lucky that I am a stay-at-home-mum and that my gym offers cheap childcare. I'm lucky that if I don't have time during the day to go to the gym that my husband happily lets me go in the evenings while he looks after the children. I don't take this luxury for granted. I'm thankful for it though. I'm thankful that my body has developed the stamina, after months of exercising, to withstand hard work. I remember going to Kickboxing at the very start of my fitness journey and being unable to breathe after twenty minutes. In fact, I remember being ready to leave after the warm-up! Now I get to the end of the class and think, "That was it?"

I can wear shorts. Even more amazing is I can take pictures of myself in shorts and not even think about what you're going to think about it.

Sweet Socks, not fat thighs, are what I see here.

Shaped like a human.  A lovely human. Like you.

Love My Body Project: Week 5

Yesterday was the last day of July, and *technically* the last day of the Love My Body Project. But it won't really be my last day. This month has been so uplifting for me, and I intend to keep up the good work.

In just one month, my whole perspective has shifted. I don't know if it was magic or coincidence or really just positive thinking, but wow. What a difference!

I feel so good about myself. Sure I've lost a little weight, which helps, but I've only lost one inch around the waist and nothing around the hips, so it's not as if I look drastically different from how I looked on July 1st. But I feel different. I feel confident. I feel strong. I feel - wait for it - beautiful.

I noticed the big change at the gym a few mornings ago. I've been taking it easy this week, exercise-wise, because I had a cold and even though I'm better now, I don't want to overdo it. I went to Pilates Tuesday and Wednesday, a change from my usual cardio. (I tried Zumba yesterday and only got through half an hour of it before feeling like I might collapse - so clearly still somewhat recovering!) In classes, with all of us facing the mirror, I usually catch myself comparing my body to everyone else's at the gym and wishing I looked like them. It's something I try not to do, but it's automatic. The difference today was that while I did still notice how great everyone else looked, for the first time, instead of wishing I looked like them, I automatically thought, "And I look good too." Not like them, not better, not worse. I actually, before I consciously thought about it, liked my body alongside everyone else's.

For the first time in a very long time, I feel comfortable in my own skin. I don't feel like I have to cover everything up or hide. I wore a bikini to the pool last week and didn't feel self-conscious outside the water. I felt good, and I didn't care what anyone else may or may not be thinking. What a change! I wear shorts and don't feel embarrassed. I really like my body!

I don't have anything super insightful to say about my last week. I'm just amazed at how a shift in thinking, a shift in eating and a shift in activity has made such a huge difference. I've not been rigorous with any of those things; I've cut down on carbs a lot, but I'm not technically doing keto, I have upped my time at the gym but I've not been every day, and I've been kind to my reflection in the mirror but I haven't said the I-Love-My-Body mantra like I planned.

To be honest, I wasn't sure how this little project would go. I definitely thought it would take a lot more time (and a lot more weight loss) to get to this point. I'm pleasantly surprised by how good I feel.

I hope I can encourage you to think positively about your body, if you too have body image issues. It doesn't matter what size or shape you are. It doesn't matter what size or shape you WISH you were. It all starts inside you. And if you can bring yourself to eat a little better or work out a little more, it'll help more than you can imagine!

No sucking in, no Spanx, no push-up bra, no make-up, no contacts.
Dark colors coincidence only.  This is the real me!
*Except for the hair color... which is probably a lot of grey.

Love My Body Project - Week 4: Love YOUR Body

I was at the gym yesterday, and they are starting a Wall of Success. People can email their success stories to be posted on a motivation wall. Some of the leading questions were things like "What's your favorite cardio workout?" or "How has working out affected you?" or "How much weight have you lost?"

As I kickboxed like a lumpy rhinoceros (because let's face it, I may be learning to love my body, but I still don't go no rhythm), I thought about success stories. I think they are for the most part good. They are motivating. They are encouraging. Especially for those already on a fitness journey, they can be inspiring. But they can also be demotivating.

There's been times I've read blogs about getting fit or eating right, and it just depressed me. The author would talk about how great it feels to go to the gym each day or to run miles before breakfast, and I'd just think, "I don't have time for that" or "Easier said than done." And I'd be demotivated. Their bloody enthusiasm made me want to take a nap. Or I'd read about the right way to eat or "15 Foods That Are LITERALLY Killing You", and I'd think, "I can't afford to eat like that" or "But without cake, my life has no meaning." And I'd be demotivated. Or I'd read "I've lost ten pounds!" and I'd think either, "You've lost ten pounds that quickly? Screw you." or "You've been going on and on about ALL this hard work you've been doing for THIS LONG and you've ONLY lost ten pounds?" And I'd be demotivated.

So this week, I don't want to talk fitness or healthy eating. I don't want to post success stories that will just push you further away.

Because if I know anything, it's that outside pressure will not motivate us inwardly. I can tell you all about my current successes, but it won't necessarily affect you personally. I can say I want to model positive self-love for my kids, and you may agree, but it's not enough to get you motivated to change. It's not until YOU decide in YOUR mind and heart that it's time to change - regardless of what kind of change we are talking about - that things can really start moving forward. Motivation to be healthier can only come from within.

I know many of you may not feel up to hitting the gym for a good cardio workout every day. You may not want to run a marathon (or the length of yourself). You may love cake. (I sure as hell do.) You may be suffering from depression. You may be exhausted. You may be going through a lot of stress or be in a tough situation right now.

I don't want to push you further away.

As important as your health is, today I just want to encourage you to find something you like about the way you look. I don't want to tell you to get fit, get active, push yourself away from the table or deny yourself that much needed piece of chocolate.

I just want you to feel comfortable in your own skin.

It may not be the right time for you to start a workout routine or make major lifestyle changes. Let's be honest and realistic; you've got to be mentally ready for that. But it is time to start changing the way we think about the way we look. However we look. Whatever we look like. Big noses, wide hips, lumpy legs, whatever.

You may not look perfect. In fact, I know you don't look perfect, because there is NO SUCH THING. The curvy hips one woman wishes for are the curvy hips another woman is trying to lose. Tall or short, big chested or small, tiny butt or round - there's no such thing as perfection.

All I want to suggest today is that you go look in the mirror and refuse to cringe. Don't point out your flaws. Lie through your teeth if you must, but say to yourself, "You are beautiful." Say it. Maybe even try to pick out something about it that you do like. Got sexy ankles? A flawless neck? Beautiful hands? Adorable feet? Striking eyes? Luscious hair? Smooth skin? Perfect fingernails? Even complexion? Winning smile? Straight teeth?

For a moment just forget about all the pressure out there to get motivated. You'll get motivated when that moment hits you and you are finally ready. For now, maybe just start with trying to think positively about your body. It's yours, and it's beautiful.




*PS. I'm not saying ignore your health. This really IS your only body, at least until science figures out how to give us all robot bodies, so taking care of it iS important. But sometimes, mental health has come first. Though physical health certainly improves mental health, and if you are up to it, exercising really will improve your mental health, if you aren't mentally or emotionally ready to take on the sometimes big challenge of improving physically, it can feel even harder and more impossible. All I'm saying is learn to love your body, even just a little bit. And hopefully that little taste of self-love will grow into a desire to give your body a little more healthy love.

*PPS. I'm also talking to myself here. Don't think just because I'm saying all this means I'm 100% in love with how I look myself. If you think I don't still wear Spanx under my clothes or suck in my tummy for photos, you're wrong. If you think that I'm not incredibly self-conscious about publishing the above picture, you are seriously wrong.

Love My Body Project Weeks 2 & 3

Last week was awesome. I felt awesome. I looked awesome. I was eating awesome. I was in control of my food and my exercise routine. It was an awesome week.


At the end of the week, we got a huge bonus surprise; my brother- and sister-in-law from Texas came to visit us with their three children for Jaguar's birthday weekend! We had a wonderful time. It was such a great visit, especially since we haven't seen them in about three years! (And details of that will be for another post.)

But as always, with out-of-town guests, we spent a lot of time eating out (and drinking booze...). Splurging every now and then is fine, and it's something I think I should be allowed to do if I really want to, but I didn't anticipate how it would make me feel afterwards.

Getting back on track with keto has been a nightmare this third week in. I feel a lot less in control of what I am eating and a lot more hungry. I don't feel as confident. To make matters worse, I'm approaching shark week, which means I'm less energetic (making trips to the gym a huge effort) and bloated (making my belly bulge out like I'm 20 weeks pregnant). My clothes aren't fitting well this week. The scale is still promising progress, but the mirror is decidedly not. I also have not been making myself say I love my body this week like I should. Instead, I've been internally spreading negativity about it.

I woke up this morning feeling groggy, demotivated, fat and hungry. I planned on going to both a weightlifting class and Zumba but couldn't get up and out in time. I missed the weights class and considered just staying home and doing nothing at all. But my kids (thank you, kids!) insisted we go to Zumba anyway, so we went. The first half of the class was killer; I had no energy and just did not feel like doing it. By the second half, though, I could start to feel my body wake up, and I was so glad I'd gone. It gave me the energy and motivation to do everything else I needed to do today, like get groceries and return books to the library. It gave me the determination to keep off the carbs at lunch time and during peckish moments of the day.

I guess loving one's body is a process. It has ups and downs. Hormones play a large part too. The key is probably just keep going, don't give up. And keep giving your body and your mind some love. I put on all black after realizing I was feeling negative again about my body and said defiantly to my reflection, "I LOVE MY BODY, DAMN IT."

Love My Body Project Week 1

Originally I'd had in mind that I would blog each day about my 'progress', aka, attempt at loving my body, including a full length photo each day, the kind where I don't crop out my thighs or PhotoShop my coloring, but it turns out, that was too much work. Until I get a tripod and can take surreptitious full-body selfies, it just isn't going to work. Besides, it felt kind of narcissistic. Kind of made me feel a little 'On my momma, on my hood, I look fly, I look good!'

But as a follow up to my Love My Body Project, I must say, it's working! So each day, I look at myself in the mirror. Isn't that fairly normal? Out of a shower, or while trying on clothes, I check myself out from every angle. Normally I obsess over this and find everything wrong with how I look and end up deflated. But this past week I've changed my perspective and have been finding the things I like. I've been telling myself I Love My Body. (And I keep singing Charlie Boy - help!) But it's working. And I've been identifying things about my body that I like. Such as...

I have small boobs, which mean I can wear a tube top comfortably.

I have curvy hips, which make my figure look vintage like a 50's model.

My arms are taking shape and actually feel like muscle when I flex.

My profile is shapely and pretty.

I'm sticking to my keto diet too, though I did not deprive myself of birthday cake on Jaguar's birthday. I'm trying not to focus on weight loss numbers, but I'm happy to see a little weight coming off according to the scales. I'm happy with the quick and drastic change I'm already seeing in my tummy. The more I work out and the better I eat, the better I feel about my stomach. It's got a lot of toning to do, but I'm happier with how I look. I can look in the mirror and force myself to say 'I love my body' and I'm starting to kind of mean it. I can wear shorts to the gym and think, 'Who cares what anyone else thinks? It's hot outside, it's hot while working out, and damnit, I am - almost - comfortable with how I look.'

But more than how I look, I'm starting to appreciate my body for what it can do. I'm getting stronger. I can squat longer and deeper than I could before. I can lift heavier weights now than when I started working out five months ago. I don't get nearly as exhausted after a work out as I used to. I don't crave junk food nearly as much as I used to and feel completely in control of what I choose to eat. I feel more energetic, less stressed, more in control and less depressed. My body is good. My body is strong. My body is - dare I say it? - beautiful.

I'll even post a picture of it. And resist the urge to comment on the parts of the picture (and my body) I'm still learning to love.

Love My Body Project

Today is the first day of July. It's summer and super hot outside. Summer and super hot means swimsuit weather! And shorts. And tank tops. It means wearing as little clothing as socially acceptable to keep from dying of heat stroke.

This is great news for people who love their bodies and are comfortable in their own skin. It's not so great for the rest of us.

From a young age, I've been very self-conscious about my shape, weight and body image. I've always wanted to be skinny. When I was a teen, it wasn't too hard to stay thin, though my bone structure was never one that allowed me to be below a size 8. In college, I gained 'the freshman fifteen', but I was still pretty thin, and if I ever wanted to lose a few pounds, I just... did. I practically thought about it, and it was gone.

Then, as we post-teenage ladies know, time goes on, metabolism slows, and for some of us, we start having babies. Our hips widen, our bodies cling to extra fat reserves for possible future pregnancies, and if we've been pregnant, our skin stretches and our breasts fill with milk then sag (whether we breastfeed or not). Those photos of us in bikinis at sixteen laughing by the pool seem like photos from another life. Photos of us in bikinis now are hard to recognize, because we've put our hands out in front of the camera while screaming, 'NO!'. That is, if we were even in a bikini at all. More likely, we've moved on to tankinis or one-pieces with skirts, a coverup and a towel.

In the last year, I've gained weight, and I've been miserable about it. My mental health hasn't been optimal to begin with, and this obsession with my weight has made it even worse. I spend a majority of the day thinking, either directly or indirectly, about my weight, my figure, my shape and how others perceive me. To an unhealthy extent, I obsess about how I look.

Since February, I've been visiting the gym regularly. I go because it gives me something to do and because I like how it makes me feel. I also hoped it would help me lose a few pounds. Instead, I've only gained. Perhaps it's muscle, perhaps not, but the numbers on the scale haunt me anyway. I've tried counting calories and other half-hearted diet changes, but I always fail. I did keto in January for a month, but having house-guests quickly made that incredibly difficult to maintain. I have felt defeated, depressed and anxious about my body.

As the heat builds, and I look longingly at the shorts in my drawer, I reach for the thin cotton trousers instead to hide the body I don't want anyone to see, the body I'm ashamed of, the body I hate.



A couple of days ago I watched this video on Upworthy, where 'Plus Size' model Robyn Lawley says 'I love my body the way it is.'


I thought, 'Wow. I'd love to be able to say that about myself.'

I decided it was time to embrace the body I live in. I could use to lose a few pounds, yes, and I'd be healthier for it. I decided to go back on keto with Scott and to up my time at the gym. But my motivation is a little different this time.

Instead of being motivated to get down to a certain weight or a certain clothes size, my motivation is to love my body. However it looks. If I eat better, cut out carbs, workout more regularly, then I will be getting healthier. I may or may not lose a lot of weight. Eventually, once I break the ingrained carb addiction, I'll start allowing myself a treat now and again - after all, I only get to live once, and I don't want to live my whole life continually obsessing about food and weight! I want to enjoy food as I always have, while also enjoying the way I look and feel in my own skin (and fat stores). I know I'll never be 'skinny'. My natural weight may just be higher than I wish it were. But my goal now is to be healthier, not necessarily much skinnier, and to learn to love my body. While I'd like to fit more comfortably in my clothes (they have definitely gotten tighter over the last year), I'd also like to be able to honestly say 'I love my body'.

I like how this model commented that the more you actually say 'I love my body' the more it works. It gave me the idea to start a Love My Body Project (which I'm sure has already been done officially elsewhere, so it's not like I'm trying to start a 'thing'). I've decided that each day for the whole month of July, I will stand in front of my mirror and compliment myself. I will find something about the way I look (and not just in my face, but from my whole body) and compliment myself on it. And I will look in the mirror and say, 'I love my body' and try to mean it.

Today, I noticed that when I'm sitting with my knees up and my feet on the ottoman, my legs look smooth and sexy. I told myself how nice my legs look when they are in that position.

It's not much. I certainly don't like them when they are flat and mashed out against the chair (but who does?). It's just a start. Today I love my legs when they are in that position.

Today, I stand in front of the mirror and say, 'I love my body.' It's summer, and I'm going to wear shorts and I'm going to love my body.

(And now I need to put away all the laundry on the couch...)

All Moments

PREFACE
The following is a post I wrote many months ago in a huge fluster of emotion. After writing it, I was so embarrassed of the deepness of feeling in which it was written that I couldn't bring myself to read it again. I never hit publish. I never read it over again, embarrassed of what I may have said.

Until today. And upon reading it for the first time, I deemed it worthy of sharing.



************************

Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the boredom and pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.

Frederick Buechner Now and Then

I'm lying in a steamy still bath with my book, Soul Survivor, given to me with gentleness and quiet, unobtrusive wisdom from a friend who until that day had only met me once, if not twice, but was somehow connected to my deepest spiritual wastelands. Like each person the author, Phillip Yancey, introduces me to chapter by chapter, I am stirred emotionally, spiritually, and creatively. Today it is the words of Frederick Buechner, novelist-preacher.

I do not claim to be a great writer; I know that I am an undisciplined writer, a writer with too many friends and social functions to be a good writer - but in that moment, as I read those words, I have to get up and write.

I don't know what I have to write, only that I must do it, and now. I pull the drain plug, grab my towel and proceed to write.

"All moments are key moments." Buechner wrote a whole book about the mundane moments of life. If Buechner can find God in his breakfast and shaving his face, where might I find God?

I wake up each morning - about eight times between 5.30 and 6.30 - to my Samsung S3 crying, "Here we come to the turning of the seasons, witnessed to the arc towards the sun!" by The Decemberists. When I finally decide to stop snoozing and eke myself out from between my warm covers, my warm son and my warm husband, I stumble, with or without glasses, into the kitchen to pour cereal for my daughters. Often this is accompanied with an impatient 'HUSH! Your brother is sleeping!' I flick on the kettle, though it is very rare I ever get around to making or drinking that desired cup of tea. I unload the dishwasher. Sometimes I am surprised to see it has already been done. (These mornings I might then get my cup of tea.) I sometimes hang a load of laundry.

This is the start of my fathomless mystery? These are my key moments? Is God hiding somewhere in the Weetabix or the boiled, unused kettle? Is a surprise empty dishwasher a metaphor for God's miracles, or by not putting on my glasses, is that illustrative of how bleary our vision of the world is?

I wonder what I would find if I tried to attribute meaning to the boring and mundane aspects of my daily life. I'm sure I'd come up with some cheesy, churchy answers, but I'm not looking for churchy answers. I've had enough of churchy answers; I want to know if I'd find any real key moments worth investigating.

"Listen to your life." I like that. I really do. Buechner seems to be a writer they way I in some minuscule way I think of myself as a writer. I scour the remote inner corners of my memory and my mind and my emotions for inspiration and answers. I can't look out into nature, though I wish I were that kind of person and writer, but I can listen to my life. It's what I do anyway, it's where I spend most of my brain space, reflecting on who I am in the deepest, darkest sense, and how who I am affects everything I do and touch. I can listen to my life, though I'm not sure I quite believe it to be a fathomless mystery.

"All moments are key moments, and life itself is grace."

If we are anything more than freaks of nature, products of some cataclysmic phenomenon, then there is some hope for a Meaning of Life. And if we are very lucky, we may be able to just sweep our fingertips down the flashing coattails of that meaning as it darts past us in a flurry of almost-attainable glorious fulfilment. But maybe it isn't luck; maybe it is intentional; maybe it is found in the looking, the waiting, like a photographer waits with finger on the shutter button for the butterfly to stop fluttering its wings for the one second needed to get a perfect, clear shot. If all this is possible, if there is even just the hope of hope, and if we can catch glints of it by waiting and listening, then life is grace, because we have been given a chance to find something we have no right to find.

I wonder what I'd find in the morning, between the 5.30 music alarm and the laundry and the un-made cups of tea... if I looked. If I listened. If I examined every moment as a key moment in the story of my life. If I viewed my whole life as grace itself. Would I glimpse God?

If God speaks to me, I think he must do it in sign language. I certainly don't 'hear God' and he has certainly never 'told me' anything. However if he is truly there, and truly has something to say, I'd like to know about it. God is silent with me, and I don't know why God is silent with me when all anyone else says is that he won't be. But just as we have no right to glimpse the meaning of life, we have no right to hear from God.

Still, I wonder... wonder what I might find if I look behind the mask of everything, in hopes of finding an answer or two?

I am an undisciplined writer and an undisciplined watcher. I am an undisciplined seeker.

I need to open my eyes wider and see what there is to see. I need to be on look-out for meaning and answers and questions and key moments that are defining my life without my knowing it. Life itself is grace. It's a heavy concept...

Memoirs of a Beauty (?) Queen

I used to be in beauty pageants. There. I've said it. There's just no easy way to work in that little tidbit of information without just coming out and saying it. It's like pulling off a Band-Aid (or boob tape); you just gotta rip it off.

I consider myself a rather modern, demi-feminist who believes in raising girls outside the gender stereotypes and praising her daughters for their intellect and imagination over their outward beauty and appearances. So believe it or not, I'm not ashamed of my beauty pageant, or shall I say 'scholarship pageant', history; the pageants were about more than physical beauty. However, I can say, I'd make a far better contestant today than I did when I was seventeen.

My pageant career was, admittedly, short lived. I entered two pageants my Junior year of high school, and no more. If I could enter a pageant now, I'd probably kick serious pageant ass, but back then, my confidence was quite a bit shakier and not immune to the evil pull of the Pageant Dark Side (a.k.a., the 'beauty' part).

I have only half-memories of those two events, but I'll share what I remember of them with you anyhow.

Chari and I getting ready to leave for our Interviews

First, I remember waiting in the wings, a line of young girls in women's business suits, preparing to walk across a stage poisedly, winning-smilingly, looking out at the audience while managing not to trip up in heels we weren't used to, to answer the on-stage Impromptu Question. My stomach was churning, and I literally thought I would puke. As the girls ahead of me were asked random questions on index cards by a smiling blonde with a microphone, I mentally imagined my brilliant answers to each in an effort to assure myself I'd be able to answer my question effortlessly and charmingly. Then it was my turn. I tried to glide across the stage in my mom's heels but probably looked like a seventeen year old hair-sprayed giraffe. I introduced myself to the judges and audience and fake-smilingly awaited my question.

"If you could have dinner with any person in history, who would it be and why?"

What. The. Hell.

Suddenly I could think of literally no human being past or present who wasn't Adolph Hitler. And I certainly couldn't sit down to dinner with him in front of hundreds of people and four judges. Quickly, quickly I jogged my memory for a name, any name, any person probably dead, and said 'Audrey Hepburn.'

People, I can assure you, this was the stupidest name that could have crossed my lips. I had never even once seen a picture of Audrey Hepburn, let alone a film, and I knew absolutely nothing about her except I was reasonably sure she was related to Katharine, and she was possibly in Casablanca, which I'd also never seen. (Incidentally, I was wrong  on both accounts.)

So, why would I have dinner with Audrey Hepburn? I had no idea! But I had to say something, so shakily, determined my plastic smile would not falter, I said something about her being a confident role model and a great actress, and I wanted to be like her and thank you very much please freaking applaud so I can get the heck off this god-forsaken stage and lather my sweaty armpits in more deodorant.

That was my worst memory.

Only slightly less humiliating was the Personal Interview. I don't remember if there was a personal interview at both competitions, because I only remember this one. That may, of course, be due to post-traumatic stress. Anyway, I had written on my application under Achievements or Accomplishments or Crap That Makes You Look Interesting that I had won second place in the state for mime. One of the judges was quite intrigued by this and asked me some questions about mime, which I was happy to answer.

Then.

"Perhaps you could do a bit of mime for us now? Perhaps a mime about how you felt getting ready this morning?"

What. The. Freaking. Hell.

There was no other recourse than to oblige. I stood up, completely unsure of what to do, especially considering that I'd done nothing that morning of note, nothing that they were looking for anyway (I hardly felt watching TV until it was time to get dressed was what they wanted to see me doing in preparation for the interview). I performed some sort of get up, look nervous, eat breakfast, get dressed, contemplate nervousness and finally settle into acceptance routine and sat back down, hoping that actually the Rapture could just come right then and there and save me from having to face the rest of the interview.

The Rapture didn't come, but as it turned out, the judges loved it, and awarded me that night with the Miss Interview Award. My only pageant success and worth $500 in scholarship money.

In the Talent category, I sang 'Happy To Keep His Dinner Warm' from How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying in one pageant and 'Adelaide's Lament' from Guys and Dolls in the other. Neither of those were very memorable - I remembered my words, sang in tune, but certainly didn't blow the audience out of the water. My friend Christie though, will never be forgotten for 'ballet' tribute to The Sound of Music's 'My Favourite Things'; it's not that she wasn't very good or made any big blunders, but just the fact that she had never done a single step of ballet in her entire life and spent the whole song traipsing around the stage in a made-up-on-the-spot interpretation of something akin to psychotic ballet. It was incredible and awful all at once and really should've won the Most Awesomely Entertaining Award, even if they had to make up that award on the night and steal money out of the winner's scholarship designation to pay for it.

Despite all the humiliations, my last memory of these competitions is the main reason I could never bring myself to compete again after my two attempts at pageantry.

I wore my prom dress for the Evening Wear category - a gorgeous, unique red silky gown with a slit in the front and a flattering neckline. I was a skinny seventeen year old, looking back at photos, though like most girls of that age, I hated my body. Still, in that dress, I felt amazing and beautiful and thin and perfect. My hair wasn't that perfectly styled and my make-up wasn't expertly applied, but my dress was to die for, and I looked a million bucks in it.

I walked across the stage in that dress, forgetting all about my heels and how I was supposed to walk, because I exuded confidence in it. I didn't win the Evening Wear category, but I didn't care - I was confident that I was at least one of the runners up, I had to be, I just looked so stunning.

Then after the pageant, while speaking to people who had been judges in the past, getting critiques on what I did well and what needed improvement, I was told,

"You should've sucked in your tummy. You had a bit of a gut in that dress."

Right there, my self-image was shattered. My stupid Impromptu Question on stage hadn't shattered it, my embarrassing mime attempt hadn't shattered it, my okay but unimpressive singing hadn't shattered it, but being told I should've sucked in my teeny-tiny seventeen year old stomach had.

I am so fat, I realised.

To this day, I can't see photos of myself in that dress without seeing my bulging belly and thinking, 'I should've sucked that in.'