tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68492462677972874522024-02-28T18:41:51.010-05:00Pam-a-rama ding dongPamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.comBlogger164125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-84911590838396046602022-02-23T18:44:00.001-05:002022-02-23T18:54:25.439-05:00Be You<p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">My daughter recently designed and painted this mural in her high school hallway with the Sexuality and Gender Acceptance club at her high school. This is not her coming out story. She has not chosen to come out as any particular stripe of the rainbow.</span></p><p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZ4FdPIEqbcK_H-gRxgDpMAf8Hf5BwD80pnFPli5VeoM0dNH53PY2u2C50hY5Vz_kXFmwBbFvKWCt30HSOWKBwxC9YlUz9mQqbbWAvz9J_91r5oyfEuAhcou0qIc8aqfWX_NtB_xJJd7-HOpG7BAXwySJfkuvxZD2VHDHvtmJZx0Blv7ohboEtZG8Q=s2048" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1829" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZ4FdPIEqbcK_H-gRxgDpMAf8Hf5BwD80pnFPli5VeoM0dNH53PY2u2C50hY5Vz_kXFmwBbFvKWCt30HSOWKBwxC9YlUz9mQqbbWAvz9J_91r5oyfEuAhcou0qIc8aqfWX_NtB_xJJd7-HOpG7BAXwySJfkuvxZD2VHDHvtmJZx0Blv7ohboEtZG8Q=s320" width="286" /></a></div><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">But her message is important for more than just the lgbtqia2s+ folx. </span><p></p><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Be you. </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Unapologetically, transparently, authentically you. </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I like to think I already knew this and did this. But there are a few secret pockets of shame hidden away. </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Since I started working full time, almost two years ago, I have become shockingly sedentary. I got a full time job about a month after covid shut the world down. Before that, I was not really working out, but I was grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning the house, weeding the garden, and generally doing the things. </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Then covid hit. I started working 8.5 hour days and then 9.5 hour days. I got groceries delivered. The house degenerated into squalor until we felt comfortable having someone in to clean. We got lots of pizza and I did none of the things. I sat all day and worked. And then ate pizza. And then slept. Rinse and repeat. </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">My body became a weak and soft vehicle for my brain. </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Nothing wrong with a weak and soft vehicle. My brain is a delight. I'm rocking this job and I'm a loving wife and mother, a good friend, a good human. My body is the least of what I offer the world. </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">But. Like. So weak. So soft. Excellent for snuggling. Not so effective for living a long, healthy life. Not awesome for the making of the serotonin.</div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">My work did a wellness challenge this month. It wasn't the usual ableist stuff like how many miles can you run. Not, thank goodness, a weight loss challenge (gag). It was inclusive. Yes, push ups and sit ups and steps, but also drinking water, eating fruits and veggies, reading for pleasure, journaling.</div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It was team based, so I added a couple of behaviors I wouldn't have normally done to get points for my team. I did the push ups almost every day, broken up into sets. At first, I could only do a handful. Two weeks later, I can do more. A lot more. </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The challenge is over. I'm still doing push ups. I'm doing bicycles. I'm doing squats and hand weight exercises (biceps, triceps, and rows), which weren't part of the original challenge. </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I'm getting stronger. </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I'm doing these exercises in 5-10 minute increments multiple times a day, so easy to fit into my day. Easier than 30 or 60 minute workout all at once. More fun. More joyful. </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I posted about this process on the book of faces and two people have reached out to let me know this made a difference to them, to see my transparent process. To see my secret shame and my process with it. It helped them to look at their own movement in a new way. </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Just by being me. </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Unapologetically, transparently, authentically me. </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">There is so much depth of power in being you. Be you.</div>Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-10883753778938821912018-04-19T19:46:00.000-04:002018-04-19T19:46:10.529-04:00Moonbathing <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpvNYQBbS_mFsTDLlvwFlwBPYpfR9noPz-ZMjc2cqY7Txte7tbJw330i8dhIqBC8Rs7N2wxiG1B__91KBJXMzVWCh4iRpuA1nKTgVEqV6b7DBOyGebqKfhwuafR5FBSw9jgljTyM3YL4/s1600/night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1079" data-original-width="1440" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpvNYQBbS_mFsTDLlvwFlwBPYpfR9noPz-ZMjc2cqY7Txte7tbJw330i8dhIqBC8Rs7N2wxiG1B__91KBJXMzVWCh4iRpuA1nKTgVEqV6b7DBOyGebqKfhwuafR5FBSw9jgljTyM3YL4/s320/night.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
You guys, I’m not gonna lie.
I’m coming out of a rough few years.
I don’t even know what it is, but I’ve been really disconnected. It was
(is?) likely depression, but not the way I know depression. For me, depression was always crying and sadness
and worthlessness and thinking the world would be better off without me in
it. This was none of that. I felt
ok.<br />
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I felt…. ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just low
energy. Sleeping extra.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just… fine. </div>
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I connected recently with a friend over facebook messenger
and she asked me what was up with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She said she knew what was up with my kids, because of my regular
facebook posts about their antics and accomplishments, but what was up with ME?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Uh, nothing?</div>
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Nothing has been new in a long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I haven’t been exercising.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Haven’t been wearing makeup. (Not that I need
makeup. But it’s an indication for me that I’m sinking into a kind of
invisibility that isn’t good for my soul.) Haven’t been writing. My big news
and pretty much the only thing that makes it onto facebook from my life is that
I have been cooking a lot. So, like, food I guess?</div>
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<br /></div>
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But it felt fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
even felt like self care sometimes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like
I was giving myself down time. Letting myself sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not demanding too much of myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not insisting that I sparkle all the time.
It’s ok not to have to sparkle all the time. I can just be non-sparkly. It’s
fine.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Except I’m not doing any of the things that nourish me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other than cooking and eating, both of which
truly are things I enjoy, I haven’t been doing much of anything. This is my
life, the only life I get. Pam,
get off the couch! Or don’t, but at least write something from the couch other
than witty little snippets on facebook.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPVyvat_b9J7ycxs_F1Cvt1uVgA9uOcPWhOS_1grpH_2QHQEiB20itUBmI7Vjxk_UhVNUfkrBhkiD6YXjNuv-CenKLzpngCznEmotAquCJSBuzxezP_PhIKfgMDlfUBlT4pUHMKOlGKoc/s1600/fire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPVyvat_b9J7ycxs_F1Cvt1uVgA9uOcPWhOS_1grpH_2QHQEiB20itUBmI7Vjxk_UhVNUfkrBhkiD6YXjNuv-CenKLzpngCznEmotAquCJSBuzxezP_PhIKfgMDlfUBlT4pUHMKOlGKoc/s320/fire.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>
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I’ve been trying to figure out how to come out of this, and I made a realization. Part of the problem is that I am a nocturnal human living in a day walker world. And all of you who are like, “just get up early and you’ll fall asleep earlier,” no. No I won’t. I had to be at the bus stop before 7am all through high school and I still had trouble falling asleep at night. My energy starts to rise around 10pm, no matter how early I got up, no matter how tired I am. My energy buzzes from 10pm-2am. In a perfect world, my bedtime would be 4am.</div>
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So I’ve decided to try going with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I got a reflective vest and lights for walking at
night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My neighborhood is safe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cars would be the main risk, so I want to
make sure I’m visible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve done
post-midnight walks a few times now, and it’s so soul nourishing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I breathe in the night and feel alive and
happy. Plus I’m moving my body, which is good for all of the things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-1H-I_dYWyvW5oHhaGKNvVr5JJib91PUl4MBt4qILR9ofHx-Ig5AZy59O6niWGJ-ueL4FP-J6xCAPdmpwvIdPdN_0dg79-LOfEw3F1TnY2DcxcY85h8jH3f6_HULXxaEnTZ19-SVgpzA/s1600/moonbathing_cr2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1336" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-1H-I_dYWyvW5oHhaGKNvVr5JJib91PUl4MBt4qILR9ofHx-Ig5AZy59O6niWGJ-ueL4FP-J6xCAPdmpwvIdPdN_0dg79-LOfEw3F1TnY2DcxcY85h8jH3f6_HULXxaEnTZ19-SVgpzA/s200/moonbathing_cr2.jpg" width="166" /></a></div>
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Maybe for me, coming out of low level depression doesn’t mean coming out into the sunshine. Maybe it means coming out into the night. Maybe instead of letting the sun shine on my skin (which no, because my skin hates it), I need to let the moon and stars shine on me, my skin activated by the chill. Maybe I need to run my hands over my cold skin and breathe in the quiet dark, all by myself. Maybe I don’t need to reconnect with the world at all right now. Maybe I just need to reconnect with myself, all by myself, in the cool quiet of 2am.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Maybe the next time someone asks me what I’ve been up to,
I’ll tell them that I have been dancing naked in my backyard in the middle of the
night, to the music only my soul can hear, moonbathing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-85129305339172654562017-07-19T16:17:00.000-04:002017-07-19T16:17:33.066-04:00No bra, no problem<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPmUUFgLdbZiWzbOJpIy2TqOfTHwxn_J3Oh-GrZSF9OLOE0TWjQQroCzBoizhts0WONDioIymVV_MhXYw4w2q9MemSLD8rk_RHktd_YdA5QP_95rYq8TiA4zIGZ2cvF72tQ5bT6Avq0nk/s1600/umbrella_off2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="959" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPmUUFgLdbZiWzbOJpIy2TqOfTHwxn_J3Oh-GrZSF9OLOE0TWjQQroCzBoizhts0WONDioIymVV_MhXYw4w2q9MemSLD8rk_RHktd_YdA5QP_95rYq8TiA4zIGZ2cvF72tQ5bT6Avq0nk/s200/umbrella_off2.jpeg" width="119" /></a></div>
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A few months ago, I started a new experiment. I stopped wearing a bra.</div>
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It all started because I have been experiencing a dramatic
increase in anxiety symptoms since a certain catastrophic election in November.
With that anxiety came debilitating panic attacks. And over time, I started to notice that the
constriction of a bra band was often a catalyst to panic. </div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj01RhgwiktYeoauJ9gFlz6fRUne9BFqegwUI78TdQH7iKCbzNad-i57y03QeEpXcvpc1070JJIm13hNYHXYCFSaXIclqYLKVTKR4B3KEhR-hmZ5IJLDaMP2Kk3XGdYFhfDSBXhapt55bo/s1600/IMG_20150528_231914.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj01RhgwiktYeoauJ9gFlz6fRUne9BFqegwUI78TdQH7iKCbzNad-i57y03QeEpXcvpc1070JJIm13hNYHXYCFSaXIclqYLKVTKR4B3KEhR-hmZ5IJLDaMP2Kk3XGdYFhfDSBXhapt55bo/s200/IMG_20150528_231914.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Discarded bra pile at Camp Throwback</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I’ve never liked bras.
I always took them off immediately upon arriving home, or sooner. When I couldn’t find a bra, chances are that
</div>
all of my in-heavy-rotation bras were in the center console of my minivan,
having been stripped off on my way home from somewhere. But the panic thing was new.<br />
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<br /></div>
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In the end, I decided that my mental health was more
important than my boobs being ever so slightly further away from the ground.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By any metric, I “need” a bra. I can hold a pencil under my boob. Or a broom. Or my phone. Or a full wine bottle (yes, really). I wear a
40i bra and I’m 43 years old. Those things aren’t holding themselves up. The
gravity is real.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzkois4Me38PbHxOauebLDbIhlMBh0xL04OuuIn8aHa_tCf0-0qI9ejDzpADiWUSq-w-YvYrU7owaRQkxImChnWend6DJqO_8NB6jfzQQE_AiQJ8z2WuwHJN8cDz6fiJQ7PWWSvBsuG6w/s1600/FB_IMG_1472502516692.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzkois4Me38PbHxOauebLDbIhlMBh0xL04OuuIn8aHa_tCf0-0qI9ejDzpADiWUSq-w-YvYrU7owaRQkxImChnWend6DJqO_8NB6jfzQQE_AiQJ8z2WuwHJN8cDz6fiJQ7PWWSvBsuG6w/s200/FB_IMG_1472502516692.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But… do I? <i>Need</i> a bra? Need it for what? Some people are uncomfortable without a
bra. Their backs hurt, or the underboob
sweat bothers them, or for whatever reason they prefer to wear a bra. That’s great.
But I don’t. Despite my giant fun
bags, my back has never hurt from going braless. Underboob sweat happens. I mean, yeah.
But that’s less bothersome than the constricted feeling of wearing a
bra. I’m happier and more comfortable
without one. (Except for when I
exercise. My sports bra is a magnificent
feat of engineering. Glamorise adjustable. <i>You’re
welcome!</i>)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The supposed “need” is about a couple of things. Boob
altitude. Boob shape. Nipple visibility.
And the bounce.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Without a bra, my boobs are lower, further apart and more bottom-heavy,
having of nipples, and bouncy. Those things are all just true facts of my body.
It’s really not that big of a deal.
Except… in public... is it? A big
deal? Is it really a big deal if random strangers at the grocery store know
that my 43-year-old body has slightly saggy boobs with nipples on them? I mean,
most boobs have nipples on them. Most boobs on people my age are at least a bit
saggy. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDcAfeEVgH5-24dDb1pqAGD0PPThOfVY2WIXaX1H9r-zSADnQLs8yxh5Cx8a6KxX73QvMFeBwmmTatxmZ6OESzBDz9n8nkU3brSVuFn5VBemvKpdLx91SmtVkQ0IRxt3-1X-sTQkQqk88/s1600/20170710_175420.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1193" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDcAfeEVgH5-24dDb1pqAGD0PPThOfVY2WIXaX1H9r-zSADnQLs8yxh5Cx8a6KxX73QvMFeBwmmTatxmZ6OESzBDz9n8nkU3brSVuFn5VBemvKpdLx91SmtVkQ0IRxt3-1X-sTQkQqk88/s200/20170710_175420.jpg" width="148" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No bra, no cleavage, no problem.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who cares?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’re trained to think boobs have to look a certain
way. High up. Close together with cleavage if they’re
large. Relatively immobile. That’s not
how boobs are though. Not aging boobs
anyway. Part of this is the cult of
youth. Part of it is the prevalence of
cosmetically altered boobs. Part of it
is just plain misogyny. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My sister has compared the requirement of a bra to the
previous requirement that women wear corsets.
A certain body shape was just expected, and to refuse to conform to that
shape was seen as either slovenly or promiscuous.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While we no longer wear corsets (except for fun!!), we still
expect breasts to be forced into a certain shape in order to be seen as
properly dressed and acceptable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’m experimenting with not doing that. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGQDXE925trjASJUkxLHvQKCXMVajuQ-O3AfX5486ECYJ0gTLJGn74eMJchqe8b6pwQQszqeD8S33jyhrSbUfoAzD8sKDCCYSebSFX67WkXeZRCZSfm59-Yg81xK_LXSee1tHq-1o2g-0/s1600/20170715_152506.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1158" data-original-width="1600" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGQDXE925trjASJUkxLHvQKCXMVajuQ-O3AfX5486ECYJ0gTLJGn74eMJchqe8b6pwQQszqeD8S33jyhrSbUfoAzD8sKDCCYSebSFX67WkXeZRCZSfm59-Yg81xK_LXSee1tHq-1o2g-0/s320/20170715_152506.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not a bra in sight.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
It’s easy for me, because I’m a stay-at-home mom, so I don’t
have a job to jeopardize. But isn’t it
ludicrous that it might actually jeopardize a job if I didn’t wear a certain
undergarment to force my body into a specific shape? I mean, <i>what?</i> What century are we in?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve also been experimenting with less constricting bikini
tops. I bought two more “string bikini”
type tops this year that allow my shape to be more naturally conveyed. One has slightly more support than the other.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR7QWaO_yNGcGrhs9xoruHEmK0oG5iLCY9iACg50TS3tHiEnxJg68KTSWFb92ycQv2vufmifYueMi996491cXnkuMZXtdym0JnQH5WmpaTmXIWk5FTHflZnc0JbTH1ZzCH28ky1_5y93E/s1600/20170706_121743.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="939" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR7QWaO_yNGcGrhs9xoruHEmK0oG5iLCY9iACg50TS3tHiEnxJg68KTSWFb92ycQv2vufmifYueMi996491cXnkuMZXtdym0JnQH5WmpaTmXIWk5FTHflZnc0JbTH1ZzCH28ky1_5y93E/s200/20170706_121743.jpg" width="116" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My weird body</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The one with more support has gotten a lot more love, even
in body positive communities. I’m told
it’s more “flattering,” which is code for it makes my body look closer to some
imaginary young, thin ideal. The “less
flattering” top makes my body look more like what my body actually looks like. Just me, covered in fabric. I have been told that that top looks “weird.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7rfs-715iL0szzPVxnUnFrwobm9LXYV5Cva5niOIARNDE0XsW59Mf_Hxs-6ef6N6PViqLYukxsLjDcc0r3-76F60zTegjneh3-CoiDbjgpPzkvVZxHe6wxWkjyfoLkvnD0Htzr-t_oxg/s1600/20170526_171209.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="840" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7rfs-715iL0szzPVxnUnFrwobm9LXYV5Cva5niOIARNDE0XsW59Mf_Hxs-6ef6N6PViqLYukxsLjDcc0r3-76F60zTegjneh3-CoiDbjgpPzkvVZxHe6wxWkjyfoLkvnD0Htzr-t_oxg/s200/20170526_171209.jpg" width="104" /></a>Well, maybe I do look weird.
Women wear bras. Especially large
breasted women. So yes, my natural body
shape is not what we’re used to seeing.
It actually is weird, as in unusual to see. But it’s my natural body shape. And I suspect it’s not that different from
what plenty of women see when they take off their bras at the end of the
day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’m going to just keep going about in the world with my
natural body shape until it seems less weird.
I’m happy. I’m comfortable. My mental health is improved. And my boobs are a little bit bouncy and
closer to the ground. I’m good with it.</div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-43484977236702823602016-10-03T17:21:00.002-04:002016-10-03T19:59:17.553-04:00The trap of the healthy fat chick<div class="MsoNormal">
When a plus size woman dares to love
herself unapologetically on social media, a few things often happen. One, lots of people are happy. Yay! Because if we can love ourselves, maybe
they can too. Or because they already do
and are happy that someone else does too.
Or because their plus size sexual partner is beautiful to them and they
want her to see the beauty they see. Or
a million other personal reasons. Yay
for happiness and body love. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two, some people are dicks.
How dare this woman feel good about herself when she is aesthetically
disgusting to them? So they compare her
to animals, threaten physical violence, or otherwise behave like the worst kind
of human, because for some reason or other, her self love is threatening to
them. Or they’re bored or something.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So that’s kind of the best and the worst. But there’s a third thing. A sneaky thing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The concern troll.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m so glad you feel good about yourself, but that size
can’t be healthy.” “Promoting an unhealthy lifestyle.” “Glorifying obesity.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thankfully, I have been largely spared the aggressive and
violent comments online, but I’ve been concern trolled aplenty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I haven’t been responding to that properly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have used language in my body love blog posts reassuring
the trolls in advance that my fat body is healthy. I have pointed out that I exercise and eat
well. I’m healthy, y’all. Fat and
healthy. Dont worry, I'm one of the good fatties. No need for your concern
trolling here…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except. What a bunch of insidious ableist bullshit
that was. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love my body and I’m worthy of love and I’m
beautiful. Full fucking stop. Period.
Healthy or not. Exercising or
not. Eating kale chips or potato chips.
Diabetic or not. In shape or not. This is my body and I love it and I’m allowed
to love it and celebrate it! I’m allowed
to take up the space I take up. My
health is between me, my doctor, and the people who love me. No one else.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The trap of allowing
and responding to the concern troll is that it says that I am only worthy of
loving myself if certain conditions are met.
What a load of crap. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some things have happened recently that forced me to look at
just how much I have allowed the concern trolls’ voices inside my head.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the first time in my life, at age 42, I have a medical
condition that could be partly due to my weight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It also might not be.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have hypertension.
I’m managing it with my doctor in the ways that we have decided
together, and my health is fine.
But when it happened, when those
numbers crept up, and I could no longer explain them away as “white coat
hypertension,” I found myself on unstable ground. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shit, I thought. They
were right. It was just a matter of time
until my “unhealthy,” “obesity glorifying” lifestyle caught up with me. <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt ashamed because of some numbers on a blood pressure
machine. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Together, my doctor and I decided that before medicating, we
would try weight loss, increased exercise, and reducing salt intake. For months, I obsessively tracked every morsel of food to
go in my mouth. I exercised.
I reduced salt. I lost ten pounds. My blood pressure
continued to increase.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOYRYAX5Fm8ilC-Fn03GFBdOlsf8BBkuHuEIzJ3WVvXesvvuQYVn_O7HgQ5IOcCt8s0OQ9eXXgiHu-a6qaYWYeUCF4zeQ8R_E7XpbvqBjFxiAG-YNl1eQhxSQA56luMOI4ZCbrLngnHYU/s1600/sadpam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOYRYAX5Fm8ilC-Fn03GFBdOlsf8BBkuHuEIzJ3WVvXesvvuQYVn_O7HgQ5IOcCt8s0OQ9eXXgiHu-a6qaYWYeUCF4zeQ8R_E7XpbvqBjFxiAG-YNl1eQhxSQA56luMOI4ZCbrLngnHYU/s320/sadpam.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I broke the Pam.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During that time, I had a nasty fall. I slipped on some mud while walking in the
woods with my kids, sprained a ligament in my knee and tore a ligament in my
ankle. I hopped around on crutches, scooted around the house on a rolling
office chair, leaned heavily on my husband for help, and eventually got to the
point where I could walk with a limp.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t stand or walk for long, and couldn’t do
stairs. Grocery shopping was enough to
make my leg ache badly for hours. I considered using one of those motorized shopping cart scooter thingies at the grocery store. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, I couldn’t ride one of those. People would think I was just fat and
lazy. Every time I sat down when others
were standing, every elevator ride, I heard the voice in my head, “fat and
lazy.” I felt lumbering. Like a fat caricature. I considered wearing a knee
and ankle brace, not because I needed them, but because they would signal to
people that I was injured, not just fat and lazy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because if I’m fat and just feel like sitting down or taking
the elevator, what? I’m not worthy of
the air I breathe? The space I take
up? Can I be fat and (temporarily, in
this case) not able bodied and have a medical condition and still be beautiful
and love myself?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Uh. Of course I can.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But for a minute, I didn’t know that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had trapped myself in the story of a beautiful fat chick
who was the exact size she was supposed to be, as evidenced by good health and
an able body.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pam, check your privilege.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m plus sized. I’m
fat. I’m fucking fabulous. Sometimes I’m super duper lazy. Sometimes I’m active. Mostly I’m healthy. In some ways, I’m not healthy. My body is aging. Some of that I’m embracing. Some of it kind of sucks balls. Exercise waxes and wanes with my mood and
other factors. I like salads. And cheetos.
And bourbon. And lentils. And cake.
And dancing. And sleeping late.
Sometimes I wear fabulous clothes that make me look like a pin-up
hourglass. Sometimes I wear yoga pants and a tank top with no bra. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I’m beautiful and worthy. I love myself and I love my body. Full stop.
No conditions on that love.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unconditional. Just
like my love for others. I’ve finally
learned to give that to myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-66616955509322201362016-02-20T14:12:00.000-05:002016-02-20T14:13:13.485-05:00The fine art of being bad at stuff<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me start with a little story. As a baby, my mom thought that maybe I was
deaf, because I never babbled. These
days, we would have that kid tested and getting services so fast their head
would spin, but this was the 70’s, era of kids bouncing free in the back of station
wagons with no seatbelts. It was a more
chill time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Spoiler: I wasn’t deaf.
Eventually I talked, but only once I could say real words. No baby
babble for me. My first word was a
perfectly identifiable, “meow” while my mom was reading the <i>Three Little Kittens</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My little personality was already in there. My tiny little baby perfectionist
personality.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hate being bad at stuff.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s the thing though.
In order to get good at most stuff, you have to be bad at stuff
first. And you work on it, and practice,
and get incrementally better at that thing until you no longer suck. That’s how life works. I would totally teach my kids that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except… I don’t do that myself. I hide my badness at stuff. I practice in secret until I can get all
A’s. Or, in most cases, I just choose
stuff to do that comes easily to me. I
know how to learn and study, sort of, in theory. But I never really had to do
it much. Matrix algebra, a requirement
for my statistics masters, was difficult for me. I cried, because I sucked at
it, and I didn’t know how to get good at it. Through the magic of grade
inflation, I still got an A, but I never really learned how to learn. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a PhD and two Masters degrees, and I don’t know how
to learn. That’s not to say I didn’t
learn things in school. I did. The most important thing I learned in
graduate school was how to speak in public without vomiting. I learned confidence in my intellect, how to
speak up in a room full of incredibly intelligent people without questioning
whether or not what I had to say was worthy.
I learned research design and analysis skills, how to develop and teach
a course, how to write a grant. I
learned how to work on a team and how to manage people working for me. I learned an enormous amount. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But not in the buckle down, practice, be bad at stuff and
then get better at it kind of way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here I am, at the ripe old age of 42, learning how to be
bad at something. Specifically, I am learning to play the piano. I am happy to tell you all that I completely
suck at it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took lessons as a kid, but as soon as I couldn’t get a
skill easily, I dropped it. I played
other instruments, and I guess I sucked.
I mean, at some points, I certainly sucked, but I didn’t really know I
sucked. The pieces we played in band
were easy. I didn’t have to practice
that much to feel competent. It might
not surprise you at this point to know that when I auditioned for things, I hit
the sight reading out of the park. Consistently
super high scores on playing stuff that required no preparation. Abysmal scores on scales. Because who wants to practice scales? Not this girl.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But we have this beautiful piano that we got for free from a
good friend. And neither of my kids chose
piano as their instrument. And every
time a friend or my brother would come over and play it, I would be so happy
the piano was getting some love. It
almost made me cry. My kids play around
on it, and I taught them to read music on it, and how to find the notes of
songs they know, but no one was playing it beautifully, and it made me sad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the same time, I found myself envying my kids their music
lessons. My fingers itched to try the
violin or bass. I wanted to be learning
an instrument too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I decided to take up piano. And boy, do I suck.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the same time, I’m super proud of myself for sucking and
continuing to practice. I am
progressing. I can play stuff now I
couldn’t play a week ago and couldn’t have dreamed of playing a month ago. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My parents were here last week and I played one of the songs
I’m working on for my mom. It felt
really weird. When eight-year-olds play
the instruments they’re learning and struggle with it or hit a wrong note, we
expect that and we cheer for their progress.
It feels different as an adult.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Forty-two year olds are supposed to be good at stuff. Forty-two year old piano players should not
suck. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unless they’re beginners.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friends who teach music have said that adult beginners
are the worst, because they expect to get good right away, and I can completely
see it. I’m embarrassed by how terrible
I am at playing a simple melody on one hand and simple chords on the
other. I’m embarrassed every time it
doesn’t sound like music. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I’m also incredibly proud of myself. Proud of my progress, and the fact that I am
practicing every day, and that I’m learning, finally, how to be bad at
something and get incrementally better. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s how you get good at things. And I’m showing that to my kids too. They see me sucking. They see me practicing. They see me getting better.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not adorable when I’m bad at things the way it is when
kids are learning. But… in a weird way…
I’m finding it kind of beautiful. A new
journey for me when I wasn’t expecting one.
A skill I thought was a bucket list fantasy that would never
happen. But it is happening. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Slowly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suuuuper effing slowly.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it’s not cute at all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it’s awesome.</div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-69478379751882174832015-10-13T20:42:00.000-04:002015-10-13T20:42:38.798-04:00On selfies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTKTdVSTqgdXUEDZt1AWqn5aZ_DC3jyNygM-yv2eYJM8EiQPsj8umk1kI2YSJ9i5EThRZ4Zq7WJ7YADrXgvq5lisZH9cxeZwb1yd7H30qe7ET9q3z8oGaV93QNBW_PksMsUsz4sNafvEM/s1600/b612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTKTdVSTqgdXUEDZt1AWqn5aZ_DC3jyNygM-yv2eYJM8EiQPsj8umk1kI2YSJ9i5EThRZ4Zq7WJ7YADrXgvq5lisZH9cxeZwb1yd7H30qe7ET9q3z8oGaV93QNBW_PksMsUsz4sNafvEM/s200/b612.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve thought about writing this piece for a long time, but
I’ve always gotten weird and shy about it. Until now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s talk about selfies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you’re my personal friend on facebook, you may have
noticed that I post a lot of selfies. I
don’t post them every day or even every week, but I take and post them when my
hair or makeup is looking cute, when I’m bored, when the lighting is
interesting, or just when I damn feel like it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe that should be the end of the blog. I take selfies because I damn feel like
it. The end.<br /><br />But see…. I get some shit about my
selfies. Some of it good-natured ribbing
from friends, some of it odd comments from people I have never met (usually
friends of friends who friend-requested me on facebook), some of it link after
link to that <a href="http://www.snopes.com/politics/satire/selfies.asp" target="_blank">fake article</a> about how taking selfies is a new mental illness in
the DSM. (It’s not. It’s fake, people. Please stop posting it on
my wall. Snopes is a thing. Use the
snopes.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I thought about writing this piece, I got this weird
feeling. Like, maybe it IS terrible that
I take selfies. Maybe it’s vain and
stupid and, like one high school friend posted, something that lonely people do
because they don’t have any friends to take pictures of them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Uh, my sister is a professional photographer. I don’t lack for photos of me. I don’t lack for friends either. I have some of the best friends on the planet
and I feel very lucky to have them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I take selfies anyway.
And it’s not just because I feel like it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEEPhysc1_Y4yXh5nFVgcTVaNLGmVR2kwz2hXOQcG0167ZdiQ9jpvxRcxfaRhyphenhyphen11zlMhoMnGGiAa1SsTFQ8qjLAsgRfEoi6U1OL-jt5Dtbo0r6JxNFLH64G1dM_tB_Qo_tT_Y2xyGKbZY/s1600/bored.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEEPhysc1_Y4yXh5nFVgcTVaNLGmVR2kwz2hXOQcG0167ZdiQ9jpvxRcxfaRhyphenhyphen11zlMhoMnGGiAa1SsTFQ8qjLAsgRfEoi6U1OL-jt5Dtbo0r6JxNFLH64G1dM_tB_Qo_tT_Y2xyGKbZY/s200/bored.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
See, when people give me shit about my selfies, I don’t
laugh it off. I might pretend to, but it
actually feels intensely personal when people judge my selfie-taking. Because for me, selfies aren’t about vanity
or seeking validation or wanting “likes.”
They’re more like therapy. Self-image
therapy. And it feels pretty shitty to be judged for taking care of myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I take selfies because I want to continue on a self-love and
self-acceptance journey. I’m a middle-aged, overweight woman. I have wrinkles, age spots, places where my skin
sags, places where my fat bulges or rolls.
I’m beautiful, and sexy as fuck, but I also live in the world. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As women, particularly older and fatter women, we get so
many images and messages regarding how we’re supposed to be. So many people telling us we’re wrong somehow
and trying to sell us stuff that will fix us.
I hold the line against them as well as I can, and I love myself just as
I am. But it isn’t like I have magically
accomplished self-love and I’m just done now.
Nope. It’s not like that at all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I still have days when I pull the sides of my face up in the
mirror and imagine a facelift. When I
imagine my post-baby belly going under the knife to get repaired. I have days when I try on everything in my
closet and cry. I have days when I doubt my self worth because of the way that
I look.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pushing against that negativity, I have a set of tools that
I use. I have supportive groups of women
online who can help me through the darker moments. I have people in my life who love me. I have meditation. I have my kids, who recalibrate my scale
regarding what matters.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I also have selfies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu5Nkql7GHh0Io1xSSN-j7AV9onhQ6ikSBZ8BNkv04pPXmeWjtMe_eboloiEBdMWCENDe-mINuMJQXt1a_KULFgmAKDF0iEgkMRroHEFweb9J6rcSwWGum38dYTJGrcUunP7jIXU7EPzw/s1600/mud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu5Nkql7GHh0Io1xSSN-j7AV9onhQ6ikSBZ8BNkv04pPXmeWjtMe_eboloiEBdMWCENDe-mINuMJQXt1a_KULFgmAKDF0iEgkMRroHEFweb9J6rcSwWGum38dYTJGrcUunP7jIXU7EPzw/s320/mud.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Muddy gardening selfie. Still beautiful!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Selfies, for when I’m feeling pretty, and also sometimes when I’m
not. To capture fancy Pam in makeup with
her hair done, but also to love and accept no-makeup Pam on a random
Tuesday. To put my image out there, to
celebrate the way I look. To find
beauty in a face that society doesn’t think is beautiful. To find it even in my most mundane moments. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not the only tool in my toolbox, but it’s one of
them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t just wake up one day full of self-love strutting
down beaches in bikinis. It’s a
journey. And selfies are one of the
things that help me on that journey. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe it seems vain and shallow and narcissistic. I acknowledge that it’s about seeing beauty
in myself. And I agree that beauty isn’t
the be-all end-all of what I (and women) should aspire to. I aspire to things much more important than
beauty. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a middle-aged fat woman with a big nose and a “character”
face, it’s very easy to feel disenfranchised from beauty. Part of cultivating self-love for me is
reclaiming my sense of beauty and seeing myself the way I see others. Learning
to see the beauty that has nothing to do with the way I look at all. Seeing that the imperfect parts are the very best parts. I see that in others. But it takes practice to see that in myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s personal. My selfies are personal. But
it’s also part of my journey to let myself be seen. It always has been.<br /><br />So here. See me. See my journey. See the makeup days and the raw naked-faced days. This is me. You don't have to love me. I love me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyI-ZcJDFbSCg4VOLFBjtCK7VTR507VSJMxEOA9_V9Uv9-Yw6Wv41XYtfX9y6xKRfT11aowBMO4dlAP4uxCk0HfSIAOdVGfYXqV1aP4E0FHxjHiVFCNtshvgM2ArK_vT8kRoDjMf_HkFA/s1600/photoshoot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyI-ZcJDFbSCg4VOLFBjtCK7VTR507VSJMxEOA9_V9Uv9-Yw6Wv41XYtfX9y6xKRfT11aowBMO4dlAP4uxCk0HfSIAOdVGfYXqV1aP4E0FHxjHiVFCNtshvgM2ArK_vT8kRoDjMf_HkFA/s320/photoshoot.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reason to take a selfie:<br />Excellent hair day and polka dot sunglasses.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRIDuUjPqZUv6ENqDmrzAeB1grZO3-dBfHP0ZkFln2HgB8dWs6bhk_BPvjDE30aEaSnCkx-BT_VIP3l4NGJJ-jlxDE3R_V93lGMhkZeUbgoDY4IxNedTQyTGTXv-7kUR3-H_dCmuBVn_w/s1600/80s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRIDuUjPqZUv6ENqDmrzAeB1grZO3-dBfHP0ZkFln2HgB8dWs6bhk_BPvjDE30aEaSnCkx-BT_VIP3l4NGJJ-jlxDE3R_V93lGMhkZeUbgoDY4IxNedTQyTGTXv-7kUR3-H_dCmuBVn_w/s320/80s.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reason to take a selfie:<br />80's night, Camp Throwback, and the sheer magnificence of my sister's face in this pic!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHpZQ9l6vFWDmJOdF6DboXBIwAroTjNjSMZ9IhisN816aLKsLw5XRbPAlrEA39On5LO-D2u70v7XXMNhD58OyRRbvOQzw7OX8L2Y9fe6bS1-MzJhKil8FoPgeJ3MuI34uvUiC-Sav-WHo/s1600/nosetampon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHpZQ9l6vFWDmJOdF6DboXBIwAroTjNjSMZ9IhisN816aLKsLw5XRbPAlrEA39On5LO-D2u70v7XXMNhD58OyRRbvOQzw7OX8L2Y9fe6bS1-MzJhKil8FoPgeJ3MuI34uvUiC-Sav-WHo/s320/nosetampon.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reason to take a selfie:<br />Nose tampons.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghuYDd68NxCu_GuEBKiToRGBZKTPQZipL4LNWXaQwP2V00npQ24S3JN_lYs5t_aUh4wwLQpKuktu_WvOIR1ieYW5xx-sO8EvOTjhcqbiBVDg_22VcOqDWu-lziNNZNA0UxdOJVcHF1npY/s1600/kidaskedmeto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghuYDd68NxCu_GuEBKiToRGBZKTPQZipL4LNWXaQwP2V00npQ24S3JN_lYs5t_aUh4wwLQpKuktu_WvOIR1ieYW5xx-sO8EvOTjhcqbiBVDg_22VcOqDWu-lziNNZNA0UxdOJVcHF1npY/s320/kidaskedmeto.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reason to take a selfie:<br />My kid asked me to.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiey6pAUU9vSn7e2NfogV8i-M2icAlD-_Ei5QkJ1L2koDd5-ikn674skbWdz9pQp__d5Ny5oMypex21zuaGaTFRs3FIJaMf9mVwNgT0i38Q-f-Q3eizwA-OVAxS5fhXhI6lKwit_UtYjBA/s1600/tattoo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiey6pAUU9vSn7e2NfogV8i-M2icAlD-_Ei5QkJ1L2koDd5-ikn674skbWdz9pQp__d5Ny5oMypex21zuaGaTFRs3FIJaMf9mVwNgT0i38Q-f-Q3eizwA-OVAxS5fhXhI6lKwit_UtYjBA/s320/tattoo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reason to take a selfie:<br />New tattoo!!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_N0p5-1N7YKNSGoUM7h8gbYnHzkgjpSO0Vru6u_LcfNWd11qoVTwL8SQPYl-b1G0KBebS8pKUARbBgGuv6oaDitgpLUUIOMzWfM7fzKe16sN9BNT9sORxpS9wVx7r5pY8w0BOOC-sFWY/s1600/postpinup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_N0p5-1N7YKNSGoUM7h8gbYnHzkgjpSO0Vru6u_LcfNWd11qoVTwL8SQPYl-b1G0KBebS8pKUARbBgGuv6oaDitgpLUUIOMzWfM7fzKe16sN9BNT9sORxpS9wVx7r5pY8w0BOOC-sFWY/s320/postpinup.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reason to take a selfie:<br />Post-pin-up hair</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE7CVxBsf1i2-_kvtfLVkE8VBXJE99V2CEjhpAawrAUZeA3hEwU72K6pWT3MZu5Lh0pmVqNi9cgfFiSeDO02DacHf17-Aq_7zd1D2eeKuxhROZIPqHnZX3csyaHmjgHl3k8AKJOtJf0cw/s1600/brokeher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE7CVxBsf1i2-_kvtfLVkE8VBXJE99V2CEjhpAawrAUZeA3hEwU72K6pWT3MZu5Lh0pmVqNi9cgfFiSeDO02DacHf17-Aq_7zd1D2eeKuxhROZIPqHnZX3csyaHmjgHl3k8AKJOtJf0cw/s320/brokeher.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reason to take a selfie:<br />A friend tried to keep up with me, which no one should ever do, <br />so then I had to party all alone because I broke her.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS7SY6K-hSLAijwTut_9KFH9PKZ6D3h_2_M9jMYDPIM-nsuUKT4GcjNYwHpjbnDhimRg2sUcy7qTYVaA7F9F3SC8X6Ocd8sUMhX_XdkZw3WnqPQ15rGrW1bzF8IWBNj2b5bz7kro9Aj7s/s1600/rainbow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS7SY6K-hSLAijwTut_9KFH9PKZ6D3h_2_M9jMYDPIM-nsuUKT4GcjNYwHpjbnDhimRg2sUcy7qTYVaA7F9F3SC8X6Ocd8sUMhX_XdkZw3WnqPQ15rGrW1bzF8IWBNj2b5bz7kro9Aj7s/s320/rainbow.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reason to take a selfie:<br />Gay marriage is legal! So I did rainbow eye makeup and it looked awesome!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis3uzyWVRpyfZsZD6-sIsun7LPkGGWMNZN_MrfmvTqESyQ6lJXqZfpkfqDCEbzePiJc_V5b9cdN0eyd0VeeqaURnPg30ScrS2LkSyyQj0a5RTOvvOmKtwospUwMOLueBBY2NkpV9UKMXg/s1600/hat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis3uzyWVRpyfZsZD6-sIsun7LPkGGWMNZN_MrfmvTqESyQ6lJXqZfpkfqDCEbzePiJc_V5b9cdN0eyd0VeeqaURnPg30ScrS2LkSyyQj0a5RTOvvOmKtwospUwMOLueBBY2NkpV9UKMXg/s320/hat.jpg" width="235" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reason to take a selfie:<br />I made this sweet dragon hat for my kid but he wouldn't model it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaIcT4PNY9y_y-TWmj6Hp3bdad5Swo_Y4HoWs2WPxCxy9BIaxlqUpjon_hIViXVmfapYhS3UDxd-eenhXs2mn2INatVSyfw6RrqS3EERf5jmj71uTqdd9Sl4yFnfWjDbxV_qb1EiVh3M0/s1600/beachhair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaIcT4PNY9y_y-TWmj6Hp3bdad5Swo_Y4HoWs2WPxCxy9BIaxlqUpjon_hIViXVmfapYhS3UDxd-eenhXs2mn2INatVSyfw6RrqS3EERf5jmj71uTqdd9Sl4yFnfWjDbxV_qb1EiVh3M0/s320/beachhair.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reason to take a selfie:<br />Beach hair!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0CUMsHZ-COimPH1J6jlnWSTqXu9dZ6mX9kFeR9L4qJUJNfHnTDBivGKKpLMpG8ZI4VrD0TQE5JzbFfWYZQAzWeWLLlqHCoOekQRMgpvK0HGx4_EAB1S3XUDsMfra78Na6OzcN5MzRe2I/s1600/nose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0CUMsHZ-COimPH1J6jlnWSTqXu9dZ6mX9kFeR9L4qJUJNfHnTDBivGKKpLMpG8ZI4VrD0TQE5JzbFfWYZQAzWeWLLlqHCoOekQRMgpvK0HGx4_EAB1S3XUDsMfra78Na6OzcN5MzRe2I/s320/nose.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reason to take a selfie:<br />Really trying to learn to love my nose.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Jpf91hkqgVRaueaTqmACShp4Sx10duA74bmsaYEhGB6VY8tTaiwrmWjFPqga8yndDaQKyYRb7CiZO4xcJJ99JyIJiyACrdTkyEabRSk3QawGRMS8iZ-iAbdWeD5XyyCJt9BWKZQnG4U/s1600/shirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Jpf91hkqgVRaueaTqmACShp4Sx10duA74bmsaYEhGB6VY8tTaiwrmWjFPqga8yndDaQKyYRb7CiZO4xcJJ99JyIJiyACrdTkyEabRSk3QawGRMS8iZ-iAbdWeD5XyyCJt9BWKZQnG4U/s320/shirt.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reason to take a selfie:<br />This amazing shirt.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVpDXCaQ3Ikt0AZOjR4q64L9Hq9iKBUNMLcq5SM1poJ4RGuWZmv1jzq0axH5BRBcyyVbkCwaEcZpmA221MpNzMOReypxQ-z0YmkdgiUlhm5SZbs32kMySLaM-ph8ms-CS9MhuiYr_to2g/s1600/ramen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVpDXCaQ3Ikt0AZOjR4q64L9Hq9iKBUNMLcq5SM1poJ4RGuWZmv1jzq0axH5BRBcyyVbkCwaEcZpmA221MpNzMOReypxQ-z0YmkdgiUlhm5SZbs32kMySLaM-ph8ms-CS9MhuiYr_to2g/s320/ramen.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reason to take a selfie:<br />Shameless drunk eating of cold leftover ramen at 2am.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXLOHaJ70b-OcrasnjnT6kgdbRaKYPxSbkGYZIuYMb7MlPP-4AFvGmKwCeWt1MWKtoE3FO-y9CcwS1PX-3byZRVrQfHCUoyp9UcMg1V0bP2z-nhqmVx3rNwkmhm9M9avQ9pmQK8Tpnobk/s1600/tattoolipstick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXLOHaJ70b-OcrasnjnT6kgdbRaKYPxSbkGYZIuYMb7MlPP-4AFvGmKwCeWt1MWKtoE3FO-y9CcwS1PX-3byZRVrQfHCUoyp9UcMg1V0bP2z-nhqmVx3rNwkmhm9M9avQ9pmQK8Tpnobk/s320/tattoolipstick.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reason to take a selfie:<br />New tattoo and new lipstick and who the fuck do I think I am??</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfo-Pm7Vy4QX95Q_-mYxvJ9NI0NYUsbmQf4UdnkwC4__7YZhWVuJoJkRq8sTsCbTPOlg40BKF5NCDjsd5JeI5reJIRNUqXrGcpXzdEZT9D_BQDPrXSIm2ApkV3aNHqXS_eY5JKG5N9sl0/s1600/cheers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfo-Pm7Vy4QX95Q_-mYxvJ9NI0NYUsbmQf4UdnkwC4__7YZhWVuJoJkRq8sTsCbTPOlg40BKF5NCDjsd5JeI5reJIRNUqXrGcpXzdEZT9D_BQDPrXSIm2ApkV3aNHqXS_eY5JKG5N9sl0/s320/cheers.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reason to take a selfie:<br />Cheersing my online friends!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwCBvrByMypyobajFgpWE53z-ehHloFSNx8E3qvkn9MGIt-tlD3L_R0_gp7vNkl2kAJV4pkhLSb7I1c1IxQOop0kShTHsuScjZQvq6DNYvruqy9ogEX_3zsqrpuU5Wgku1xyle52fy1qY/s1600/kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwCBvrByMypyobajFgpWE53z-ehHloFSNx8E3qvkn9MGIt-tlD3L_R0_gp7vNkl2kAJV4pkhLSb7I1c1IxQOop0kShTHsuScjZQvq6DNYvruqy9ogEX_3zsqrpuU5Wgku1xyle52fy1qY/s320/kids.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reason to take a selfie:<br />Because I love these small people so much.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDasTNOCqIgHbfaYqVoWncLQlLQX03-HjkBBy9Fwkz9yLaFsHuruXEAVpa8pHGTK9sCULKNV3wQ2jroAdTif2E7EgTTo_sl6eVk5fSDIgnvHmrZ7LlzZmiRQuyYuiFEt-JcmpYtzxIcfs/s1600/hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDasTNOCqIgHbfaYqVoWncLQlLQX03-HjkBBy9Fwkz9yLaFsHuruXEAVpa8pHGTK9sCULKNV3wQ2jroAdTif2E7EgTTo_sl6eVk5fSDIgnvHmrZ7LlzZmiRQuyYuiFEt-JcmpYtzxIcfs/s320/hair.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reason to take a selfie:<br />Accidental good hair day from a sweaty topknot.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpLhcHcKi8H0fdpl7mCYLq1onxeHxJeX9LayY93DbGh0JASe3pWjjaLtXrnbRMqM0nA6mgihvIKrtHcRRgtuRjAsxN9JBSP74VFVPaZ_zfhex56-SBK-SwObnUht7OLg4fEnJkrr3od8I/s1600/bored_at_gs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpLhcHcKi8H0fdpl7mCYLq1onxeHxJeX9LayY93DbGh0JASe3pWjjaLtXrnbRMqM0nA6mgihvIKrtHcRRgtuRjAsxN9JBSP74VFVPaZ_zfhex56-SBK-SwObnUht7OLg4fEnJkrr3od8I/s320/bored_at_gs.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reason to take a selfie:<br />Because I damn felt like it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-54885358101611655192015-08-14T15:54:00.002-04:002015-08-14T15:57:20.469-04:00Musings on midlife crisis<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m 41. I have blue
and purple hair. I recently got a
visible tattoo. And I’m thisssss close
to pulling the trigger on a nose ring. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The only reason I haven’t gotten a nose ring yet is that a
few people have suggested I might be too old, and it would be trying too hard,
or seem… I don’t know… like I’m trying to hang on to my youth or
something. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my head (or in their heads filtered through my
head—thanks social anxiety, you douchebag), my nose ring is basically an
earring or ponytail on an older man in a ridiculous sports car. I don’t want to be ridiculous. I don’t want
to be some midlife crisis cliché. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the first time, I’m like… OH! I get it!
The middle aged guy gets an earring and a sports car because he has
always wanted them! It’s not a
crisis. It’s just… he can now, so he
does. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At least for me, getting a nose ring has absolutely zero to
do with hanging on to my youth. Eye
cream and my dermatologist, yes. Those
things are about hanging on to my youth.
But my hair, my tattoos, my fashion, and my eventual nose ring are about
embracing the age I am now. Embracing
the ME I am now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t have to please anyone but myself. I have wanted a nose ring forever. And I’m a damn grown up, mostly, and I
can. I just… can. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was younger, I was completely paralyzed by social
anxiety. I worried about what everyone
would think about my hair, my fashion, my appearance in general. I couldn’t get a nose ring because <i>who did I think I was?</i> I’ve talked about this before, the leftover
gunk from high school, the voice in my head that tells me I will never be cool
enough. Never be pretty enough. The voice that tells me that blue hair and
fun clothes and body mods are for cool people, and I’m not one of them so I
can’t have that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seriously? What a
crock of shit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is it a midlife crisis?
I don’t think so. I think it’s
the opposite. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think it’s a midlife release of fucks. I no longer give as many fucks. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I still give one every once in a while, like the day I put
on my “Gorgeous 10” shirt and then second guessed whether strangers would think
I think I’m gorgeous and think bad things about me, so then I took it off. Like the day I wore my favorite comic skirt
and I put a crinoline under it, but then I took off the crinoline, because this
is suburban <st1:state w:st="on">Maryland</st1:state>
and any pin-up type fashion out here is weird enough without adding a
crinoline. Even though it looked soooo
cute that way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaAu8CNbvWBC9sI6D_VKd8IhxLSklu1Frpj5_3ZH-UPdW0O_zXw3020FUrS5n1rTZcp5YydS0S9Vd_A9DY7RqRxqKSzYDxOo2TooFNqfW_uZdhIvfz96XzFVbwuGvW3PU_09miFCjmEaI/s1600/tattoo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaAu8CNbvWBC9sI6D_VKd8IhxLSklu1Frpj5_3ZH-UPdW0O_zXw3020FUrS5n1rTZcp5YydS0S9Vd_A9DY7RqRxqKSzYDxOo2TooFNqfW_uZdhIvfz96XzFVbwuGvW3PU_09miFCjmEaI/s320/tattoo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Visible tattoo AND modcloth dress! No makeup. No fucks.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But those days were noteworthy because that’s not every day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most days, I wear my weird hair and my modcloth dresses when
everyone else is in jeans with smooth highlighted hair and I’m happy. I’m me and I’m happy and I give no
fucks. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t think that’s a crisis. I think that’s… awesome. Does getting older mean I can just do
whatever I want? I think it kind of
does. I don’t want a shiny car. I want a nose ring. And if people think that’s weird, I don’t
have to care! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I recently wore one of my bikinis in front of a mom from my
kids’ school, and for the first time, I didn’t justify it. I may have talked to her before about the
blog, but I couldn’t remember whether I had. I don’t know if she knows I’m a
body activist. She might. She might not. I just wore my bikini. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No fucks given.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If that’s a midlife crisis, I’ll take it. Bring it on.
I’ll ride this wave until I become one of those old ladies with giant colorful glasses and 4,000 bracelets who look a little crazy but also
amazing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It makes me excited about the future to think that way. It’s not a crisis. It’s a relief. It’s joy and celebration. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bring on the second act. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the nose ring.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1vKos3_5D84J43L-BErWcFgjUobYE5RgHu3qBNeFw_WKblSSVqbAD1PdzEiZUahjB1aApTgB_VfvWHMzfiUar3Dh7hggtv6qDnzYv5KGMDBNN-m4myP4OD4nyI__Xo1wvQWMQh2ofykc/s1600/nosering.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1vKos3_5D84J43L-BErWcFgjUobYE5RgHu3qBNeFw_WKblSSVqbAD1PdzEiZUahjB1aApTgB_VfvWHMzfiUar3Dh7hggtv6qDnzYv5KGMDBNN-m4myP4OD4nyI__Xo1wvQWMQh2ofykc/s320/nosering.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me with my fake nose ring! Real one coming soon!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-8944566765402292772015-06-01T17:22:00.001-04:002015-06-01T17:25:40.141-04:00This one time… at grown-up camp…<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: right;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5dOEsuEp8cCJsRn_xCjabccdPfxMqAtWVLUe6pnpk4j0z75kL0upQjXcIO9x9pUu3zYizNuM9dxia8Cfinz5YOBOkV52mhQrPBzIqlTchw3uPY7tezPeHbF_vPNxryJUiiCXLpRyi44/s1600/shirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5dOEsuEp8cCJsRn_xCjabccdPfxMqAtWVLUe6pnpk4j0z75kL0upQjXcIO9x9pUu3zYizNuM9dxia8Cfinz5YOBOkV52mhQrPBzIqlTchw3uPY7tezPeHbF_vPNxryJUiiCXLpRyi44/s200/shirt.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
If you follow me on Facebook or <a href="https://instagram.com/pam.desmond/">Instagram</a>, it’s no secret that I
have been somewhere weird this week. I
was at grown-up summer camp. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not adult summer camp, because if you call it adult summer
camp, everyone assumes it’s an orgy.
People still kind of half think it’s an orgy even if you call it
grown-up summer camp, but less so. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.campthrowback.com/">Camp Throwback</a>
isn’t an orgy. It’s like kid summer
camp, but with booze and with me as an empowered adult rather than me as a
painfully shy, socially awkward, trying-to-fit-in tween. Also, there’s booze. Did I mention the booze?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you’re like, uh, where do I sign up? You sign up <a href="http://www.campthrowback.com/">here</a>.
You won’t regret it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back in my Burning Man days, when you would drive up, the
greeters would ask if it was your first time.
If you said you had been before, they often said, “Welcome home.” This was my first time at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Camp</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Throwback</st1:placename></st1:place>
(the second time it’s been held), but I immediately felt like it was home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi06MqHLqDjTjT1WzJZWQaCCdkaJvUF8Y5wN3YYPMkt7UGPubaiIYpMB9vj6jwItv-rV1RoJO2tz17k0Vv7sgyIGseIy1ZauvPYAU2q6V07i_anxLFFGKl3l3W4PrzJXWW_XXGGpZqA5pQ/s1600/group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi06MqHLqDjTjT1WzJZWQaCCdkaJvUF8Y5wN3YYPMkt7UGPubaiIYpMB9vj6jwItv-rV1RoJO2tz17k0Vv7sgyIGseIy1ZauvPYAU2q6V07i_anxLFFGKl3l3W4PrzJXWW_XXGGpZqA5pQ/s320/group.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of my people at the luau. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Home. The place where
you can be completely yourself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or no. Home. The PEOPLE where you can be completely
yourself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The people.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m in a community of women online, and some of these women
I count among my best friends in the world, even though I had never (and in
some cases, still haven’t) been in the same room or even time zone with them in
person. Anyone who says online
friendships aren’t real friendships is full of it. That shit is real. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtP2IqRZAwFDEDMfY-PwTPlpycHqw50flbrI-v9dFIFfiK0-1fuu-Nvs-2DLE0v2VMx2Tq5TmbWyq03B0nWE7_SFFZoe6kz-Bo7lT7eND4eM1GGikaJtuVqsI_XTxqgVti3Vc0mhsq_p8/s1600/meandsam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtP2IqRZAwFDEDMfY-PwTPlpycHqw50flbrI-v9dFIFfiK0-1fuu-Nvs-2DLE0v2VMx2Tq5TmbWyq03B0nWE7_SFFZoe6kz-Bo7lT7eND4eM1GGikaJtuVqsI_XTxqgVti3Vc0mhsq_p8/s320/meandsam.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I finally got to hug one of my people in the world, this beauty.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I got to be with some of my online friends, and one who is just
one of my people in the world. I have a
handful of people who are my people. The
ones I know will be in my life forever no matter what. And there she was. In the stunningly beautiful flesh. Available to hug and be hugged. It made me so unbelievably happy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some other friends were new, and a surprise. I road tripped to camp with my sister, which
was fabulous in and of itself. She and I
rarely get to spend time together without having to juggle children. To <i>just be </i>for days at a time was
rejuvenating. And we met a third sister!
I mean, not really. Not, like, a secret
love child or whatever. But a woman who
is just one of us. And another woman who
I didn’t know online at all, whose smile is like sunshine and whose face I can now
think of when I’m sad, and it will make me feel better. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4wx_usyqWqRxYPwcnymbLMhyS53pxk7S91bPLsjqm0OMZZS-G88ppJ_rVErszFuPXkyOU8iMbybWbjCUOZOXXL5CbSA4jt3IWKOdqmKaEfWnF8cH3oRfQtpqqEv74nGORNp4-G403LAA/s1600/80swbec.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4wx_usyqWqRxYPwcnymbLMhyS53pxk7S91bPLsjqm0OMZZS-G88ppJ_rVErszFuPXkyOU8iMbybWbjCUOZOXXL5CbSA4jt3IWKOdqmKaEfWnF8cH3oRfQtpqqEv74nGORNp4-G403LAA/s320/80swbec.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and my sis on 80s night!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4odrVapDSVncCeV17qx9Jwgma1P8t84Br_-w2ssOQXhK-jbVLLx_6g1tcCzoqZmNUMn3JkOAv8ZHM7mEiUMUkZjbhkynR-9A-5Ta-k6-nbqXLhm9doY8OOTUydXThAIAOXtD2QCr7SoE/s1600/menerika.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4odrVapDSVncCeV17qx9Jwgma1P8t84Br_-w2ssOQXhK-jbVLLx_6g1tcCzoqZmNUMn3JkOAv8ZHM7mEiUMUkZjbhkynR-9A-5Ta-k6-nbqXLhm9doY8OOTUydXThAIAOXtD2QCr7SoE/s320/menerika.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and my sister from another mister at the luau. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha5mb86K-LBjc44pE_u_24hoAKQY7EFJgMbZoSxGlJzIaQpCQDya1GddjN0GGnzfwrzpMggVBmz4g-qROnD1nUMLhvPkVpmy1359vctp76sIY_UZ8NQL0nIuXLZLA8TBWhKF5dWalCEi8/s1600/fgw.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha5mb86K-LBjc44pE_u_24hoAKQY7EFJgMbZoSxGlJzIaQpCQDya1GddjN0GGnzfwrzpMggVBmz4g-qROnD1nUMLhvPkVpmy1359vctp76sIY_UZ8NQL0nIuXLZLA8TBWhKF5dWalCEi8/s200/fgw.png" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buy this book.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Oh, also? I got to
meet Brittany Gibbons. If you don’t know
who that is, you should. She’s the
effing bomb. Body activist, <a href="http://brittanyherself.com/">blogger</a>, <a href="http://tedxtalks.ted.com/video/TEDxBGSU-BRITTANY-GIBBONS-WRITE">TED
talker</a>, and now <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fat-Girl-Walking-Being-Comfortable/dp/0062343033/">bad-ass
author</a>. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fat-Girl-Walking-Being-Comfortable/dp/0062343033/">Her
book</a> came out a few weeks ago, and it’s extraordinary. And that’s not praise I use lightly. She showed all of her insides on the page,
while still managing to be laugh-out-loud funny. She is changing lives. For real.
Changing the way women see their bodies.
Changing the way we support each other.
Challenging the zero-sum game of beauty.
She is a powerhouse game changer, and I got to, like, hug her and touch
her hair and stuff, and then also get to know her and just hang out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was so intimidated, I literally couldn’t meet her eye when
I first walked in. It took me two fizzy
sangrias to say hello. By the last day,
we were hugging and laughing and I have another friend in the world, a totally bad-ass one. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyTOKH5YVBXeyXzFx0SlQgCJwS7v8lSQ73xCeUGVqINVdYbtaFZKhV2sElZ0HMsShaIPelYjpy5tTqy29quZouiW7E-zbv0iCPPi1MfAbtDWwTYfELmvFbuy6ZCT5btiSVCN332SGYJeA/s1600/photobomb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyTOKH5YVBXeyXzFx0SlQgCJwS7v8lSQ73xCeUGVqINVdYbtaFZKhV2sElZ0HMsShaIPelYjpy5tTqy29quZouiW7E-zbv0iCPPi1MfAbtDWwTYfELmvFbuy6ZCT5btiSVCN332SGYJeA/s400/photobomb.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Brittany photobomb!!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She made this camp for us, not knowing if people would
come. We came. And now it’s our home. Our place. Our people.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5pONP2HuwuYSpbULDMAgtAxQ_1lcFdvQBQK8S7KiNGCBDf7qyXZdt4hOt4VdYJv6WgqF8EW60ya_fVy4vHQ-OwdxsyZZLBIQlknsQboNtJ0HxETLdRqy7fD0HPXy7km9g0_96ucTc1c/s1600/bras.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5pONP2HuwuYSpbULDMAgtAxQ_1lcFdvQBQK8S7KiNGCBDf7qyXZdt4hOt4VdYJv6WgqF8EW60ya_fVy4vHQ-OwdxsyZZLBIQlknsQboNtJ0HxETLdRqy7fD0HPXy7km9g0_96ucTc1c/s200/bras.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The discarded bra pile. <br />
Because comfort.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I got to be ludicrously excited over popping balloons with a
bow and arrow. I got to day drink and
swear as much as I wanted and make dirty comments without a filter. I got to wear costumes that were too
elaborate for social convention, because costuming is one of my favorite things
to do. I got to take off my bra and only
wear one if I felt like it. I got to
wear a bikini and feel zero anything about it, because it’s just my body. I got to sing 80s songs until I lost my
voice, and dance like no one was watching. I got to get my nerdy crafting on
with tie dye and friendship bracelets and a field day t-shirt with puffy paint
pasties on it.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5SfOxQkpwC5lOXt-6U0s-WtWHClLoD-dMNmvez_kb7OpCCRwa3mnQmVHDUfjdfVSeNRHdnY7XyMbLKift955RWK2GcJ5HVWVNGx5bJ8EW5LR0RPrvrIUtwUUtRIA8c7Hv7di4qXHE44g/s1600/teamtits.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5SfOxQkpwC5lOXt-6U0s-WtWHClLoD-dMNmvez_kb7OpCCRwa3mnQmVHDUfjdfVSeNRHdnY7XyMbLKift955RWK2GcJ5HVWVNGx5bJ8EW5LR0RPrvrIUtwUUtRIA8c7Hv7di4qXHE44g/s400/teamtits.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cabin 1 baby! All about the boob adornment! Predictably, no bra for me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Most of us go through the world wearing masks. Pretending to be other than what we are. <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Camp</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Throwback</st1:placename></st1:place> is a vacation
from that. I got to be me. All that I am. Nothing that I’m not. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t wait to go home again. Back to camp.</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4_YbJ4Tkdv0qE7mT6NR_Hm2goRfgUnIEENcza3j70id3TPk32_75LpzLMX4rabPuJppO2hF6sHKwhr-_nvZiHsboG2cT2YVe1_I0n52Ei9_H9hTh1l2V44WjjL09lBhoYKBZhiaw6e1c/s1600/80sme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4_YbJ4Tkdv0qE7mT6NR_Hm2goRfgUnIEENcza3j70id3TPk32_75LpzLMX4rabPuJppO2hF6sHKwhr-_nvZiHsboG2cT2YVe1_I0n52Ei9_H9hTh1l2V44WjjL09lBhoYKBZhiaw6e1c/s400/80sme.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">80s night!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIM1tSrnM6pifqtPaijPIYFRNG7q6qVydEDzLMrPhrHH-eWQCSroXplQWSFWXDqVXLe7fJ29Kd6GOjdmNlTYRn4T65wWBI85YbQmgKf2X2UpIQz8mXaU7oAfk3X76MvgpzVzmBzcDQl0o/s1600/archery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIM1tSrnM6pifqtPaijPIYFRNG7q6qVydEDzLMrPhrHH-eWQCSroXplQWSFWXDqVXLe7fJ29Kd6GOjdmNlTYRn4T65wWBI85YbQmgKf2X2UpIQz8mXaU7oAfk3X76MvgpzVzmBzcDQl0o/s400/archery.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just call me Katniss.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_NktRHo4ZlCvkXkvB4B-PE3QftpN2ETflFTXeqIILw7bODm7K73_omAvU4MnVFEmVgSnuASnyPo1_H7Pk_g3TdZPXEUdy6jWC-6fsxMS86jSXHUaXC4Fzb7BbgHTz1LuEZO6iwn1lmhE/s1600/bec80s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_NktRHo4ZlCvkXkvB4B-PE3QftpN2ETflFTXeqIILw7bODm7K73_omAvU4MnVFEmVgSnuASnyPo1_H7Pk_g3TdZPXEUdy6jWC-6fsxMS86jSXHUaXC4Fzb7BbgHTz1LuEZO6iwn1lmhE/s400/bec80s.jpg" width="263" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My beautiful sister, letting loose!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmp9ThFZffglJKj-GFU40bHxd_bXr526AIh_D52BHgGg4z_pfsoFcQ5rXHlK3_UnU5Vm1cyALvrY8JEYxNgZzCyLG7wv3IGAuEyX4ouwamS-wY-y_rXN6gBU56zAEXOBEiucDRTfTi9nY/s1600/bloodymary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmp9ThFZffglJKj-GFU40bHxd_bXr526AIh_D52BHgGg4z_pfsoFcQ5rXHlK3_UnU5Vm1cyALvrY8JEYxNgZzCyLG7wv3IGAuEyX4ouwamS-wY-y_rXN6gBU56zAEXOBEiucDRTfTi9nY/s400/bloodymary.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hangover remedies. My classic Gatorade plus <a href="http://www.chilidans.com/" target="_blank">Chili Dan's</a> Bloody Marys!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmSBvkBd3xVnUei_fxVar5C24wRMtxjlXGGgHF6G-8YCBgoF3qwmX34bBAXeo9OiHypVM7i88JemP_Sd0W76dFFqYZTKiE1Ug7frm_9PEL2EBBMvC_VSkzBE1SBgHseDJemmHMv2zSpI8/s1600/luau.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmSBvkBd3xVnUei_fxVar5C24wRMtxjlXGGgHF6G-8YCBgoF3qwmX34bBAXeo9OiHypVM7i88JemP_Sd0W76dFFqYZTKiE1Ug7frm_9PEL2EBBMvC_VSkzBE1SBgHseDJemmHMv2zSpI8/s400/luau.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Home. This is my home.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-59457734660297137932015-04-16T16:33:00.000-04:002015-04-17T12:16:51.844-04:00TMI<div class="MsoNormal">
If we are friends on facebook, you may know that I got my
first Brazilian wax last week. Because
that’s the kind of thing I share with my friends and family. So when I am
telling you that this blog post is about to be TMI, you should probably run away. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Really, you should stop reading now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because I’m going to talk about my lady garden. Like, a lot.
In detail.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Run.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No???</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
OK, you people still reading, you are my people. Hi. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s the thing. I
got my Brazilian and I had it all planned out. I was going to write a super funny blog post
about how this friend of mine, someone I see socially, someone who knows my
kids and whose kids I know… had to come eye to “eye” with my butt hole and how
effing weird that is.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that’s not the blog post that wants to be written about
this experience. I kept trying to go
funny, but the stuff inside me isn’t funny.
Not, like <i>inside me</i> inside me.
I mean, like, in my head, not in my snatch.
Just to be clear. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So a bit of background.
Why am I forty-one years old and only getting my first Brazilian? We have already established here on the
public interwebz for future employers to see that <a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2012/05/brazil-as-in-later-today-my-hoo-hah-is.html" target="_blank">I like to be relatively hairless down under</a>. I went so far as to
try <a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2013/01/laser-hair-removal-after-post-no-no.html" target="_blank">laser hair removal</a>. Apparently, my
pubes are too light in color, so it didn’t work. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now you know the carpet is lighter than the drapes or
whatever. Yes, I have very light brown
pubes. You can sleep at night now that
you know that. I initially called them
dirty blonde, but I don’t really want to use the word dirty in reference to my
hoohah… you know?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I like fewer pubes in the way of my general enjoyment of
that part of my body, so I was shaving.
I tried getting waxed once, maybe eleven or twelve years ago. It was the worst pain of my life. And that includes gallstones. I just remember thinking, something is
wrong. There is no way in hell that
women do this every month. I stopped
her. It was awful. I was very badly
bruised for days after. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On my junk, people.
Badly, badly bruised on my junk. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I swore off waxing until recently when friends convinced
me that my first experience was an anomaly and I should try again. So I tried again. It hurt the normal amount. I wasn’t bruised. And now my vag is all smooth and soft and feels
like the skin on the inside of my wrist.
It’s amazing and I love it and will totally keep doing it if I can
afford to.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yes, I know vag refers to the internal canal, not the
part that was waxed. But I’m not saying
that word with two v’s. I hate that
word. I can say moist all day, but I
will not say the word with two v’s in it.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shudder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
OK, so here’s the part I need to talk about. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
OMG, I’m over 500 words in and I haven’t even started
getting to the point. I am a terrible
writer. You should all leave now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still here?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
OK.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to talk about shame and the lady garden.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s what happened.
My good friend is an aesthetician.
She tints my eyelashes for me, and has waxed my brows. She gives facials and knows a lot about skin
care. But mostly, she pretty much spends
her work days ripping out pubic hair. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Someone has to do it. We can’t do it to ourselves.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was one of the people who convinced me to try again, and
a few of our other mutual friends go to her to have it done.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had already decided that I would give it another try. But when faced with the idea of someone I
knew down there looking at my junk, I balked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because that thing is not cute.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not cute.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t know it wasn’t cute until pretty recently. The first time I heard about labiaplasty, I
was so confused. I mean, what?? People are getting plastic surgery on their
hoohahs?? What could possibly be going
on down there to justify such a thing? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I did what any voyeuristic freak would do, I googled
before and after pictures. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Obviously.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that was when I realized that the kind of labia I have is
the kind that people think they need to get plastic surgery to fix. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This wasn’t something I understood before. No one lucky enough to get face to face with
my taco has ever had any complaints. I
had seen a bunch of other people’s. They
all looked different and pretty. Mine
seemed fine and was in the mix. It’s not
freakish or anything. Just… you know…
sort of <i>external</i> I guess. It had
never occurred to me to be bothered by this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m in this group of women online, and several months ago,
someone posted about the term, “busted ravioli,” to describe the kind of junk
which is more inner labia than outer labia.
Like the opposite of the closed clamshell. A couple of people said they couldn’t imagine
having a busted ravioli type and how embarrassing it would be. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is generally an open and supportive group of
women. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was like, uh, I’m not gonna lie. Mine kind of looks like a ravioli. Ravioli are delicious though. I mean, yum??
Ravioli?? Right?? Or roast beef curtains? I like roast beef too. But I didn’t say anything. Because I didn’t want anyone to know I had
the bad kind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What the actual fuck?
Is this really something to worry about??</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My sausage wallet works awesome. I have joked that I can orgasm from a stiff
breeze. I can have multiples. I can come from just penetration. It smells good. It tastes good. I don’t need synthetic lube most of the
time. My not-so-bearded-anymore clam is
the effing bomb. It’s awesome. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love that thing. I
love it long time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But… I didn’t want anyone to know. I wanted to go to a stranger, whose waxing
skills were unknown to me, rather than to a friend because I didn’t want her to
know. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know, about the ravioli.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seriously?? This is
something I’m worrying about? It’s total
bullshit. She does this for a
living. She has seen all of the
labia. She has seen all of the
buttholes. She has no doubt seen inner
thigh scars like mine before too, from ingrown hairs/cysts. She has seen all of the junk. She doesn’t give a fuck that mine looks like
a ravioli. She doesn’t care about my
thigh scars. She doesn’t care about the
extra skin from my twin pregnancy that kind of migrated down to the lowest
point on my torso because of pesky gravity, except inasmuch as she has to make
sure I pull that skin tight so she doesn’t damage me. She doesn’t care about my hanging belly skin
except to get it out of the way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why am I feeling shame about this? It’s stupid!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I sucked it up and went to my friend, because I trusted
her not to hurt me. (Well, not to injure
me, anyway.) And you know what? It was
fine. She was very professional, and I
really wasn’t worried about it once it was happening. I was more concerned about the decidedly
unpleasant sensation of hair being ripped out of my vajungle. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I still felt like I needed to talk about it with you
guys. Because this thing? With the body shame? It’s insidious and it feeds on silence. Shame loves it when we keep our mouths
shut. So no silence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know women who are worried about how they smell. How they look. How it works.
Women who think that everyone else can come without clitoral stimulation
and something is wrong with them because they need that. Women who use damaging douches or weird
perfumes because they’re worried about their natural smell. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fuck. That. Noise.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Enough.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shame, I will not feed you.
You don’t get my silence. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And ravioli are delicious. So there.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-79568040382743019042015-03-24T18:44:00.000-04:002015-03-24T19:15:50.961-04:00The tattoo<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Almost two years ago, <a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2013/05/the-big-d.html" target="_blank">a hummingbird flew into my house and had some trouble finding his way back out</a>.
This happened while I was battling a particularly stubborn bout of
depression, attempting to self-medicate with fresh air and a beautiful spring
day instead of my usual questionable methods, naps and bourbon. In his struggles, the hummingbird taught me a
life lesson that helped me find my way back into the light. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZYQWdMj0Sw9wJz6mcPlQucYdF-WCnYe-bP-9D4nyXtAXmyN6lvMh414E9OQVZD-w9vYbqW_yIVh7gcQ3p1j4y_VVWGx0OXfYNvoOt-ogaNoc3g8gqI4oj724Pexj36AI47yT4bQuZC8Q/s1600/hummingbird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZYQWdMj0Sw9wJz6mcPlQucYdF-WCnYe-bP-9D4nyXtAXmyN6lvMh414E9OQVZD-w9vYbqW_yIVh7gcQ3p1j4y_VVWGx0OXfYNvoOt-ogaNoc3g8gqI4oj724Pexj36AI47yT4bQuZC8Q/s1600/hummingbird.jpg" height="320" width="221"></a></div>
The lesson was this: When you find yourself struggling hard,
try something different. When you feel
like you’re banging your head against the wall, look around for a door. Also, when you feel like shit, maybe go
outside, because that’s where the flowers and air and vitamin D live. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew almost immediately that <a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2013/12/a-tattoo-at-40.html" target="_blank">the hummingbird was my next tattoo</a>. It had been fifteen years since
my first one. I left the tattoo shop
after my first excited to get another. I was totally bitten by the ink
bug. I wanted more. But somehow the right tattoo didn’t come
along until now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It took more than a year to find the right artist, but I
finally did. Jim Judeikis at <a href="http://www.saintsandsinnersink.com/" target="_blank">Saints and Sinners Tattoo</a> in <st1:city w:st="on">Baltimore</st1:city>. He had done a friend’s scar cover, and when I
checked out his portfolio and shamelessly stalked his instagram, I knew he was
the one. He doesn’t do a lot of tattoos
like mine, or at least didn’t have a lot in his portfolio, but every tattoo had
beautiful lines, even to my picky eye. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So once we got our tax return money and somewhat recovered
from Christmas spending, I called for a consult.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All of my nerves were activated. My first tattoo had come to me while
meditating. I had drawn it, and simply
asked the artist to copy it onto me.
This was different. He would be
drawing it. I just had ideas. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went into the shop for my consult clutching my packet of
materials, including similar tattoos I liked, a really bad hummingbird drawing
I had attempted, even mirror selfies of the gist of my tattoo inexpertly
scribbled on my own shoulder with eyeliner.
I put enough money in the meter for 45 minutes, because I was 15 minutes
early and budgeted for a half hour consult.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBF1Btk9LRs2UoA37-IHzj4i2J0UiRiq9UedHpQI_Mn6TKP3vTFyo20vZG7OUN7772aJqnVY6fUULKtr-F_xIGL4vCeIHwJMII9yM9c-sHwiz0Z6vB0uGHSRIMvTMBYO0dYp2HG9wBPMw/s1600/tattoo_drawing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBF1Btk9LRs2UoA37-IHzj4i2J0UiRiq9UedHpQI_Mn6TKP3vTFyo20vZG7OUN7772aJqnVY6fUULKtr-F_xIGL4vCeIHwJMII9yM9c-sHwiz0Z6vB0uGHSRIMvTMBYO0dYp2HG9wBPMw/s1600/tattoo_drawing.jpg" height="200" width="198"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't laugh.<br>
You try drawing on your own right shoulder.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Ten minutes later, I walked out, lighter by a $150 deposit,
with a tattoo date in my phone’s calendar, and the distinct impression that Jim
and the front desk guy might be making fun of me for Type-A’ing my tattoo
consult. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was clearly and intensely over-prepared for my consult.
And I didn’t fit in. Forty-one, no
visible body mods, wearing mom jeans and a tank top (in case he wanted to…. I
don’t know… like, look at my shoulder or something. Spoiler: He didn’t.) All the blue and purple hair in the universe
couldn’t disguise the fact that I didn’t belong in there. I don’t even know what the other customers
milling around were wearing, but they all seemed a lot more comfortable than I
did, and were dressed in ways I envied but couldn’t duplicate on my plus size
aging body without looking silly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love my body, and I love my fashion, and I love who I
am. But something about being in a
tattoo shop pushed all of my “not cool enough” buttons. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every time I do something a little bit crazy—<a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2013/10/too-old-for-blue-hair.html" target="_blank">dye my hair wacky colors</a>, get a tattoo, wear fabulous clothing, <a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2014/04/pin-up-at-40.html" target="_blank">pose on the internet in my underwear</a>—I have this moment. This “who
the hell do you think you are” moment.
In my head, I’m still the dorky kid who did too well on math tests and
lied to her friends and told them she got a B, because straight A’s were for
losers. And at the same time, I’m also
the “basic bitch” suburban housewife and mother of two and minivan owner. And pumpkin lattes are delicious, and yes, I <i>do</i> wait all year for them as a matter of
fact.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But my insecurities and social paranoia aside, I felt very
confident in Jim as an artist. And I was
beyond excited to finally get the tattoo I had been talking about for almost
two years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The day of the appointment came, and I was so nervous I
could barely eat. Excitement and
trepidation ran through me until I couldn’t tell which was which, just that my
heart rate was up and my hands shaky.
What if I forgot how much tattoos hurt?
Could I really sit there for three and a half hours in pain? What if it was terrible? Maybe I should have used that numbing cream a
nurse friend had slipped into my purse even after I told her I didn’t need
it. What if I didn’t like the drawings Jim
had prepared? What if what if what if….
And also, tattoo day!
TATTTTTTTOOOOOOOOO!! Tattootattootattootattootattootattoo!
Blaaaaagggghhhhh!!!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I walked into the shop pretty much ready to puke. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Three giggling women and a (non-giggling) man walked in at
the same time. They were apparently
there for some spur of the moment (possibly alcohol-encouraged?) piercings. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One giggling blonde asked the front desk guy, “Is it going
to hurt?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I couldn’t help it.
All of my tension and anticipation and heightened emotion coalesced into
a quick bubble of laughter. Front desk
guy met my eyes. In unison, we said,
“Yes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started to feel better.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had to wait for about fifteen minutes for my appointment
so Jim could grab some dinner. Actually,
I think the guy said lunch. Lunch at
5:30pm. That is so not my life. But while I waited, a bunch of people came in
and out. It was a beautiful warm
Saturday evening in Fells Point, one of the first pleasant, dry weekends of the
season. Most of the people coming in
were just out wandering before dinner.
They weren’t there for ink. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did belong there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mom jeans and all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who the hell do I think I am? Hell if I know, but I was getting a damn
tattoo, and it was going to be awesome. And I didn’t even consider the numbing
cream. Well, didn’t seriously consider
it anyway. Because I’m a bad-ass.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, for a suburban housewife. I mean, for a minivan driver who likes
pumpkin lattes, I am totally a bad-ass.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eventually Jim came down and I followed him upstairs. We went over his drawings, made some minor
adjustments, and sat down to get started.
He asked if I wanted to watch a movie.
I said no because I wanted to be in the moment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t say that in the moment thing to him. I just said, “No thanks.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He went to put the music on and I saw he had been listening
to comedy before I came in. I asked him
to put the comedy back on. He looked
skeptical, and said, “Are you sure? It’s
pretty nasty.”<br>
<br>
“Even better,” I answered. “I don’t have
a line to cross. Bring on the nasty.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Several minutes later, we were both laughing out loud at
jokes about golden showers. Now the
problem with that is that it made my shoulder shake every time I laughed, so we
had to turn it off, but the ice was broken.
We were good. Bonded over dirty
jokes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next three hours?
Well…. they were fine. Tattoos don’t tickle, but except for one small
ouchy spot, it was pretty easy. We
talked about politics, <st1:city w:st="on">Baltimore</st1:city>,
how he came to own the shop, kids, TV shows, a shared hatred of patchouli. We talked social
media, travel, and schadenfreude.
And ink. We talked about
tattoos. His. Mine.
Others he had done. The time
passed shockingly quickly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX6LGcJGSL3olvN1g3pW1EVuQU5wewxzmIPCq7LonMvr-D5_k898S7l-cQKIwTEnnxt_DdHc8rZfRHtPysSMIk-gTDcVk5CIUrNe4d38djrmzMTGJUhikjJg1xrCVCE7eUYhyphenhyphenYhKavvEY/s1600/tattoo_selfie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX6LGcJGSL3olvN1g3pW1EVuQU5wewxzmIPCq7LonMvr-D5_k898S7l-cQKIwTEnnxt_DdHc8rZfRHtPysSMIk-gTDcVk5CIUrNe4d38djrmzMTGJUhikjJg1xrCVCE7eUYhyphenhyphenYhKavvEY/s1600/tattoo_selfie.jpg" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A teeny bit excited? And maybe high on endorphins?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Before I knew it, I had taken my excited mirror selfie and
gotten wrapped up in bandages for the ride home. My husband was still fifteen minutes
away. He was driving me because I have a
very strong endorphin response and get loopy and high from pain, and I didn’t
trust myself to drive. So I hung out in
the lobby with my shoulder wrapped in a cross between a black trash bag and
diapers, waiting for my ride. <br>
<br>
One by one, the artists came downstairs to hang by the front desk and get ready
to go. I was closing the place
down. I was separate from them, over in
my chair, facebooking my face off about my new ink. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I belonged there.
And all of them, with their intimidating facial piercings and stretched
lobes and every visible bit of skin covered in ink… they couldn’t have been
nicer to me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To me. The over-prepared,
middle-aged, fat, suburban mom. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe it was all of the endorphins, buzzing me enough that
an hour later I still had trouble mastering the simple task of filling a glass
with water, but I had this beautiful moment.
A oneness. A dropping of
masks. A releasing of roles. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I realized that my insecurities and nervousness about being
accepted are the things that hold me back from connecting. That my preoccupation with how others might
see or judge me gets in the way of being completely myself. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well fuck that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I should stop doing that.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because who I am?
She’s kind of a bad-ass. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A minivan driving, pumpkin latte drinking, costume loving,
freshly inked bad-ass. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spend a lot of time and energy struggling with social
anxiety. And when I find myself
struggling, I’m going to try something different. I’m going to stop banging my head. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And my beautiful new ink is here to remind me to find the
door, and fly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br></div><div class="MsoNormal">No, not fly. That's too cheesy. Be a bad-ass. That's what I meant to say.<br>
<br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlMIt2kfik3IFmjA2M5OoPFd3EpT6SEvjf36_hdsdHBarliykzGrc2QFnnH7LUKC9J01SFh83-UcAWgdozyze6vE1c4TogokCYFGyEVI9W5U9TwnFwGfAHKzSNtZDNWOa6HYRlSr0qes/s1600/tattoo1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlMIt2kfik3IFmjA2M5OoPFd3EpT6SEvjf36_hdsdHBarliykzGrc2QFnnH7LUKC9J01SFh83-UcAWgdozyze6vE1c4TogokCYFGyEVI9W5U9TwnFwGfAHKzSNtZDNWOa6HYRlSr0qes/s1600/tattoo1.jpg" height="400" width="322"></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjznm8wybdN45Q70zgXb7oflgYIIRb47l019b-9UEqAWioenYVMbC7H83JnXz_DNR2RJu72WgUElXoHJFNS6mjXJ8YXhp_N5r4FhxdHoYo2bfzJ4xyOYtS1Pg7pzlDL2b5U23Z9qpx0z0Q/s1600/tattoo3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjznm8wybdN45Q70zgXb7oflgYIIRb47l019b-9UEqAWioenYVMbC7H83JnXz_DNR2RJu72WgUElXoHJFNS6mjXJ8YXhp_N5r4FhxdHoYo2bfzJ4xyOYtS1Pg7pzlDL2b5U23Z9qpx0z0Q/s1600/tattoo3.jpg" height="150" width="200"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx-Azdykt9y3d4rQb_hlX_RbrYwBsQE5wThfrs-dEM3YmYf5nhC4cGOc4Mqnf1yP82BXJvFH6IVKwKzRKieql52lmb60cQQ_K_udFSlyZGfZhHiaH552qcr96U3CdvqQE4pDj8Okx1lKA/s1600/tattoo4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx-Azdykt9y3d4rQb_hlX_RbrYwBsQE5wThfrs-dEM3YmYf5nhC4cGOc4Mqnf1yP82BXJvFH6IVKwKzRKieql52lmb60cQQ_K_udFSlyZGfZhHiaH552qcr96U3CdvqQE4pDj8Okx1lKA/s1600/tattoo4.jpg" height="150" width="200"></a><br>
<br></div>
<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-62105936929455315842014-10-29T16:50:00.003-04:002014-10-29T17:13:47.583-04:00Big<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a weird experience this week. I posted a photo in a facebook group I’m in,
asking the women about their favorite “curvy” fashion rules to break. You know… black is slimming, no horizontal
stripes, no sleeveless tops, no skinny jeans, belt at the smallest part of your
waist. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe I’m the only one who used to obsessively watch What
Not to Wear, checking my closet against the rules. Jackets must close and have a “high stance”
to “lock and load” “the girls” (i.e., boobs).
Nothing shapeless or oversized ever.
Straight leg, dark wash trouser jeans, no sparkles or flaps on the
pockets because that draws unwanted attention to your butt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPT8HTlv53nxh4rPPz9G45Adhaug-8WlTgwPmIT8rABEPw_tuhwhvVPMicO3WXlbnpSGq1XbLW2-KGKC8VmynAWLQn0Ecg2YJkKTtve-kMGDJhzRBRDToZV7V8zdQfYbaGK1dfH95QjI8/s1600/butt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPT8HTlv53nxh4rPPz9G45Adhaug-8WlTgwPmIT8rABEPw_tuhwhvVPMicO3WXlbnpSGq1XbLW2-KGKC8VmynAWLQn0Ecg2YJkKTtve-kMGDJhzRBRDToZV7V8zdQfYbaGK1dfH95QjI8/s1600/butt.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve let go of those rules, and I’m happy that I have. It’s why I started the conversation. Basically, I bought these jeans, and I’m in
love with them even though “the rules” I learned were that big girls shouldn’t
wear jeans like this. I was drawing attention to my butt, and I felt great
about that, because even though my body is big, I think my butt is awesome. Why shouldn’t I bedazzle that ass? I totally should! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt free and I wanted to spread the freedom, and that’s
why I posted about it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Three things happened in response to my post:<br />
<br />
One, people shared their fabulous fashion rule breaking, and we had a “fuck the
rules” moment of solidarity. Other sparkly butts. Bikinis. And lots of curve-enhancing
horizontal stripes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two, people expressed that there are no rules, and that the
premise of my question was ridiculous.
I’m good with that, actually. They’re
just further along the path than I am. While
I still hear Stacy and Clinton’s voice in my head every time I wear skinny
jeans, these other women reject the concept of rules completely. Rock on, sisters.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it’s the third thing that left me feeling weird.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A bunch of people basically questioned my “fat cred.” They said that I wasn’t a “big girl,” which
were the words I had used to describe myself.
It made me feel really weird.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And when things make me feel weird and I don’t know why… I
come talk to you all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hi. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So they’re saying I’m not big. This was clearly meant as a compliment. I get the same reaction, even more strongly,
when I refer to myself as fat. Which I
do sometimes, because I am. I think of
“big” or “fat” as value-neutral descriptions of my body. I’m not insulting myself. I’m just describing my body. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My body is big. It
is, in fact, considered not large, not extra large, but extra EXTRA large. I can’t shop in regular stores. I have to go to special stores for people who
are bigger than “normal.” I am
considered “obese” by medical terms, and would have to lose more than 30 pounds
to be merely considered “overweight,” and more than 60 pounds to be considered
“normal weight.” <br />
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw1FyXvsU8Wgd6u1cJea9zvshF5jNIubKoyKTRo9_qB5dSuGB8ELUneIngJw2S-aJBhn2sXIMd3Pm2FJo4tNzqPmD0fQw4tDTraV4b3Mmvo749GwCQuRhs-ylzTCaBOuWc_tPCJ4ecXUE/s1600/fupa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw1FyXvsU8Wgd6u1cJea9zvshF5jNIubKoyKTRo9_qB5dSuGB8ELUneIngJw2S-aJBhn2sXIMd3Pm2FJo4tNzqPmD0fQw4tDTraV4b3Mmvo749GwCQuRhs-ylzTCaBOuWc_tPCJ4ecXUE/s1600/fupa.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fat on my body.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And I am fat. It is what it is. There is a lot of extra fat tissue on my
body. It’s how I’m made. I could probably get rid of some of it, but
historically for me, that weight loss comes at the expense of a healthy relationship with food and my mental health. I’m
happier and healthier accepting my fat body and just making sure I put real,
nutritious food in it and move it around a lot.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By any definition you can come up with, I am big. I am a fat woman. By clothing sizes, by medical terms, by the
tissues that make up my body composition.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But there’s one set of definitions by which I am NOT fat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If fat equals ugly, then no, I’m not fat. If big equals undesirable, then no, I’m not
big. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think that’s why I feel weird when people tell me I’m not
big, or not fat. Because by doing so, it feels to me like they are equating fat with ugly. It’s
the only definition that makes sense to me.
Because by any other definition, yup, I’m fat. Except for the definition in which fat equals
ugly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My whole thing… the reason I post bikini photos right
alongside my clothing size and weight… is that I want the world to see that a
woman can be plus sized, extra extra large, weigh 220 pounds, have lots of fat
on her body, and be slammin’, gorgeous, sexy, beautiful, and effing
awesome. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fat does not equal ugly.
It just doesn’t.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not every larger woman will want to reclaim that word or
even hear it. Fat will probably always
be a sensitive word for many of us, and even to some degree for me. I can say it in a reclaiming way, but it
could still be used against me if the intent is cruelty. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I choose to reclaim it as a neutral descriptor, in hopes that I can help to disentangle the concepts of fat and ugly. Because my big fat body is hot as hell.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcVlLgaZ5HsYFIleGF6aFYcFjkmia5c8NQptF6YtZuLdBk7cxqZBn9zxhxNnBItXveG_kaKcgtCnZogCpf21PxbDdt1SKhyphenhyphenFXrQ68thsOWR5wURnIKqmB3WeTAdQkDGtKEZ_u0-EUJU-k/s1600/butt2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcVlLgaZ5HsYFIleGF6aFYcFjkmia5c8NQptF6YtZuLdBk7cxqZBn9zxhxNnBItXveG_kaKcgtCnZogCpf21PxbDdt1SKhyphenhyphenFXrQ68thsOWR5wURnIKqmB3WeTAdQkDGtKEZ_u0-EUJU-k/s1600/butt2.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Rebecca Palmer of lifescapesphotoandvideo.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-32028800732291754592014-08-04T13:20:00.002-04:002014-08-04T21:41:41.525-04:00The life vest<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: white;">I spent last week at my parents' new house in North Carolina, on Lake Gaston (pronounced Gastin, not the French way, and also best pronounced with a southern accent). </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5UYv6jPAJe1zNKavHjnNSAQ1Odz0VV4gKd9sUjXsPqMqCzq3GJ2y1z4rMbu6ypYmZewHLileVAETmbppxpMhPaWoERsRJ3klj_AA4Z_Pc9jRBuogALYvvEYyNcqDRX7kUY5j1Y_knlp0/s1600/sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5UYv6jPAJe1zNKavHjnNSAQ1Odz0VV4gKd9sUjXsPqMqCzq3GJ2y1z4rMbu6ypYmZewHLileVAETmbppxpMhPaWoERsRJ3klj_AA4Z_Pc9jRBuogALYvvEYyNcqDRX7kUY5j1Y_knlp0/s1600/sunset.jpg" height="138" width="200" /></a></div>
Even though they're just over the Virginia border (seriously, at one point we considered swimming to Virginia), it might as well be another country. It's beautiful there, but man, rural. Like, rural rural. Like no internet no cell service rural. The best internet my parents can get is one and a half somethings. I don't know what the somethings are, but what it means is that they can't stream Netflix and if someone wants to Skype with their grandbabies in Idaho, their grandbabies in the house with them have to get off their ipads and their daughter (i.e., me) has to get off facebook. <br />
<br />
And you can't use your phone as a GPS, because there is no cell service.<br />
<br />
One day we went to a flea market. We poked through antique jewelry, rusted cast iron pots begging to be rejuvenated, and old washboards that unfortunately didn't say anything unintentionally hilarious about rubbing something out. Oh, and here's how rural. At one of the stalls, we tried to buy stuff, but couldn't because the seller wasn't around this weekend. He had his brother manning the stall, but his brother didn't know the prices, so we couldn't buy anything. "Maybe next weekend," we were told. And this guy let us look at stuff for ten minutes and didn't tell us nothing was for sale until we asked.<br />
<br />
It is so rural that stuff at the flea market is not for sale, but people just sit there all day anyway. Because... there is nothing else to do?? I guess??<br />
<br />
Or maybe he just didn't like our Yankee accents and didn't want us wearing his grandmother's old scarf clips. I don't know. I don't get it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Anyway, we found plenty to do in rural North Carolina. Mostly involving eating, drinking, playing inappropriate and dirty games of telepictionary, and hanging out on the lake. <br />
<br />
One day we went tubing behind my dad's boat, and that is the story I really came here to tell.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
We took turns on the tube. My adventurous little brother went first, and then the kids had their turns. Next my brother's girlfriend went, and then it was my turn. Let me paint this little picture. My brother's girlfriend is something like a size 2. Actually, I asked her after writing the first version of this. She's a size zero. She's an adorable, extremely sweet and cool little size zero person. <br />
<br />
So when it was my turn, she handed over the <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">life</span> <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">vest</span> the adults were all sharing, it having been adorably zipped and clipped on her tiny bod a moment ago.<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: white;">It was a size medium <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">life</span> <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">vest</span>. I'm a 2X.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">So fuck.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: white;">It didn't zip, not even close. My heart sank as I tried it on and realized I was going to have to deal with the fact that the generic adult <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">life</span> <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">vest</span> that everyone was using wasn't going to fit me. It was one of those times. Those one-size-fits-all-except-not-all-because-not-me times. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">It doesn't matter how much self-love work you do. When something is supposed to be appropriate for people in general, and you're too big for it, it's devastating and kind of dehumanizing. Like when a chair has a weight limit that is lower than your weight. Or worse, when you look at a chair and you wonder. <i>Will it hold me or will I break a chair?</i> And yes, I have broken a chair. Only once. But it only takes once. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">Maybe a thinner person would have broken that chair too because it was structurally unsound. Or maybe I'm a gigantic non-person who can't have nice things like chairs. Or life vests. Or tube rides.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">Tube rides is suddenly dirty in my mind. Just thought I'd share that.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div dir="ltr">
Anyway, all of the big girls out there know what I'm talking about. It's that moment when you fear you might need a seat belt extender in an airplane. That moment when you realize there is literally no place you can go to try on and buy a bra. That moment when they have to swap out the blood pressure cuff. That moment when you realize that you're too big for something that is fine for (what seems like) everyone else.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUVaJsqAaDAewtiXpI0DyMcwzqB9P7a5mQlhLusoAXlj3qcduQCLe9yYJHjL_FGw9U1PmIXIgUCYY6MqP4Rpf9BOSHa8gTA32Gg6tSM3eXVCzUys0t8bp8CD3ty2qJ_QpPLYaPHGE18Ic/s1600/vest1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUVaJsqAaDAewtiXpI0DyMcwzqB9P7a5mQlhLusoAXlj3qcduQCLe9yYJHjL_FGw9U1PmIXIgUCYY6MqP4Rpf9BOSHa8gTA32Gg6tSM3eXVCzUys0t8bp8CD3ty2qJ_QpPLYaPHGE18Ic/s1600/vest1.jpg" height="320" width="258" /></a><br />
<br />
It's devastating.<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I had a choice in that moment. Beg off and miss the fun. <br />
<br />
Or don't.</div>
</div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
I figured before asking if my dad had another life vest, I would see if I could at least clip this little size medium thing around my body, even if it wouldn't zip.<br />
<br />
I managed to clip the two clips below hooter level where it fit slightly better, and a funny thing happened. The life vest basically functioned as a sort of bustier, and pushed my boobs up. Suddenly, even next to my size zero almost-sister-in-law, I felt beautiful, with my <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">life-</span><span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">vest-</span>corseted tatas all supported and on display. It was my kind of beauty, not her kind. We are both beautiful. And if I weren't the size I am, I wouldn't have these giant boobs sitting adorably on their life vest bustier shelf.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">It was my turn to ride. I floundered like an awkwardly beached whale trying to get on the tube. </span>And then I had the best time ever flying across the water, in and out of the wake, hanging on for dear <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">life. It was awesome. And </span>I was the only adult who didn't fall off the tube. And I was pleasantly sore the next day from the craziness of hanging on as the tube whipped across the lake. </div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br />
And my self-love was stronger than ever.<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
So here's the moral of the story: When life gives you a too-small life vest, turn it into a bustier!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYAJRG4rb_MiT8b1RWJNnJbAP4uAYBZBmj2qmTa77AS6YYRmvQWWLumtva8q-P_hBfDbE79sTff2ZnPozrLiD1m5xoIHB63LrwJLUeBgWWteNxma5khCF2Op4KEDNaqeA_VwcdyXVLeQ0/s1600/vest2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYAJRG4rb_MiT8b1RWJNnJbAP4uAYBZBmj2qmTa77AS6YYRmvQWWLumtva8q-P_hBfDbE79sTff2ZnPozrLiD1m5xoIHB63LrwJLUeBgWWteNxma5khCF2Op4KEDNaqeA_VwcdyXVLeQ0/s1600/vest2.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-48636998496203391482014-05-05T16:48:00.001-04:002014-05-05T16:48:26.215-04:00Real<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s been about a month since my <a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2014/04/pin-up-at-40.html" target="_blank">pin-up shoot</a>, and I have
gotten wonderful feedback from a lot of people.
I feel seen, which was one of my goals.
It feels incredible to put out an image of beauty in a different size
from what we usually see in the world.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel the need to do something to balance those
images. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They’re real in that they’re not airbrushed or
Photoshopped. That’s really me and
that’s one set of true representations of what I looked like that day. But I had on two sets of fake eyelashes,
loads of makeup, and corsets to change my shape. My hair was curled and teased, and a
professional photographer was pointing hundreds (thousands?) of dollars of
lights at me and finding all of the most flattering angles. And then of hundreds of photos, I chose the
best few.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLm9R2CvCzlQ3PyP2BvGj4NGPcIy0bdxR0nuHAoXiwTIZNVwETWnaIeJKyL2EYvsj2y9mOHRJb2COjSdAQvGNgdkb9hYlM7u1qOZigBwrvWv6pT4LE83pNBEPyLDYaEMlGMAWBaV_fbfQ/s1600/profile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLm9R2CvCzlQ3PyP2BvGj4NGPcIy0bdxR0nuHAoXiwTIZNVwETWnaIeJKyL2EYvsj2y9mOHRJb2COjSdAQvGNgdkb9hYlM7u1qOZigBwrvWv6pT4LE83pNBEPyLDYaEMlGMAWBaV_fbfQ/s1600/profile.jpg" height="137" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My facebook profile pic.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I didn’t photoshop them. They’re real. But also, not exactly.<br />
<br />
I have a mini reunion coming up with some old friends from
my college dorm, some of whom I haven’t seen in many years. And I was suddenly like, shit. What if they think I look like my facebook
profile picture?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yeah, I’ve been using the pin-up shots as my facebook
profile pic, because duh. Of course I
am! They’re awesome and fun and cool and
sassy and amazing. Of course I am. But I don’t really look like that. Like, ever.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is what I really look like.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5YQeBMXhAJ7yxetm_Ey2CKf89yyiuo8VVRxvddP2Y25GHMHWxWBmnkciEHlI_9UrRvGXW7VYGSQG3kFo1FXEnlEos11g9mISKvLPAiU6JERMtY7pmCNx7CVjRCHRzv7jhau5R7kTya3U/s1600/kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5YQeBMXhAJ7yxetm_Ey2CKf89yyiuo8VVRxvddP2Y25GHMHWxWBmnkciEHlI_9UrRvGXW7VYGSQG3kFo1FXEnlEos11g9mISKvLPAiU6JERMtY7pmCNx7CVjRCHRzv7jhau5R7kTya3U/s1600/kids.jpg" height="320" width="269" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The kids learned about photobombing and wanted to photobomb
me, so I took a photo exactly as I was.
No makeup, hair not done, no bra.
That’s what I actually look like most of the time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s another one, in which I am slightly buzzed. Again, no makeup, no bra, and my favorite
FKH8 hoodie. This is the real me.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSMG6lTqlLwR1ruKQ8Wsn4WB9WAZABHubo69T5nsAHTbguGT3ClZX3cl1WWkNWholBNigcVCFvCWR9dpReLvD1JMMl9KNG2ITjBXQ7NT0tUauas_gYQN-fRN2722KxCT-6ju5ESH3WEaU/s1600/hammock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSMG6lTqlLwR1ruKQ8Wsn4WB9WAZABHubo69T5nsAHTbguGT3ClZX3cl1WWkNWholBNigcVCFvCWR9dpReLvD1JMMl9KNG2ITjBXQ7NT0tUauas_gYQN-fRN2722KxCT-6ju5ESH3WEaU/s1600/hammock.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
When I get dressed up, I look like this.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY3fsqUcit0UK2ZZGO4OCoIrSl5AR6BFeIRl8HM9wxKy80GLl2_c1QMXGYkjQg08QI8jaETVpUJAJSj84_MO_xGG-vt_YknPJFKmgVivEnApzYAylMZjzKYx1DshJXctzWGV4jmwGgbko/s1600/dressedup2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY3fsqUcit0UK2ZZGO4OCoIrSl5AR6BFeIRl8HM9wxKy80GLl2_c1QMXGYkjQg08QI8jaETVpUJAJSj84_MO_xGG-vt_YknPJFKmgVivEnApzYAylMZjzKYx1DshJXctzWGV4jmwGgbko/s1600/dressedup2.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1C0FpjWB2yI687ZkvZEv5_C_Mxg3HpmiEkGAB7WzXrXwQA2pn2lQu0KMB9xJE5v5RL0cVm2usAFiy3A7lUNZCaFrS_5vqPmqirgP-vdm4kq5roioqKo4XtLuEwlP-1_GVI7o9KjQFJ-g/s1600/dressedup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1C0FpjWB2yI687ZkvZEv5_C_Mxg3HpmiEkGAB7WzXrXwQA2pn2lQu0KMB9xJE5v5RL0cVm2usAFiy3A7lUNZCaFrS_5vqPmqirgP-vdm4kq5roioqKo4XtLuEwlP-1_GVI7o9KjQFJ-g/s1600/dressedup.jpg" height="320" width="200" /></a></div>
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That’s basically as good as it gets. And I can only wear those black boots if I’m
going from car to restaurant to car. And
the blue shoes gave me a really bad blister and I had to take them off in the
mall parking lot and walk back to my car barefoot.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shall we continue?
Here is me right after the pin-up shoot, makeup washed off, and hair
unpinned but still teased.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZpPw2zWGxaBIE3epK3UHGVAj8IIMVSL78VsMZHkvk5kGIjBsqVwWN3XeNBPwTnJqF9z750sbrcChmcRyoHi5Cm5hZGE5LqScPcgNAaIUfiButm2N1Bk2lkzIoeEH-CC530CVLekWIpGY/s1600/crazyhair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZpPw2zWGxaBIE3epK3UHGVAj8IIMVSL78VsMZHkvk5kGIjBsqVwWN3XeNBPwTnJqF9z750sbrcChmcRyoHi5Cm5hZGE5LqScPcgNAaIUfiButm2N1Bk2lkzIoeEH-CC530CVLekWIpGY/s1600/crazyhair.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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Here is me in the bikini I wore in the pin-up shoot, just the
mirror selfie I took to show my friends.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwnQhP8w_FGZhm1TyhZaUbDBToFtCI31Z_lznB0kKOi0d9bO7CtyrhO5f_YSZnBWwtvlGtC0lgGS6DsHuABaSJ2rYUAHIb7JREimecs07I621G_MdTsZqrGAId3unKTikI66I7w9g4_rQ/s1600/bikini.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwnQhP8w_FGZhm1TyhZaUbDBToFtCI31Z_lznB0kKOi0d9bO7CtyrhO5f_YSZnBWwtvlGtC0lgGS6DsHuABaSJ2rYUAHIb7JREimecs07I621G_MdTsZqrGAId3unKTikI66I7w9g4_rQ/s1600/bikini.jpg" height="320" width="172" /></a></div>
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Here is an adorable photo of me with my kids that I self-consciously cropped
for facebook because I thought I looked pregnant. And I made my husband take a bunch more because I didn't like how my neck looked, but the kids were cutest in this one.</div>
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And here is the photo that started it all. A woman on a body love facebook group I’m in
posted a photo of her body “challenge area” and invited us to do the same. So I did.
I posted this photo of my fupa, the hanging skin leftover from my
pregnancy that contains fat when I am heavier, and just hangs empty when I lose
weight. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrxMsPZoNRaKTlB9LrUIGgqkeZejKyeejLE4ZOnXYXxJUF1Mn8S9ZhMVVtCrivDZRZ0P8uHbaEC2ZGATIy4cjLGCgqjg3po2FfBMrBrdG0hotQ8mRGa8IZoXdZbbvCBcu3IdtdwZcE5fE/s1600/fupa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrxMsPZoNRaKTlB9LrUIGgqkeZejKyeejLE4ZOnXYXxJUF1Mn8S9ZhMVVtCrivDZRZ0P8uHbaEC2ZGATIy4cjLGCgqjg3po2FfBMrBrdG0hotQ8mRGa8IZoXdZbbvCBcu3IdtdwZcE5fE/s1600/fupa.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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It made me want to puke to post it. I considered deleting
it.</div>
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But then a funny thing happened.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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There was a weird kind of power in it. A power in showing that thing I was most
afraid would be seen. This is me. This is real.
And it’s all OK. So my skin hangs
down. I had twins and carried them to 36
weeks, and that’s what happens (to some women) when you do that. It’s OK.
</div>
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It’s OK.</div>
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I am worthy of love, and… dare I say it? I am still beautiful and sexy. Even though now you have all seen my fupa. </div>
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One of the most common items of feedback I have gotten from
the <a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2014/04/pin-up-at-40.html" target="_blank">pin-up</a> and <a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2011/06/200-pounds-in-bikini.html" target="_blank">bikini</a> photo shoots is women telling me they wish they could do
that, but they feel they can’t.</div>
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To them I say, you can if you want to. It’s smoke and
mirrors and makeup and corsets and an incredibly fun and empowering way to spend an afternoon.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those of us who try to put sexy plus size images out in the
world… we’re crafting and choosing those images in such a way as to change the
conversation about beauty and fat and size. But we don’t really look like that
either (or at least I don’t).</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So let’s change the conversation even further. You know what is beautiful? Bravery. Honesty. Vulnerability. Truth. Maybe it’s not magazine ad beauty, but it’s
something stronger. True beauty has
nothing to do with corsets and fake eyelashes and flattering camera angles. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Show your truth. Be
vulnerable. Be real. <br />
<br />
You. Are. Beautiful. </div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-25870008995329206892014-04-06T21:38:00.000-04:002014-04-07T00:12:53.457-04:00Pin-up at 40<div class="MsoNormal">
I turned forty this year.
It’s a big milestone, and the first one that really makes me feel
different. New medical tests are
required, and my body is doing weird things.
Hot flashes. My old wrist injury
aching when it’s going to rain. Random
eyebrow hairs turning silver, growing extra long, and spronging out from my
face, like “Look at me! I’m a gray
eyebrow hair! Helllooooooo!! Do you see me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know how that shining, fabulous eyebrow hair feels. Sometimes you just want to be seen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve begun to slip quietly under a
cloak of invisibility. I find myself
thinking often of that scene from Six Feet Under, in which Kathy Bates teaches
Frances Conroy to shoplift, explaining that since they’re invisible as older
women anyway, they might as well get free stuff. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I’m in my mom uniform, jeans and a basic top, minimal
makeup, at the grocery store or the waiting area at dance class, I can feel the
slide of eyes. An older, plus size
suburban mom. Utterly invisible.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The blue hair helps a little. A genuine smile helps sometimes too. But I still feel the slide into
invisibility. Middle-aged. Overweight.
Nothing to see here.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I’m not gonna go quietly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m 40! Do you know
how freeing that is? I am the person I’m
going to be. This is me. Not to say I can’t reinvent myself in another
twenty years. I totally can. But pretty much, I am who I am, and I know
myself pretty well. This is me. Crazy, irreverent, boozy, loving, maternal,
potty-mouthed, smart, and sexy as hell. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I get to just be who I am. Blue hair. <a href="http://baltimorepostexaminer.com/category/blogs/whiskey-pam" target="_blank">Whiskey blog</a>. Obsessed with corsets. I'm forty. I get to just be that. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
And I don’t have to be invisible if I don’t want to be. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here I am. Forty. Overweight. Mom of twins. Doing pin-up. Because beauty isn’t a number. It’s not an age or a dress size or a number on the scale. It doesn’t come from anyone else’s approval. It comes from inside. </div>
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And I will not go quietly. Oh, hell to the no.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
All photos are by the amazing, extraordinary Rebecca Palmer of <a href="http://lifescapesphotoandvideo.com/" target="_blank">Lifescapes Photography</a>. Also known as best sister ever. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-20955577998731014552014-01-11T15:55:00.000-05:002014-01-11T16:16:16.250-05:00Granny lust <div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Urban dictionary defines “granny lust” as… wait… urban
dictionary doesn’t have an entry for granny lust. OK, well, a google search reveals that
“granny lust” is an expression that means… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh my god! For the
love of all that is holy, that is… just… just don’t do that search! I need to clean my eyeballs with bleach now
please. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
OK, apparently I am the only person who uses the expression
granny lust to mean something other than a preference for older ladies who can
still fit too many… um… in their… um…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fine, then, Pam-a-rama ding dong defines “granny lust” as
the strong desire to have a grandbaby.
Similar to baby lust (the desire to have a baby), but without actually
wanting to, you know, have a baby.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s what’s been happening. A bunch of my contemporaries are
procreating. I’m 40. We should be done with that malarkey by now,
no? But apparently no, because two of my
college friends and one grad school friend have had kiddos in the past year or
so. Their older kids were old enough to
be in the sweet zone. The no longer
diapers/not yet drugs sweet zone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why would they mess with that little slice of heaven by
popping out a new one?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, I know why.
It’s happening to me too. My
twins are six. I’m thrilled with their
current stage. Six is magical. They can do things on their own. Their minds are amusing and fascinating and
wonderful. They still believe in Santa
and the tooth fairy, but are old enough to ask logical questions about it, or
make up elaborate scenarios to justify their continued belief in the face of
logistic breakdown. They are amazing
right now, and I <i>could not love them
more.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then I see a one-year-old—that uneven toddle, a
pretzel-crumbed mouth or sparkly-eyed giggle, the way they race headlong,
letting inertia carry them while their legs struggle to keep up. Or god forbid I smell a newborn baby
head. I can literally feel my ovaries
popping out four eggs. OK, not
literally-literally. But there is truly
a physical sensation in my lower abdomen when I huff a baby head.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I don’t want another baby. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That thing about popping out four eggs? I’m not kidding about that shit. I had spontaneous twins, which means I didn’t
do fertility or anything. I just popped
out two eggs instead of one. Oops. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My body was all, oh, you’re not using these things? OK, then I’ll just dump em all out en masse
before they go bad. Like making omelets
for dinner when the eggs get too close to expiring. Except instead of omelets, it’s a litter of
children suddenly jockeying for space with my bladder and winning, stretching
my skin beyond repair, and making a comfy, smushy hammock out of my pelvic
floor. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Honestly, if I thought I could have one baby, I might be
tempted. But faced with the knowledge
that my body is throwing eggs like a <st1:place w:st="on">Jersey</st1:place>
kid on Mischief Night, hell to the no.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So instead, I have decided to interpret my desire for a baby
as, not baby lust, but granny lust. If I
had lived in another time in history, or if the wrong condom had broken back in
the day, I could have a twenty-year-old kid right now. Instead, I waited until I was done with grad
school and had my babies at age 34. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But my body doesn’t know that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s starting <a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2012/08/is-it-hot-in-here.html" target="_blank">the elaborate shut down of the hormone factory</a>, if my erratic use of the thermostat and general bitchiness are any
indication. My body thinks I’m almost
ready to be a grandmother. It doesn’t
know my kids are only six.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I guess I’ll have to settle for being the crazy auntie
for now. Now someone bring me a baby to
sniff. I need a fix.</div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-35001785632003532662014-01-08T13:48:00.002-05:002014-01-08T13:53:02.767-05:00Humanity at the grocery store<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I kind of love the grocery store. The DMV.
The post office a week before Christmas.
I have a weird affinity for places full of unconscious, not-happy people
stuck in their own minds. Because you
know what those places are? A chance to
practice mindfulness. And a chance to
find connection. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s easy to be mindful in a yoga class or meditating next
to a stream or whatever. (Well, not
easy, but relatively easier). Being
mindful at the grocery store is harder.
But guess what. I spend a hell of
a lot more time at the grocery store than I do sitting next to a stream in the
forest in a flowing white dress with daisies braided into my hair. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So the grocery store it is then. It’s one of my primary
meditation places. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It doesn’t always happen.
Sometimes I’m in my own head, stressed about work, in a hurry, upset
about some interpersonal incident, wrapped up in thinking about the past or
worrying about the future. Sometimes my
kids are with me, and I would have to be a friggin’ Zen master to be all chill
and mindful while they’re touching the filthy floor, bumping into people, or
fighting loudly over who touched whom first.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But most of the time, it happens. I walk into the store, hang my bags from the
handle of the shopping cart, pull out my list (compulsively organized by
aisle), take a breath, and slide into the zone.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In that space, I often smile at strangers. I offer the opportunity to connect. Sometimes people misunderstand and think I’m
flirting. I’m not. I’m just present, and gently inviting presence
in anyone else who wants to go there with me.
Many people want to, way more people than you would think. They just needed the eye contact or the smile
to snap out of the lonely auto-pilot world they had been in. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wind up having conversations with strangers all the time,
and many of the people who work in my grocery store are not strangers
anymore. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This past weekend, I was in the produce section, going down
my list. I had picked up another few
bottles of kombucha, a fermented probiotic tea that I have been experimenting
with to see if it can help with my sensitive stomach and maybe my mood. I’m not that much of a hippie, despite all of
this mindfulness talk. I just don’t
particularly like yogurt or any of the “normal” probiotic stuff, so I’m seeing
whether kombucha is a suitable alternative for me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw a guy looking at the ingredients on a bottle of green
kombucha. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I finished my spin through the produce section, and he was
still there, looking at the same bottle of kombucha. Now I have tried all of the brands offered at
that store, and most of the flavors by each brand. Some are better than others. This green stuff is the only one I poured
down the drain. Ick. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went over to him, “Have you had that before?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked up, “No.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just a warning,” I said, “that flavor is pretty
gross-tasting. But all of the ones with
ginger from that company are good.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smiled. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And he gave me the absolute nastiest look, put the bottle in
his cart, and walked away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What the hell, dude?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know what the hell.
Maybe he thought I was flirting and couldn’t believe someone that much
older and less hot than him thought she was in his league. Maybe he’s really into the taste of
blue-green algae and spirulina (blech). Maybe
he thought it was none of my damn business.
Maybe he just saw a fat woman and assumed that I think kombucha is a
kind of soda to drink with my bacon cupcakes and deep fried twinkies, or
whatever it is he imagines people like me eat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whatever his thought process, what a buzzkill. I wandered over to the deli counter in a funk
of social anxiety. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I talk too much to strangers. Why don’t I just shut the hell up and shop
like everyone else? No one wants to be
friendly at the grocery store, and it’s none of my business what kombucha some
random dude is buying. Why did I open my
stupid mouth?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got to the deli counter, second in line after a different guy. When the employee asked who was next, the guy
in front of me said he was still looking, so I ordered my first item. After a minute, he had clearly decided what
he wanted, but I still had a bunch more stuff to get.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I asked the guy who had been at the counter first if he only
had one thing to get. He said yes, so I
told him to go ahead. I smiled and made
eye contact. He smiled back and thanked
me. <br />
<br />
Screw you, green kombucha guy, I thought.
I will not allow you to mess with my grocery store Zen mojo.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As my reward for letting that guy go ahead of me, my
favorite deli slicing employee came out from the back. She saw me, and her face broke out in a
smile. She told me how she was having the worst day, and how I always seem to
show up when she’s frazzled to make her feel better. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then she came out from behind the counter and gave me a
hug.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I almost got teary, just a little. She was a bit emotional too. I don’t know what all was going on for her,
or why she needed that hug. She was at
work, and I was a customer, and it wasn’t appropriate to get into it with other
people waiting for ham and turkey and whatnot.
But we crossed a line from transient human contact into something more
in that moment, and it felt really good.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The moment passed, and I ordered my next item, feeling a
little weird about having her wait on me after the lovely and fundamentally
real thing we had just shared.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another woman next to me, there with her kid, made eye
contact with me and smiled. She said, “I
remember you. I’ve been here when you
were here before. Did your hair used to
have reddish-purple stripes instead of blue?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I told her that it had, silently impressed that she
remembered me, since the purple stripes were almost a year ago.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She asked me some questions about how long I keep my deli
meat before tossing it, and we chatted for a minute. It didn’t matter what we talked about. She wanted in the bubble, the bubble of
genuine human contact. It was my
pleasure to oblige.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The world can be a lonely place sometimes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it doesn’t have to be. <br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-71214529658275421612013-12-02T12:45:00.004-05:002013-12-02T12:50:32.233-05:00A tattoo at 40<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’ve been planning my next tattoo, a hummingbird and
flowers on my shoulder, in honor of <a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2013/05/the-big-d.html" target="_blank">the hummingbird that flew into my house this past spring and taught me about getting myself out of depression</a>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember stressing and deliberating over my first tattoo:
a Celtic knotwork, moon phase, yin-yang-ish creation that I designed
myself. I got it on my lower back. I was twenty-five, and there was no such a
thing as a “tramp stamp” yet back then.
I remember being so bummed when those tattoos first became known as
tramp stamps. But it was OK, because my
tattoo had meaning to me, and it was something I had designed myself. And, I was also really glad I hadn’t gotten a
butterfly tramp stamp, because that totally could have happened.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember sitting on that first tattoo design for a year
after I drew it, waiting to make sure I wasn’t going to change my mind. At twenty-five, it seemed like a huge
commitment to get something permanently drawn onto my body. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friends all got together and pitched in to pay for that
tattoo for my twenty-fifth birthday. I was
so touched by that, both because it felt like my community was supporting the
spiritual commitment that the tattoo represented for me, and because I was living
on a grad student stipend at the time and had exactly zero disposable income.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The process itself wasn’t unpleasant. I have a very strong endorphin response to
pain, so apart from the initial flinch, and a few extra-ouchy spots, I actually
kind of enjoyed it. I know, I’m weird. I left the shop high on free brain chemicals,
and totally ready to get another tattoo.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And fifteen years went by.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wanted more tattoos, but I wasn’t willing to get something
purely for aesthetic reasons. Then my
kids were born, and I was like, “Yay!
Kids! I will always love them, so
I can totally get a kid-based tattoo!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I didn’t.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It felt wrong for me.
It’s right for a lot of people, but a kid-based tattoo just wasn’t right
for me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t figure out why.
I mean, of all the things I can make an unquestioning absolute lifelong
commitment to, obviously my kids top the list.
Why didn’t I want some symbol of them inked into my bod? I seriously considered a kid-based, mama
goddess type tattoo on my stomach. A
reclaiming of the extra skin and stretch marks that so challenged me, a
beautification something that was no longer beautiful by societal standards, a
celebration of the part of my body that housed and nourished my kids. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But nope. My soul or
my intuition or whatever it is that makes these decisions knew that wasn’t my
next tattoo. It was right on paper, but
it wasn’t right for me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was bummed. I had
to keep waiting to get my second tattoo.
Crap.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In time I’ve come to realize why it was wrong for me. Because I don’t need a reminder that I have
kids. That connection doesn’t need
strengthening. It’s already as strong as
it can be. I don’t need to reinforce
that bond. It’s already
unbreakable. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My tattoos are about making a commitment to something in
such a permanent way that I will never forget.
Like a reminder to maintain balance, the knowledge that darkness is just
part of a cycle and will give way to light, and that sadness can be accepted
and acknowledged in the same way that joy can, without judgment or attachment. That was my first tattoo. Or the awareness that bliss is always within
my reach. If my patterns aren’t working,
I need to try something else. The
doorway is there, I just have to find it, and it’s probably outside in nature,
not on my couch. That will be my second
tattoo.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My children have already permanently marked my body. I don’t need more. They are already in the front of my mind most
of the time. I don’t need a
reminder. I need balance. Something that is just for me. This next tattoo will be that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m 40. And I’m
finally getting my second tattoo, fifteen years after my first. I still need to set up a consultation and work
out the details, but I’ve crossed the critical threshold and made the
decision. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was so much easier this time around. Last time, I made sure it would be on a part
of my body that was generally covered by clothes, because at 25, I had no idea
where my life would lead. Maybe I would
have the kind of life in which a visible tattoo would be a problem at some
point. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I’m 40. And I
just don’t give a crap. If there is a
job or a situation or a person that wouldn’t be cool with a visible tattoo on
my shoulder, they can go do anatomically unlikely things to themselves. It’s so freeing to feel that way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a down side to not giving a crap, like when I stop
doing self-care and stop showing respect for myself because I feel like I’m an
invisible middle-aged woman, so what difference does it make. But the up side is that I can do whatever I
want. I can get my nose pierced if I feel
like it, even though my nose is “too big” for that. I can get a big tattoo somewhere that will
show in an evening gown. I can have <a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2013/10/too-old-for-blue-hair.html" target="_blank">ridiculous blue hair</a> if it makes me happy. Wheeeee!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know I’ll continue to change. Fifteen years from now, no doubt I will be
fifteen years more fabulous than I am right now.
I look back on my twenty-five-year-old self and she was so full of illusions, so romantic, so insecure, so shy, so worried… Also her boobs were so, so
very high up. And she was lovely. I wish I could go back and tell her to stop
worrying about her body, stop worrying about what people think.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’m sending my 55-year-old self back right now to tell me
that. Stop worrying. You’re great.
Get a big damn visible tattoo, because you can and you want to. You're beautiful. Also, get off the couch and exercise, you lazy sack, and go to the dentist. Stop putting that off. But mostly, you're beautiful. Don't worry what anyone else thinks. Just live, as big as you want to.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Live. As big as you want to.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because this is it.
This is what we get. Now and now
and now and now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fly out that open door into the beautiful universe and live.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Live.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-17081658047387804872013-11-19T12:31:00.002-05:002013-11-19T12:34:55.993-05:00"That mom"<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hi, my name is Pam, and I am “that mom.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me back up a little.
My twins are in first grade this year, and they are doing great. I love both of their homeroom teachers, and
am thrilled with how much they are learning in general. But first grade in our school is the start of
“tracking” in math. At the start of the
year, they were assessed and put into groups based on that assessment. We were told the groups would be
flexible. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which, it turns out, was a big effing lie.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My daughter is pretty much the kid every teacher wants in
their class. She’s smart, listens
quietly, raises her hand, tries her best, writes neatly, all of that good
school-y stuff. My son is also very
smart, but has a certain tendency to miss instructions because he was thinking
about something else, drop his folders on the floor, forget to bring home his
spelling words, or glue them in his folder upside down. He’s an awesome kid in a million ways, but
not exactly a kid for whom the structure of school is a perfect fit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m fine with both of those things, and neither came as a
surprise. My kiddos came out of the womb
with those personalities. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My son, although he was more advanced in math at the start
of the year than my daughter was, tested into a lower math group. He probably had a hangnail during the
assessment and really needed to bite it off before he could focus. Or something.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I waited, imagining it would self-correct with the flexible
groupings they talked about. It
didn’t. I sent a few e-mails, but was
told I had to wait until the end of the quarter. I didn’t want to be “that mom,” so I waited.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I waited and watched my daughter learn all sorts of new
things, while my son didn’t. At the
start of the year, I had to constantly remind him not to tell her the answers
on her homework because it was so easy for him. (His own homework was done in seconds, being
too easy by an even wider margin.) By
the end of the quarter, he had no idea what she was doing because he wasn’t
learning that stuff. So it wasn’t a huge
shock to find out that he didn’t place into the higher class on the new
assessment. How could he? He hadn’t been taught anything new.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I asked his teacher at one point what skills he was missing
that we could work on at home. She told
me that he needed to focus more and “learn to organize his school
supplies.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s fair, I guess.
He does need to learn to focus and get organized. Those are important school skills. But if we wait to challenge him in math until
he learns to be organized and focus on boring things, well, he might still be
learning 3+4 when he’s in high school. I’m
just saying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So now I’m setting up a meeting with his math teacher and I’m
ready to face my fear of being “that mom.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know, that mom.
The competitive one who thinks her kids poop rainbows. The one who makes trouble.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are probably a lot of those moms at my kids’
school. It’s a high power school
district and crazy competitive. It feeds
into blue ribbon middle and high schools.
People have loads of money. In
fact, the first grade is 25% larger than the kindergarten was because so many
people sent their kindergarteners to private school to give them an edge. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m like, dude, people, chill. It’s first grade, man. It’s only first grade!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I’m like, dude, Pam, chill. It’s only first grade.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except I’m watching one of my kids learn and one of them not
learn. Except I have seen the light of
pride on my son’s face when he solves a difficult math problem at home and I
want that for him at school. Except that
I sat in his math class yesterday and could see that he was bored out of his
skull and I couldn’t blame him. I
watched him pull himself back to attention and then fade, pull himself back to
attention and then fade, as they did problem after problem that he could easily
solve in his head. Except that I know
that the inertia of this math placement will only get more and more solid as
time goes on and tracks become deep ruts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’m going to march my butt in there and risk being that
mom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My fear of being that mom, of being seen a certain way by
teachers, of getting a bad reputation, kept me from doing what was right for my kid a month into
school. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fuck that. Done with
that fear. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am that mom. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That mom who advocates for her kids’ education. That mom who doesn’t care whether or not the
teacher likes me. That mom who they’d better not mess with.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am that mom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That mom who loves her children fiercely. That mom who will do everything she can to
keep them from wasting time in school.
Because if they’re not going to be here hanging with me—playing outside,
chilling in PJs, making music, snuggling—they had damn well better be learning
stuff. That mom who wants to make sure
that all of the doors and opportunities stay open for my kids as long as possible.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am that mom. And I
will do anything for my kids. So buckle
up, teachers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-50703864073082693982013-10-24T11:57:00.001-04:002013-10-24T12:07:04.700-04:00Too old for blue hair?<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a big birthday coming up. Yup, in less than a month I’ll be forty for
real. Now, I refer to myself as a “forty
year old woman” all the time, or as pushing forty, but soon I will actually BE
forty. In a complete vacuum, I would be
fine with it. Just a number and all
that. I’m vaguely prepared for shit to
start breaking on my body, but I can still do stuff I want to do. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a bad knee from a fall two years ago, so I have
learned (for the first time in my life!!) how to do squats properly. Seriously, no one ever told me to think about
sticking my butt back instead of focusing on bending my knees. Why did no one ever tell me that? They would say “don’t let your knees go in
front of your toes,” but never explained that the way you do that is by
pretending you’re dropping a deuce and trying not to get it on your shoes. But now I have a bad knee, so now I
know. Still, I can still exercise just fine,
and nothing else has broken down yet. I
don’t need cheater glasses to read yet, although threading a needle is starting
to become an issue. Maybe I need some of
those old lady needle threader thingies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, and <a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2012/08/is-it-hot-in-here.html" target="_blank">perimenopause is happening</a>. So, that blows. Hot flashes, night sweats, and a raging bitch
who inhabits my body from time to time. But
whatev. Some black cohosh, a few extra
showers, and control of the thermostat.
I’m dealing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the social stuff is harder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
See, since my kids were born, I have been dying my hair
funny colors. Fire engine red, pink,
teal, most recently blue. Here is me
with my blue hair.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFvcUsvQTLeDCVkPSnrvghbmu69_f6s1z3TbGinG1mXNFNdghr1SdR-UuF8O3xn9nau15tliderz7gt8t1YL1l9jp0XEosVf1XPNQ6yiBCbLknBINhso_ZivcIJZleWCSexXtAzmDT9dE/s1600/pam1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFvcUsvQTLeDCVkPSnrvghbmu69_f6s1z3TbGinG1mXNFNdghr1SdR-UuF8O3xn9nau15tliderz7gt8t1YL1l9jp0XEosVf1XPNQ6yiBCbLknBINhso_ZivcIJZleWCSexXtAzmDT9dE/s320/pam1.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not crazy blue, but definitely bluer than anyone else's hair at my kids' elementary school...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not really all that blue. It’s not like Thing 1 and Thing 2 blue. It’s just… you know… kind of blue. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recently my brother told me my blue hair is ridiculous,
because I’m too old for it and I’m a mom.
But the thing is, I never dyed my hair funny colors before I had
kids. I didn’t need to. I was going to Burning Man and attending parties that started at 11pm and traveling the world. But then I moved to the
suburbs and had twins and bought a minivan.
My body, although the same weight as it was pre-kids, was a new
shape. A more… mommish shape. I was pushing a double stroller, and wearing
yoga pants as regular pants, and my fabulous heels were all a half size too small, and I might have had puke on me at any given
moment. I needed something to remind me
that I was still me. So I started
messing with my hair.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I loved it. I
still love it. But now with forty
looming, I am starting to worry about what other people will think. Am I too old to have blue hair? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I embrace my mom persona at this point, and now that my kids
are in school, they are less all-encompassing, so I can pursue things that make
me feel like me again. I don’t need
crazy hair anymore to remind me who I am.
But I still want to keep it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The biggest reason is that I like how people respond to
me. People are friendlier,
chattier. Toll takers, fast food
drive-thru window workers, random people in the service industry… I can see
them snap out of auto-pilot and make eye contact with me in a way that didn’t
happen before. Random strangers talk to
me on the street, primarily people who are NOT like me. Kids talk to me about my hair, asking why
it’s blue. Twenty-somethings who would
otherwise look through me as if I were invisible, compliment it and smile, sometimes leading into a longer conversation. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As weird as it seems, I have many more conversations with strangers as a function
of my blue hair, and I love that. I love
finding a connection where there would otherwise be two people on autopilot,
just playing roles and not seeing each other at all. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In fact, the very fact that blue hair is wrong for "a woman
my age" is the thing that’s magic about it.
Because it marks me as something other than generic. Not for my own self-image anymore, even
though that was the primary reason I started doing it. But now, because it makes other people stop
for a moment to figure me out. And in
that moment of stopping, there is the opportunity for genuine connection. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Genuine connection. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Genuine connection.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My blue hair might be silly.
It <i>is</i> silly. It’s blue hair on a middle-aged mom. It’s ridiculous. And I’m totally keeping it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because also? I just like it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-36186568260781188102013-08-27T10:55:00.003-04:002013-08-27T10:58:45.404-04:00The bikini experiment, two years later<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since the <a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2011/06/200-pounds-in-bikini.html" target="_blank">bikini experiment of summer 2011</a>, I have only worn
bikinis to swim. Every swimsuit I have
bought or worn for two years has been a bikini.
Wearing a bikini has become a few things for me: A symbol of my continuing commitment to
unconditional self-love, a touchstone for my self-image, and my own little
revolutionary act. I want to be a living
example that body love, confidence, and beauty don’t have a weight limit. Be the change and all of that. I have a “Be the change you wish to see in
the world” window cling on my driver-side minivan door as a daily reminder that
we are part of making the world we live in.
I wear a bikini because I want women who worry about their bodies to see
me, and worry a little bit less. I want
curvy, large-busted, and plus-size women to see that they have options
(Fantasie bra-sized bikinis!) And, more selfishly,
I want to make sure I don’t slide back down into blending in and trying to
hide. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I actually thought I was done. I thought I had climbed the self-love
mountain. I thought I had arrived
somewhere. Turns out, there’s more to
this journey. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s what happened.
My kids were invited to a swim party.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To set the scene for this story, let me tell you a little
bit about the area where I live. It’s in
suburban <st1:place w:st="on">Maryland</st1:place>,
one of the best school districts in the country, and typically listed as the
top 10 “affluent” places to live. We
chose our house because we fell in love with the openness of it and the schools
were amazing. Our immediate neighborhood
is racially diverse, which was important to me, and the houses were all built
at different times by different builders, carved with restraint out of the
woods a plot at a time without strip-mining the place to build a development. I saw that our income and home price fell
well below the median for our school district, and my thought was,
“Awesome. Let their property taxes pay
for my kids to go to a kick-ass school.”
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now my kids go to that school. And the school rocks. No lie, it’s awesome. And there are some
people like me there. But there are way
more people not-like-me. Diamonds are
big. Countertops are granite. Hair is blonde and smooth. Sometimes brown. Not blue.
People aren’t fat here. It’s not
allowed. If you’re fat, you run half
marathons or go to “boot camps” until you’re not fat anymore. You post your exercise on facebook using an
app on your phone, and eat lots of skinless chicken and salads. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So into this weird world, my kids were invited to a swim
party.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was their second one actually. After much deliberation and gnashing of
teeth, I wore my bikini under a dress to the first swim party earlier this
summer, but no parents swam at that party, so my jiggling, winter-white,
abundant self was kept under wraps. No
other parents swam at this last party either.
Except for me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We arrived at the pool, and the parents were all standing
around, fully dressed. I breathed a sigh
of relief, realizing I wouldn’t have to expose the bikini to them at this party
either. Or expose what the bikini
doesn’t cover. My daughter immediately
started begging me to swim with them. I
showed her that none of the mommies were swimming, and encouraged her to go
play. She did. But she kept asking. And the only reason I said no was body
shame. Shit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What would they think?
Would they think that I thought I looked good? Would they gossip about me later? <br />
<br />
(I do know that no, of course they wouldn’t gossip about me later. I know with my brain that this isn’t about them at all. This is my stuff. Social anxiety is such a narcissistic
asshole.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, a bunch of the kids moved to an indoor heated pool,
one with a fairly steep drop-off with water over my kids’ heads. My daughter can swim. My son can’t really. Both begged me to come in with them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I did. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took off my skirt and seriously considered leaving my tank
top on. But I didn’t. I took it off and I swam with my kids, while
all of the other moms stood around fully dressed with their coiffed
ponytails. When I put my hair in a
ponytail, it doesn’t look like that. I
think maybe you have to blow dry or hot roller your hair first to have it look
like that in a ponytail, and if you’re going to go to all that trouble, why
wouldn’t you just wear it down? It’s all
a mystery to me. But my kids asked me to
swim with them, and my son kind of needed me to swim with them. So I swam.
In a black bikini. At 220
pounds. My son practiced his back
float. My daughter practiced her
freestyle side breathing, backstroke, and flip turns. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t die.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not too long after, they moved the party inside to a party
room. I put on my clothes, gratefully,
even though my wet bathing suit left two wet spots under my boobs and I
couldn’t sit down for fear of also having a wet ass. I said something to two of the moms about the
bikini thing. I explained about the blog
and how I am a body-love advocate. I
explained because, if they gossiped about me later, I wanted at least a couple
of people to be able to explain why on earth I was wearing a bikini. At my size.
One mom nodded politely. Kill
me. The other mom looked thoughtful and
gave me a smile and a high five. Gratitude.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Be the change be the change be the change. Fuck.
It’s so hard sometimes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve gotten to the top of one mountain. I look in the mirror and I’m happy most of
the time. I wear bikinis. I am the change inside myself. I love my body. I think I’m beautiful. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But there’s a new mountain.
One made of class distinction and baggage from high school and fear that
a weird mom with blue hair who wears bikinis at 220 pounds will somehow stigmatize
or marginalize my kids. The change I wish for is happening in the world too, but slowly. For that change to come, people like me need to stand up and be seen. Even when it's hard. <i>Especially </i>when it's hard. That thoughtful high five, that's the change. I stand for
something, something I believe in very deeply.
I hope that one day, that will be a good thing in my kids’ lives. I hope that I am one voice among many working
to change the world they will inherit. I
accept that one day, probably sooner than I can imagine, they will want me to
blend in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope I don’t cave.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-55595943237410033942013-08-21T15:23:00.000-04:002013-08-21T15:24:47.969-04:00DIY: Custom wall stickers <div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHy1X7XG0vcGPHxruBRfm7-EXnTwInR71Oebr4fCm1HgbC1BSjHw5cnhXXX_GgrNeCgDOd4V_68GXD6MbRMLpirrRa39bvS2r-ckFv4LkElfi0R1BseOMb0tHae0doT23y45IjhNoYM8/s1600/scarfy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHy1X7XG0vcGPHxruBRfm7-EXnTwInR71Oebr4fCm1HgbC1BSjHw5cnhXXX_GgrNeCgDOd4V_68GXD6MbRMLpirrRa39bvS2r-ckFv4LkElfi0R1BseOMb0tHae0doT23y45IjhNoYM8/s320/scarfy.jpg" width="273" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who are these characters? <br />
You've never seen them before, right? Yeah, tell me about it.</td></tr>
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So let’s say you have kids who are really into some obscure
video game. Or some <a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2011/12/open-letter-to-tv-people.html" target="_blank">non-merchandized</a> TV
show. And they want a theme room. Welcome to my world, people. My kids don’t just <i>like</i> things, like normal people.
They get obsessed.
Seriously. Also, I’m crafty, so
when I tell my kids that “they” don’t make that toy or costume, my kids are
like, “That’s OK, mom, you can make it for us.”
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Many of my “make it for them” moments are such ludicrously
time-consuming labors of love that I don’t even post them here, because they
look like a bad case of Pinterest-perfect mommy syndrome. I’m not perfect. I’m just crafty. And slightly (charmingly??) insane.</div>
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But this latest project was just so… do-able! It didn’t require hours in front of the TV, hand sewing tiny cones stuffed with batting onto a certain Bowser costume. It didn’t require mad miniature gown-sewing
skills like a certain Rosalina plush doll.
It was easy!! When I searched for
a tutorial before I began, I didn’t find anything that fit the bill. And when something doesn’t exist, apparently
I make it. So I’ll make a tutorial. Here ya go.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">How to make your own wall stickers</span></b></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRgGXKr0xlsFhzRHs88W47Wu1OW2xUP8Ril5M3yAHfbbh384jz4w5Smv1rQj_VZdQhs__J84KtSUG-mAMJ08TfKJrOR3bdKZDn7YnvzK-zGdHU6itt6ZIr_-naLW8ujxQ12a5o4SBdbp4/s1600/papilio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRgGXKr0xlsFhzRHs88W47Wu1OW2xUP8Ril5M3yAHfbbh384jz4w5Smv1rQj_VZdQhs__J84KtSUG-mAMJ08TfKJrOR3bdKZDn7YnvzK-zGdHU6itt6ZIr_-naLW8ujxQ12a5o4SBdbp4/s200/papilio.jpg" width="161" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.texascraft.com/hps/product.php?productid=17514&cat=249&page=1" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="text-align: start;">P</span></span>apilio waterproof vinyl</a></td></tr>
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1) First, buy <a href="http://www.texascraft.com/hps/product.php?productid=17514&cat=249&page=1" target="_blank">this stuff</a>.<br />
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That link is for 10 sheets of Papilio 8.5X11” waterproof vinyl. You can buy single sheets, or 100-packs (or more). It also comes in larger sizes if you have a big fancy printer that can handle that kind of action. Note: This vinyl is designed to work with inkjet printers only!! You need access to an inkjet printer. They do also make a laser printer vinyl. It is likely the same adhesive and would work the same, but I didn’t test that, so I don’t know.</div>
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2) Find images online. For 8.5X11” paper scaled images, I found that at least 500 pixels in each dimension made decent enough stickers. The higher resolution, the better.</div>
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3) Resize the images. I used Photoshop to make them the right size to fit on my paper. I’m assuming everyone has a favorite photo-editing program. Use that. Make them fit on paper. If you have decent resolution to start, keep it at 100-300 pixels/inch or so. You don’t need any higher resolution than that for this.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAtlotyyEujG3-JcYpSwRZVm3W6DC6TcmIUbrNssSHZLT9HY2BEKVYPGOgDMQz7__TO5DPYNxmwXSXAlLft6toa0wNwRg_sdiqjNRrg1mcKbJ4p1HPldzh5g0krXuyF9g02Kxtrpnavik/s1600/metas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAtlotyyEujG3-JcYpSwRZVm3W6DC6TcmIUbrNssSHZLT9HY2BEKVYPGOgDMQz7__TO5DPYNxmwXSXAlLft6toa0wNwRg_sdiqjNRrg1mcKbJ4p1HPldzh5g0krXuyF9g02Kxtrpnavik/s320/metas.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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4) Print your images
onto the vinyl. Use the glossy photo
paper setting. I just did normal
quality, and they look good enough to me, and my kids are thrilled. </div>
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5) Let them dry and
then carefully cut them out. I’m sure
you could use a utility knife or some fancy stuff to cut them perfectly. I used my junk drawer scissors. The directions say to let them dry for at
least 15 minutes. They seemed quite dry
to me after just a few minutes. </div>
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6) Peel and stick.
The peeling can be a little tricky to get started. You know, stick your fingernail in or kind of
mush the vinyl sideways with your finger until a little edge comes loose. Be careful at thinly cut parts not to tear
the vinyl. Stick em on the wall. Be a hero.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeC1deyDOKWigopWF5RDrxQjqkwuWmpdiKplEeAmFkFGD-ApCIKFQ_TUk4we7jEdo1sAVrAsGID1sEGbX9g3R6gvrx3YpMnRiSJveHN9OI7JYt3Ul39a4_8g-BCJOW-9mg12s1tSLnvyU/s1600/castle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeC1deyDOKWigopWF5RDrxQjqkwuWmpdiKplEeAmFkFGD-ApCIKFQ_TUk4we7jEdo1sAVrAsGID1sEGbX9g3R6gvrx3YpMnRiSJveHN9OI7JYt3Ul39a4_8g-BCJOW-9mg12s1tSLnvyU/s400/castle.jpg" width="338" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Princess room becomes Kirby-themed "King Dedede's castle!" </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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So basically, my entire tutorial is, like, go buy Papilio
vinyl sheets. Yup. You’re right.
I don’t work for them. I didn’t
get paid to tell you this. There may
well be other products that would do the same thing. I did this.
It worked. </div>
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A note on the vinyl.
Papilio also makes a product called “removable” vinyl. That seems like it would be the right thing,
but it isn’t. It peels right off the
wall while your child sleeps and then they cry in the morning, and you cry too
because you foolishly bought 100 sheets of it for $70-something and it didn’t
work. Boohoo. The stuff I used is labeled as “permanent”
adhesive. That seems scary, I know. I tested a sticker in an unobtrusive area for
2 weeks and it came off fine. The paint
finishes in my kids’ rooms are eggshell or satin or some other word that means
somewhere between flat and semi-gloss.
One has a glitter glaze. Neither
finish was damaged at all after two weeks.
Beyond that, I can’t make promises, but two weeks seemed like a
reasonable test period to me. I
encourage you to buy a single sheet and do your own testing on your wall to
make sure it’s safe.</div>
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A note on copyright. I don’t own the images on these
stickers. They are from the Kirby video
game and TV show, and then shamelessly stolen from the web using Google image
search and my trusty right click button.
I made these stickers for my own personal use and will not be selling
them. If you make stickers with
copyrighted characters, don’t sell them, K?
Kirby people, please don’t sue me or whatever. If you made wall stickers, dudes, I so would
have bought them. Trust me when I tell
you that whatever crap you have made, I probably own it already, two of them in
many cases, one for each kid. And if you
would re-release the King Dedede plush toy, that would be awesome, because
otherwise I’m going to have to make two of those bad boys by Christmas…</div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-82003086577087041722013-07-20T14:26:00.001-04:002013-07-20T14:26:36.745-04:00Lines and curves<div class="MsoNormal">
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Two years ago, I put photos on the internet of <a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2011/06/200-pounds-in-bikini.html" target="_blank">my plus size bod in a bikini</a>. This past year, the
curvy bikini thing has really taken off, and I’m honored to have been a part of
that revolution. But between then and
now, my self-love has slipped some. I’ve
gained a little weight, coming back up to my extremely stable set-point. I’ve had an episode of <a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2013/05/the-big-d.html" target="_blank">depression</a>. As part of that depression, I’ve been less
active, so my body isn’t as healthy right now as I like to keep it, regardless
of size. As a body love advocate, it’s
hard when I find myself self-hating.
It’s difficult to talk about. But
yeah, that shit happens. </div>
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I’m part of a monthly women’s spirituality group. Once a month, we get together, make a meal,
eat, share our joys and challenges, and do an activity. On Friday night, I was the host, so it was my
turn to come up with our activity. In
the past, I have done groups on trance dancing, the tarot, Zen meditation. Over the years, we have explored everything
from feng shui to past lives, dreams to Isadora Duncan. </div>
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I knew I wanted to do a group on body love. I needed it.
I know most women need it. As I
was brainstorming activities, I remembered posing for my sister, who is an
amazing artist, as she sketched me nude.
I had seen her sketches of strangers, the lines of their bodies, the
wrinkles, the rolls, the curves and shapes.
I had seen how the “imperfections” were the most beautiful parts. So I asked her to sketch me. I watched her click into artist mode, where
she was no longer looking at my body as a body, but only as shapes, lines,
curves. In that space, there is no
judgment. There are only shapes. I wanted to see myself that way.</div>
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Before the group met, I tried it. I took a photo of my nude torso in the
mirror, and then used the photo to sketch myself. I don’t know if it would work for everyone,
but I am enough of an artist that it worked for me. My belly was no longer this sagging thing to
be judged or hated. It was a shape, a
curve, that I was trying to accurately capture with my pencil. It was a completely non-judgmental space and
a very transforming way of seeing my own body.</div>
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When I finished the sketch, I looked at it as a whole. It was the kind of body I would wish
for. And it was mine. As a set of lines, it was easier to see the
beauty. The perfection of the
imperfections came across in a piece of art in a way that doesn’t happen in the
mirror. I decided to write over the
pencil lines with my thoughts about my body.
I intended to do affirmational positive body talk, but what emerged was
just… what is. “This is my fupa, my
apron, my flap. It used to hold my
precious children.” “This one [my right
breast] is smaller and lower.” No
judgment. Just… what is. When I was done, I erased the pencil lines,
and was left with my body shape, created out of my language about it. </div>
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I was left with a sense of peace. And this incredibly powerful piece of paper. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHyRhGsXWk-OwXGEvnSRw6UVohYOjL-_76TvxF47Du60x1dkG7_2I15SPyAYSHgwT_naPFSxLtGhb0LKU7dy_l-9o99pA0WOjkmOPnB5hNv7mseDL4ZMfC9wzKprtxUbgufguN_VsnuuE/s1600/torso.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHyRhGsXWk-OwXGEvnSRw6UVohYOjL-_76TvxF47Du60x1dkG7_2I15SPyAYSHgwT_naPFSxLtGhb0LKU7dy_l-9o99pA0WOjkmOPnB5hNv7mseDL4ZMfC9wzKprtxUbgufguN_VsnuuE/s400/torso.jpg" width="308" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My body, in my own words</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The next night, the group met. We ate and drank and talked. And then it was activity time. They did sketches of their legs, their
bellies, their smiles. I watched as they
clicked into artist mode, trying to capture the beautiful lines of
themselves. I did a second piece with the
group of my face in profile. I have
struggled with my nose for as long as I can remember, and more recently with my
neck, which hovers just on the cusp of a double chin. As a piece of art, though, my nose is the
best part. That roller coaster curve of
bridge, bump, and ball. That’s me. It’s one of the defining curves of my body. Although slightly larger in person than it is
in this drawing, that curve of my nose is what makes this image identifiably
me. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_IoPGbMQiCajno064B8JHIvXoTFYtUFh9BRHgRdnBhSrr6Q3Ih4mtFu_GXA2hMYJy57WmigpryHazguaOjcvJEmxJTHSKsT4h_bIK6qiFGd6849nhjBNN6t9HuRNrCyDptDioiUZ55o/s1600/profile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_IoPGbMQiCajno064B8JHIvXoTFYtUFh9BRHgRdnBhSrr6Q3Ih4mtFu_GXA2hMYJy57WmigpryHazguaOjcvJEmxJTHSKsT4h_bIK6qiFGd6849nhjBNN6t9HuRNrCyDptDioiUZ55o/s400/profile.jpg" width="307" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Faces are way harder to draw. If you try this at home, maybe don't do your face. Because dude, hard.</td></tr>
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If you struggle with body image, I encourage you to try this activity yourself. In the aftermath of it, I feel a kind of calm acceptance I haven’t felt before. It’s different from the exuberance, the “I am
one sexy bitch,” of the bikini project.
This is a quiet love. An acknowledgment
of what is, without judgment or the desire to change it. These curves are me. These words and thoughts are me. I am a perfectly imperfect piece of art.</div>
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Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-50546293754947941592013-07-15T11:25:00.000-04:002013-07-15T12:30:27.553-04:00Why I don’t have a food blog <div class="MsoNormal">
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I love to cook, and every so often, I toy with the idea of
starting a food blog. I even went so far
as to register a domain name for a food blog I planned on starting with a foodie
friend. I just paid the second year of
registration to hold the name, but we still have no blog. Here’s why.</div>
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1) I am starting to recognize the “new project” excitement
that leads to lasting and good things, like this blog, and the “new project”
excitement that leads to a project that I start and then abandon, like <a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2011/05/unfinished-project-thursdays.html" target="_blank">making my own Nakashima-esque table</a>. I have a
sneaking suspicion that a food blog might of the latter variety, and would run
out of steam once I blew through the ten fancy things I make on the regs. </div>
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2) I don’t take photos of food. Well, sometimes I do, but I take them on my
phone. Poorly. No stunningly styled photos in which the fork
sits just so, sparklingly clean in the professional lighting. Nope, blurry photos on my phone, through a
lens smudged by my sunscreen-covered fingers, on my basic everyday dishes on a
table with permanent marker marks and glitter glue residue. (FYI, glitter glue isn't washable like regular glue.) Or I forget
altogether until I’ve eaten a few bites and messed up the pretty drizzled
things.</div>
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3) I steal recipes. Sure, I have some things that are all mine. My chicken wing dry rub. The polenta appetizers I made this past weekend. My fruit crisp topping. The crème brulee with ganache that I sort of reverse engineered and then perfected after having it at a restaurant. Those are officially “my” recipes. But mostly, I’m stealing stuff from other food blogs I follow or find on Pinterest or making stuff with recipes my mom invented/perfected.</div>
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4) Failures are funnier than successes. If I had a food blog, how would I not show you this cake I made? I mean, come on, that’s blogging gold. A gluten-free carrot cake. My first time making carrot cake. My first time working with gluten-free flour. And my first layer cake in, let’s say… ten years? I forgot the basic rule. Make sure you have enough damn frosting to hide the mistakes. Oops.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6JVp2VrYnrZUraNaLi5KhnE_NaKW0hWQ_Dq4214ZBhtn_auUmR3dI2-VWxPEYDzQo0VmkMgQGf6NxpCZvrG8d6yPqxlmZRpfG7O60xXvgIy4ojON7khy9CqAb4DGPmKSJEQ02UPqvFI4/s1600/cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6JVp2VrYnrZUraNaLi5KhnE_NaKW0hWQ_Dq4214ZBhtn_auUmR3dI2-VWxPEYDzQo0VmkMgQGf6NxpCZvrG8d6yPqxlmZRpfG7O60xXvgIy4ojON7khy9CqAb4DGPmKSJEQ02UPqvFI4/s320/cake.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My gluten free baking masterpiece. No, the kids didn't help. This is all me, people.</td></tr>
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And how would I not talk about how I made this cake the morning after a bout of
food poisoning, on 4 hours of sleep because I was up all night violently and
variously expelling food from my body?
And how would I not describe the swearing, ohhhhhh the swearing, as I
was already running an hour behind for the dinner party I was co-throwing with
a friend at her house, feeling sick and clammy, on no sleep, and this damn
effing cake just kept crumbling and I didn’t have enough frosting and
F**K!!!! </div>
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I mean, never mind that the <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/blog/2010/02/ginger-fried-rice/" target="_blank">deconstructed fried rice recipe I shamelessly stole from Smitten Kitchen</a> was a hit. Never mind that if you make polenta with
<a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2012/03/one-moms-trash.html" target="_blank">from-scratch veggie broth</a> and broil some Cambozola cheese on top, people are
going to love that shit, duh. Never mind
the perfect combination of goat cheese mousse, roasted red peppers, and basil
puree. From my perspective, the cake is
the story here. And the fact that I got
too drunk to chop garlic because apparently homemade Limoncello martinis are
not a good way to break one’s fast after food poisoning. Oh, and the balsamic
reduction I over-reduced so it turned into balsamic salt water taffy. (Just so you know, if that happens, you can
totally add a teeny bit of hot water to it and salvage it.) THAT.
That’s my food blog. What you do
when you over-reduce your balsamic vinegar.
What you do when you make the world’s ugliest cake. (Answer, make sure everyone is drunk and then
serve it sliced.) </div>
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What was I saying? Oh
right, reasons why I don’t have a food blog.
So anyway, those are the reasons.
But, I do love food. I love to
experiment with food and make delicious things, and I even like to photograph
food poorly. So if it’s OK with you
guys, I might do some food-related entries.
They’re far more likely to be comedic failures than Pinterest-worthy
masterpieces. I guess that’s just who I
am. Coming off of a delightful dinner
party with spectacular food, wine, cocktails, and company, the story I find I
want to tell is one of food poisoning and the world’s most hideous cake. Maybe that makes me negative. I prefer to think of it as amusingly
real.<br />
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Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-26843070689624454902013-06-26T19:15:00.000-04:002013-06-26T19:27:15.834-04:00“Mom, what’s lesbi?”<div class="MsoNormal">
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In honor of today’s joyful, love-affirming SCOTUS decisions,
let me tell you a little story of something that happened a few months ago. I’ll preface the story by saying that I let
my kids watch youtube videos on their ipads.
And the occasional Gangnam Style or Baby Monkey sing-along aside, 99% of
the videos they watch are Mario and Kirby play-alongs. Basically, adolescent or adult guys, playing
video games, and talking while they play.
I monitored it for a while, because I have learned that any
Mario-related video on youtube is one click away from excessive profanity
(which I don’t really care about that much, because let’s be honest, it’s
probably no worse than what they hear from me), but also no more than three
clicks away from Mario-related porn.
Yes, people make Mario porn. Yes,
really. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So… I monitored their youtube consumption, but as you can
imagine, listening to hours on end of adolescent (or protracted adolescent)
boys playing video games while you’re trying to work, read, or play Candy Crush
can get old real fast. So imagine my joy
when they settled on one favorite gamer.
This guy is a celebrity in our house.
Half of the phrases that come out of my son’s mouth can be traced back
to his new online friend. And I’ve listened
to enough of this guy’s videos to know that he’s pretty reasonable. So I let them watch his videos in their room
without me listening, or with headphones.
Blissful silence.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
That brings us to the story.
One fine evening, as I settled down to watch TV with my hubs, our
children nestled snug in their beds, visions of Mario play-alongs glowing in
front of their heads, my son comes out and asks, “Mom, what’s lesbi?”</div>
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“You mean lesbian?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, lesbian.”</div>
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“Where did you hear that?”</div>
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Youtube, obvi. </div>
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So no big, I tell him that that’s what you call a woman who
loves and wants to marry another woman.
And that a man who loves and wants to marry another man is called
gay. We never talk about marriage in our
house without the option of either/any gender as a partner, so it’s not new
information for them. We’ve even already
talked with them about how some people think a man can only marry a woman and a
woman can only marry a man, and how ridiculous that is. <br />
<br />
Then he asks me, “Can I say lesbi at school?”</div>
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Shit. He knows that
our home rules are more lax than school rules.
<a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2012/06/bad-words.html" target="_blank">I don’t let them say stupid or hate at home</a>, but most other words… eh…
I’d rather teach them that part of being allowed to say “grown-up words” is
being grown-up enough to know when NOT to say them. So lesbi… home-only word or OK-everywhere
word? It’s a hard question.</div>
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It’s a hard question???
No!! WTF! No, that should not be a hard question. And yet, I hesitated. While <st1:state w:st="on">Maryland</st1:state>
is a blue state, the area where we live is kind of purple. It’s pretty darn socially conservative around
here. Can he say lesbi at school? I don’t actually know. I don’t know if the teachers would tell him
not to say it. I don’t know if the other
parents would be angry if their kids learned the word lesbian from my kid. </div>
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Are you effing kidding me?
Am I really having to think about this? Nothing about that is OK. I’ve been angry about some of the religious
stuff other kids have taught my kids at school.
So let them be angry if my kid teaches their kid about love in every
form. Love is my religion, if anything
is, so let my kids proselytize <i>that</i>
on the playground. </div>
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“Yes, honey, you can say lesbian at school. But some people might think that it’s a mean
word or a bad word. It’s <i>not</i> a mean word or a bad word, but
people who think that a woman shouldn’t marry a woman might think that it’s a
bad word. So you can say it at school,
but if the teacher tells you not to, then you listen to her, OK?”</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The end. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Except to say this.
Please, please let me live to see the day when I wouldn’t have to think
twice. The tide is turning, but we’re
not there yet. <br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6849246267797287452.post-23066761145484736112013-05-23T13:04:00.002-04:002013-05-23T13:19:29.553-04:00Walking in the in between<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the last few days, I've been in this in-between state, between <a href="http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/2013/05/the-big-d.html" target="_blank">depression </a>and not
depression. It’s a weird state, an
interesting state, and not one I remember spending much time in before. Everything is suddenly symbolic. Like the hummingbird that helped to pull me
out the door, everything I see takes on meaning. It feels like a good place from which to
create art, and is giving me theories about the link between creativity and
depression. I bet a lot of cool shit was
created in this weird in-between state. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I walk into the kitchen and notice that the compost canister
is full. OK, actually I notice that it
was full days ago, and now there is also a mixing bowl next to the compost
canister overflowing with banana peels, strawberry leaves, and dead
flowers. I pick up the canister and bowl
and think about taking the rotting cast-offs in my soul and trying to turn them
into something rich and life-giving. </div>
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I walk outside with the compostables and a light rain is
falling. I have always loved rain,
especially spring and summer rain that’s not too intense or stormy. Actually, I like stormy too. If it were safe to be outside in a big storm,
I would be totally into it. Being
outside in the rain is weirdly a mood booster for me. For most people, it’s the sun, but I don’t
really like the sun that much. Sure,
I’ll take a gorgeous blue sky on a perfect fall day, but there’s just something
about rain. I turn my face up to the
rain and think about my tendency towards tears, about how antidepressants made
me unable to cry, about how much I truly enjoy being moved to tears by
something. I like to cry. Not sad cry.
I don’t like to sad cry, but I’m not willing to give up tears of
poignancy and beauty in order to get rid of tears of sadness. I embrace the rain. Even the storms. </div>
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As I walk back with my empty canister, I notice that the
lawn service mowed down my tiny baby fig tree last week. The fig tree that I planted outside a little
bit too late this past fall, that probably froze too soon and went into shock,
that had no leaves this spring. The fig
tree that I had given up for dead, but which was still surrounded by a
protective ring of rocks and mulch so the kids wouldn’t step on it by accident
and the mowers wouldn’t mow it.
[Seriously, mowers, a ring of grapefruit-sized rocks with mulch inside. Don’t mow cavalierly over that shit. That dead leafless stick is symbolic of
someone’s soul, assholes.] But here’s
what happened. From the root of the
cut-off stick, new leaves had emerged.
Life. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijuFukGbhedjtfyV0jCZkDtL5dCeKkRxb-keOC9DeXzx3PWXvwOER7t64ku4QiiAoEh5xNcWFsyLueMA_qcXltlw8WJrE-ExLjU5yg2N0lpq21_Z2oOL7Ik3__wgkycQDTe5iGEznBq0I/s1600/fig2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijuFukGbhedjtfyV0jCZkDtL5dCeKkRxb-keOC9DeXzx3PWXvwOER7t64ku4QiiAoEh5xNcWFsyLueMA_qcXltlw8WJrE-ExLjU5yg2N0lpq21_Z2oOL7Ik3__wgkycQDTe5iGEznBq0I/s320/fig2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New leaves grow from the half-dead, frozen, cut off stump of my soul.<br />P.S. If these are not fig leaves but are, in fact, a weed, please don't tell me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In this in-between state, taking out the compost becomes a
poem. Or maybe three poems. I’m not a poet, so I can’t write them. They would come out unbearably cheesy and
overbearing. I’ve tried. Once I put the
word “poem” on something I’m writing, it instantly turns to crap. Prose is my poetry, so I wrote them my
way. Laundry next. Hoping I can keep this state going, because
chores are a lot more interesting when I’m wandering around with poet brain. Maybe I should ditch the vacuuming of the
living room that is on my agenda and instead go weed the front garden in the
rain. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh no, “weed the front garden” just became a symbol for
grooming my hoo-hah. Aaaaaand I think poet brain
might be done for now. </div>
Pamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00532521445225255433noreply@blogger.com1