Scrolling through Facebook today after work, I found a link to an article poking fun at a celebrity I've never heard of. The titillating, click-bait headline was something about "plastic surgery gone oh-so-wrong" on this young celeb's lips, and out of curiosity, I clicked on it.
Let me just insert here that I have what many women seem to desire--wide, naturally pouty lips. I was teased about them for years in elementary and junior high school, but these days, I embrace them. They're sexy, etc. etc. I get it, we all want pouty lips, as it's what society has deemed to be attractive in women.
This is why, ten minutes after arriving at the club on New Year's Eve, I saw a 40-something woman taking a selfie and giving her best "duck face."
Anyway, this young celebrity I've never heard of (because she was on MTV's Teen Mom, which I've never watched because I haven't watched MTV since they went from being M-for-music to M-for-Mmmmkay-that-was-a-waste-of-my-time), apparently had her lips done recently. Injections or implants or some such thing. Being 36 and rather proud of my wrinkly forehead and crow's feet (I've earned them by laughing at myself), I don't really know a lot about plastic surgery. It's not something I have ever considered as necessary, and I don't think I ever will simply because I'd rather spend the money on plane tickets and fabulous hotels. That's just me, though.
So...it was botched. Or maybe she had an allergic reaction. The result is pretty horrifying in that it makes her upper lip stick out unnaturally far and it certainly doesn't feel comfortable. I cringed at the images because, well...ouch.
What made me cringe even more was the response--internet commenters out in force laughing at how "stupid" she is, what an "attention whore" she is. To be fair, she did share the pictures on her Twitter account, so maybe she wants whatever attention she can get. But the criticisms that really got to me were the ones that berated her for trying to achieve something that every woman--every day--is told she ought to want. One comment simply read, "Karma." For what? She deserved to have this happen because she wanted to look a certain way? For wanting attention?
If you do a Google image search for "duck face," pages upon pages materialize of images of women in every age bracket jutting their lips out to make them appear fuller, and sexier, and even more images and comments from people informing the world that it is "stupid" to do this.
Granted, I think the trend is silly myself--just smile with what you've got and show the world you are pretty as you are! But I can't be too harsh on these women--after all, I'm certainly guilty of knowing which my best side is for selfie pictures (my left), and knowing just how to hold my eyebrows to show off how wide my eyes are.
So after my initial shock and pity for this young celebrity's post-surgery woes, before I could feel self-righteous and superior for not needing plastic surgery myself, I decided to check myself in a big way...because this girl is only responding to what society repeatedly tells her she ought to be. Sexy. But not too sexy, mind. You see, it's all well and good to have the features the fashion magazines deem acceptable, but God forbid you actually show any traces of having come about them any other way but naturally.
It goes along with the make-up conundrum. Don't wear make-up? What are you, some kind of hippy? Oh, look at that tart. She's wearing too much make-up. That girl over there--see? She's fresh and natural...wait, what? That's make-up?
It's a sickness--women are told, every day, that we ought to measure up to the unlikeliest of ideals of feminine beauty. Body type. Hair type. Skin color. Facial shape. Eyes. Nose. Ears. Hair length. When we go against the grain, we're ridiculed, but when we make it in any way obvious that we are trying to conform in some way, we are dragged through the mud and made out to be whores or villains. It's exhausting.
It's patriarchy.
I'm tired of it. I am tired of sensational headlines plastered on my news feed trying to tell me to be amused by someone else's misfortune, when her insecurities are not so different from my own.
Showing posts with label Feminist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Feminist. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 06, 2015
Monday, May 26, 2014
#YesAllWomen
A few months ago, a man sent me a message on OkCupid (my online dating app of choice), and he seemed nice enough. We had a semi-flirty conversation back-and-forth, and it was going swimmingly until he messaged me late one evening and didn't get an immediate response...because I was asleep. He pulled the "Ok...LOL" response that indicates "I guess you're not going to respond and now I think you're stupid for it." I called his bluff, "innocently" asking what he'd meant in that response, and basically got him to admit that he'd taken my silence as a rejection.
I was unimpressed. I face rejection all the damned time--two years of unemployment, the dating game, hell, there are people in my neighborhood who simply glower at me when I wave and smile as I run past them--and I deal with it gracefully because I do not believe that anyone owes me a job, a date, sex, a smile, anything. Maybe some simple common courtesy from time to time, but even then, I realize that some people are just without it and I move on with my life.
Dude's reaction was a huge red flag, so I let the conversation die, only to have him try again a couple of times. Two months after the original message, he sent, "Still no luck in Lincoln? LOL" and I blocked him.
Another guy wanted to immediately move from OkCupid to texting, and even though I'm a little wary of that, I agreed because, eh, why not? He started sending me pictures of himself (thankfully, not naked, just shots of him in his Air Force uniform--but yes, I have been sent unsolicited penis pictures and no, I don't want, need, or enjoy them). In return, he wanted a picture of me, so he could set it to pop up on his phone every time I texted. As we'd only been texting for a grand total of one day, I told him I was uncomfortable with this...only to have him spend hours begging and trying to talk me into it.
Another conversation I let die.
Why? What's so bad about wanting a fully-clothed picture of a woman you're communicating with?
That's not the issue. The issue is that when I said no, told him that I don't want to do something, it became negotiation time. I'm not willing to meet this guy in person and have it become a negotiation about sex, because frankly, as strong as I am in the gym, I'm still easily overpowered physically.
To be frank, I turn some guys down because sometimes my gut tells me they might not take no for an answer, and I don't particularly feel like getting raped.
This weekend, a fascinating and crucial conversation came up on Twitter after a misogynistic young man killed six people in Santa Barbara because no one would have sex with him. I won't link to the articles--for one thing, you've already seen them, and for another, I don't feel the little jerk needs anymore attention. In response, women started sharing the stories of how they face misogyny every day, and other forms of sexist behaviors aimed at women. Using the #YesAllWomen tag, Twitter experienced a flash flood of stories...and, of course, an almost-immediate #NotAllMen backlash as guys who completely miss the point felt the need to make the narrative their own. "You're all just man-haters," they all seemed to say. "I'm not like that!!"
Stop right there. I do not hate men. I've been fortunate to know--and even date--some really great guys who respected my boundaries, let me do what was right for myself, and who didn't feel threatened by it. But I've also met a lot of men who do not treat women that way, and when my gut says, "Run, girl, run," I tend to listen to it.
After my run yesterday, as I walked home, I saw a man ahead on the sidewalk. Truth is, I didn't feel remotely afraid of him--it was broad daylight on a busy street--but I took a pic from a distance and posted it to Instagram with "You see a random dude on the sidewalk. I see the potential for danger and harm to myself." In my neighborhood, at that time of day, it's very unlikely that this man would pose any threat to me, and indeed, all I got from him was a friendly smile and a "Good morning!" I returned it in kind because that's just how we roll here. But I have had creepy guys leer at me, whistle, make me feel uncomfortable when I deserve to feel safe, and it has happened in broad daylight. So I posted the picture, with the #YesAllWomen hash tag...and I was promptly called sexist on Twitter, and compared to a racist.
I can't make this stuff up.
I get it, boys. You're not all rapists, you don't all hate women, you don't all expect sex and a woman's attention as your just due just for being alive and male. But when you downplay the very real situations women face every day, you do absolutely nothing to help the problem.
If you've never been told how to wear your hair to prevent someone grabbing you to rape you, if you've never been told that what you choose to wear causes men to be "tempted," then just...shut up. Don't tell me I should feel flattered when a man drives by me (walking down a city street) and wolf-whistles at me. I'm sick and tired of women being to blame for the everyday sexism lobbied against us.
It would be too much time and trouble to do an actual count, but I can tell you that far too many first messages I receive on OkCupid--a good majority--are messages about my body. They range from "Hey sexy" and "Your [they never spell it correctly] beautiful" to more explicit messages about my curvy hips (yes, I know, I see them every day, and I have to buy clothes for them) and my breasts. And I get these messages all the time even though I explicitly state on my profile that I don't appreciate, like, or want them. The reality, my friends, is that too many men don't care what I appreciate, like, or want. It's very likely they don't even read that far. They see a woman they deem sexy, and they steamroll their way in.
I ignore them. Starting an argument might teach one or two of them, but otherwise would just "earn" me more abuse than I have the energy to deal with. Being curvy is not an invitation.
To be a feminist is not to be a man-hater, or a misandrist. I want equality. I want old white men in politics to stop thinking they know what is best for my body (I am not a baby-making vessel, I'm 95% sure I don't even want children). I want to be freed from endless comments about how my body is or isn't pleasing to the male gaze. And if a man wolf-whistles at me, I want the other men around us to tell him, "Whoa, not okay," so that I'm not made out to be "the bitch" when I take offense.
It is not too much to ask.
I was unimpressed. I face rejection all the damned time--two years of unemployment, the dating game, hell, there are people in my neighborhood who simply glower at me when I wave and smile as I run past them--and I deal with it gracefully because I do not believe that anyone owes me a job, a date, sex, a smile, anything. Maybe some simple common courtesy from time to time, but even then, I realize that some people are just without it and I move on with my life.
Dude's reaction was a huge red flag, so I let the conversation die, only to have him try again a couple of times. Two months after the original message, he sent, "Still no luck in Lincoln? LOL" and I blocked him.
Another guy wanted to immediately move from OkCupid to texting, and even though I'm a little wary of that, I agreed because, eh, why not? He started sending me pictures of himself (thankfully, not naked, just shots of him in his Air Force uniform--but yes, I have been sent unsolicited penis pictures and no, I don't want, need, or enjoy them). In return, he wanted a picture of me, so he could set it to pop up on his phone every time I texted. As we'd only been texting for a grand total of one day, I told him I was uncomfortable with this...only to have him spend hours begging and trying to talk me into it.
Another conversation I let die.
Why? What's so bad about wanting a fully-clothed picture of a woman you're communicating with?
That's not the issue. The issue is that when I said no, told him that I don't want to do something, it became negotiation time. I'm not willing to meet this guy in person and have it become a negotiation about sex, because frankly, as strong as I am in the gym, I'm still easily overpowered physically.
To be frank, I turn some guys down because sometimes my gut tells me they might not take no for an answer, and I don't particularly feel like getting raped.
This weekend, a fascinating and crucial conversation came up on Twitter after a misogynistic young man killed six people in Santa Barbara because no one would have sex with him. I won't link to the articles--for one thing, you've already seen them, and for another, I don't feel the little jerk needs anymore attention. In response, women started sharing the stories of how they face misogyny every day, and other forms of sexist behaviors aimed at women. Using the #YesAllWomen tag, Twitter experienced a flash flood of stories...and, of course, an almost-immediate #NotAllMen backlash as guys who completely miss the point felt the need to make the narrative their own. "You're all just man-haters," they all seemed to say. "I'm not like that!!"
Stop right there. I do not hate men. I've been fortunate to know--and even date--some really great guys who respected my boundaries, let me do what was right for myself, and who didn't feel threatened by it. But I've also met a lot of men who do not treat women that way, and when my gut says, "Run, girl, run," I tend to listen to it.
After my run yesterday, as I walked home, I saw a man ahead on the sidewalk. Truth is, I didn't feel remotely afraid of him--it was broad daylight on a busy street--but I took a pic from a distance and posted it to Instagram with "You see a random dude on the sidewalk. I see the potential for danger and harm to myself." In my neighborhood, at that time of day, it's very unlikely that this man would pose any threat to me, and indeed, all I got from him was a friendly smile and a "Good morning!" I returned it in kind because that's just how we roll here. But I have had creepy guys leer at me, whistle, make me feel uncomfortable when I deserve to feel safe, and it has happened in broad daylight. So I posted the picture, with the #YesAllWomen hash tag...and I was promptly called sexist on Twitter, and compared to a racist.
I can't make this stuff up.
I get it, boys. You're not all rapists, you don't all hate women, you don't all expect sex and a woman's attention as your just due just for being alive and male. But when you downplay the very real situations women face every day, you do absolutely nothing to help the problem.
If you've never been told how to wear your hair to prevent someone grabbing you to rape you, if you've never been told that what you choose to wear causes men to be "tempted," then just...shut up. Don't tell me I should feel flattered when a man drives by me (walking down a city street) and wolf-whistles at me. I'm sick and tired of women being to blame for the everyday sexism lobbied against us.
It would be too much time and trouble to do an actual count, but I can tell you that far too many first messages I receive on OkCupid--a good majority--are messages about my body. They range from "Hey sexy" and "Your [they never spell it correctly] beautiful" to more explicit messages about my curvy hips (yes, I know, I see them every day, and I have to buy clothes for them) and my breasts. And I get these messages all the time even though I explicitly state on my profile that I don't appreciate, like, or want them. The reality, my friends, is that too many men don't care what I appreciate, like, or want. It's very likely they don't even read that far. They see a woman they deem sexy, and they steamroll their way in.
I ignore them. Starting an argument might teach one or two of them, but otherwise would just "earn" me more abuse than I have the energy to deal with. Being curvy is not an invitation.
To be a feminist is not to be a man-hater, or a misandrist. I want equality. I want old white men in politics to stop thinking they know what is best for my body (I am not a baby-making vessel, I'm 95% sure I don't even want children). I want to be freed from endless comments about how my body is or isn't pleasing to the male gaze. And if a man wolf-whistles at me, I want the other men around us to tell him, "Whoa, not okay," so that I'm not made out to be "the bitch" when I take offense.
It is not too much to ask.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Don't Tread On My Badass
To the dude at the gym this morning:
Maybe, in your experience, there are women who come to the gym solely to flash a cute booty and flip their hair around while balancing two-pound dumbbells in their hands, though that's not what I see in our club. I see people of all fitness levels who are dedicated to improving their lives and health with exercise. Bravo to us all.
I didn't even notice you at first, because I was swinging a 25-pound kettle bell, using my hips to leverage the weight up in the air, level with my shoulders. It's not a difficult exercise, but it is effective and I do like to focus on my form so I don't do it incorrectly and hurt my back. So when, mid-set, it penetrated my brain that you were behind me, repeatedly calling out, "Look over here!" to my back, I chose to ignore the annoying noise because I immediately assumed you couldn't possibly be bothering me when I was so engrossed in my workout.
But you were. Your eyes were right on me--my backside, really. I could see you looking my way in the mirror in front of me, and I immediately felt annoyed and bothered. Maybe you were trying to be cute, but what you did, instead, was basically harass me. Because you only stopped your endless "Look over here!!" calling when I finally threw you an irritated glance in the mirror. Our eyes met. You were smiling. I was not.
After that, you made no more attempts to get my attention, and for that I am grateful. Grateful that I didn't have to interrupt a really good workout to deal with you. Grateful I didn't have to get rude. I am not a confrontational person but believe me, when you treat me like an object while I'm getting my badass on, it makes me unhappy. The claws will come out next time.
Love,
Meg of the LPB
Saturday, March 08, 2014
International Women's Day
It's been a long week. I filled in for Lynn for four days, taking her (nearly empty) band classes and her full piano lab while she took her band kids to New York. I'm happy to help out, but when you add my own class, my piano lessons, and all of the associated ups and downs of my day-to-day life, it's truly exhausting.
You can imagine, then, perhaps, how much I rolled my eyes when one of my choir girls flounced into my office a few days ago, saying, "I cannot room with ____ and ____ anymore on the Anaheim trip! I want to room with _____ instead." I smiled at her, said, "That's fine, I'll move you, but once the list is finalized, no more moving." She understood, and flounced back out smiling, all right in her world. And I sighed, did the eye-roll thing, and flopped down in my chair to make the change on my computer.
Oh, girls.
My girls--and I love them, drama and all--are so very lucky. Sure, some of them have home lives that are difficult, or self-esteem issues that are perpetuated by society, peers, and just being a teenager. But all of them have one basic right that is uncontested: the right to an education. The right to learn.
And these girls attend a fantastic high school. We are one of "those" schools, you know, the suburban, well-funded, high-scoring, "nice" schools. Not without our problems, but definitely a Very Good School. Our staff works hard to keep it that way.
There are girls in this world who do not have this advantage. Hell, there are girls in our country who miss out on the educational advantages my choir girls enjoy. In inner city schools, there are very few choir tours to Anaheim, band trips to New York, etc. Girls sports are underfunded and under-represented (meanwhile, our girl's volleyball won the State Championship in December, and the trophy and team pics are proudly being displayed in our gym. Half the admin team flew to Southern California to be at the game). I worked in Stockton long enough to know that even in the U.S., there are girls who just slip right out of having their educational needs met.
But worldwide, it can get even more dire. We all know the story of Malala Yousafzai, who was shot in the head by Taliban "fighters" (I prefer the word "cowards") because she dared to speak up and demand her right to an education. A grown-up shot a child in the head because he and his cohorts were scared of a child.
Well, it turns out they should be. Cowards ought to be scared of a woman (I refuse to call her a girl because chronologically, she no longer is, and in terms of maturity, Malala is one hell of a mighty woman) who is willing to accept the consequences of speaking up for her rights, and the rights of others. A woman who brought the nearly unflappable comedian/"news anchor" John Stewart to a state of stunned speechlessness when she appeared on his show.
Malala brings to light the plight of girls everywhere, and, through her Malala Fund, does something about it. But she doesn't just raise a bunch of money, she acts. She has visited Syrian refugees and helped to set up schools in their camps--this must be a ray of sunlight in the bleakness of being forced from their homes to a new, unfamiliar place, walking across a desert and carrying their worldly possessions on their backs.
All of this is on my mind right now because it is International Women's Day, and because of what I do every day; but also because of this article I saw last night, detailing why a very disturbing photo of a young Syrian girl injured by shrapnel. In the photo, it is hard to determine if she is in shock, or deceased. Happily, she is alive, and survived her wounds, but the photo brings to light the horrific conditions Syrian children are facing, and how, through circumstances they never asked for, they, too, are now facing being a "lost generation" of uneducated children. It's heartbreaking to think that while my girls, every day, have the luxury of being bored in English class or having their petty dramas in choir, there are children who literally get hit by shrapnel in their own neighborhood. Girls who get shot in the head for daring to demand they have a right to an education.
Education is obviously a cause close to my own heart. I spend a lot of time and energy defending it here on the home front, but I also believe that all children, everywhere, deserve a chance to learn. In safety and peace. It doesn't matter what their gender is, all children deserve an education. Now I'm toying with an idea to get my own students involved in an effort to raise money for The Malala Fund. The students at my school are pretty with-it and awesome about these things...so, why not?
You can imagine, then, perhaps, how much I rolled my eyes when one of my choir girls flounced into my office a few days ago, saying, "I cannot room with ____ and ____ anymore on the Anaheim trip! I want to room with _____ instead." I smiled at her, said, "That's fine, I'll move you, but once the list is finalized, no more moving." She understood, and flounced back out smiling, all right in her world. And I sighed, did the eye-roll thing, and flopped down in my chair to make the change on my computer.
Oh, girls.
My girls--and I love them, drama and all--are so very lucky. Sure, some of them have home lives that are difficult, or self-esteem issues that are perpetuated by society, peers, and just being a teenager. But all of them have one basic right that is uncontested: the right to an education. The right to learn.
And these girls attend a fantastic high school. We are one of "those" schools, you know, the suburban, well-funded, high-scoring, "nice" schools. Not without our problems, but definitely a Very Good School. Our staff works hard to keep it that way.
There are girls in this world who do not have this advantage. Hell, there are girls in our country who miss out on the educational advantages my choir girls enjoy. In inner city schools, there are very few choir tours to Anaheim, band trips to New York, etc. Girls sports are underfunded and under-represented (meanwhile, our girl's volleyball won the State Championship in December, and the trophy and team pics are proudly being displayed in our gym. Half the admin team flew to Southern California to be at the game). I worked in Stockton long enough to know that even in the U.S., there are girls who just slip right out of having their educational needs met.
But worldwide, it can get even more dire. We all know the story of Malala Yousafzai, who was shot in the head by Taliban "fighters" (I prefer the word "cowards") because she dared to speak up and demand her right to an education. A grown-up shot a child in the head because he and his cohorts were scared of a child.
Well, it turns out they should be. Cowards ought to be scared of a woman (I refuse to call her a girl because chronologically, she no longer is, and in terms of maturity, Malala is one hell of a mighty woman) who is willing to accept the consequences of speaking up for her rights, and the rights of others. A woman who brought the nearly unflappable comedian/"news anchor" John Stewart to a state of stunned speechlessness when she appeared on his show.
Fighting terror with peace and education. Right on.
Malala brings to light the plight of girls everywhere, and, through her Malala Fund, does something about it. But she doesn't just raise a bunch of money, she acts. She has visited Syrian refugees and helped to set up schools in their camps--this must be a ray of sunlight in the bleakness of being forced from their homes to a new, unfamiliar place, walking across a desert and carrying their worldly possessions on their backs.
All of this is on my mind right now because it is International Women's Day, and because of what I do every day; but also because of this article I saw last night, detailing why a very disturbing photo of a young Syrian girl injured by shrapnel. In the photo, it is hard to determine if she is in shock, or deceased. Happily, she is alive, and survived her wounds, but the photo brings to light the horrific conditions Syrian children are facing, and how, through circumstances they never asked for, they, too, are now facing being a "lost generation" of uneducated children. It's heartbreaking to think that while my girls, every day, have the luxury of being bored in English class or having their petty dramas in choir, there are children who literally get hit by shrapnel in their own neighborhood. Girls who get shot in the head for daring to demand they have a right to an education.
Education is obviously a cause close to my own heart. I spend a lot of time and energy defending it here on the home front, but I also believe that all children, everywhere, deserve a chance to learn. In safety and peace. It doesn't matter what their gender is, all children deserve an education. Now I'm toying with an idea to get my own students involved in an effort to raise money for The Malala Fund. The students at my school are pretty with-it and awesome about these things...so, why not?
Saturday, November 09, 2013
Days of Thankfulness, Day 9
This morning, a dear friend told me on Facebook that one of the reasons she identifies as a feminist is because of me. Something about how I approach people as a feminist resonated with her, and she saw it no longer as something bad, but as something positive, and worth supporting.
I'm so amazingly flattered by this, I can't begin to tell you in mere words.
I suppose I've identified as a feminist ever since 8th grade, when my U.S. History teacher and I argued about women in combat and he told me, "Women are needed at home to have babies and keep the population going." Thirteen-year-old Meg responded, "Well, you need men for that, too." Mr. W. snapped, "Don't be immature!" I kept my mouth shut (after all, I was terrified of being sent to the principal's office), but I remember thinking, "You're not making sense!!!" It was the first time a beloved teacher--and we all loved Mr. W., he was actually an amazing teacher--expressed an opinion that made me angry. It still sticks out in my memory today.
So today, I'm thankful for feminism. I'm thankful for the everyday warriors who do so much more than I do to ensure we don't lose the fight in making everyone equal. Everyone. I'm thankful for the women who fought for the right to vote, for the women who questioned, for the women who stood up and said, "No. This needs to be better." Every day, we are bombarded with messages from the media, from politicians, from all sides, that we are silly women who can't make decisions for ourselves, who need to fit a certain mold.
Bullshit.
As I said to my friend this morning:
I'm so amazingly flattered by this, I can't begin to tell you in mere words.
I suppose I've identified as a feminist ever since 8th grade, when my U.S. History teacher and I argued about women in combat and he told me, "Women are needed at home to have babies and keep the population going." Thirteen-year-old Meg responded, "Well, you need men for that, too." Mr. W. snapped, "Don't be immature!" I kept my mouth shut (after all, I was terrified of being sent to the principal's office), but I remember thinking, "You're not making sense!!!" It was the first time a beloved teacher--and we all loved Mr. W., he was actually an amazing teacher--expressed an opinion that made me angry. It still sticks out in my memory today.
So today, I'm thankful for feminism. I'm thankful for the everyday warriors who do so much more than I do to ensure we don't lose the fight in making everyone equal. Everyone. I'm thankful for the women who fought for the right to vote, for the women who questioned, for the women who stood up and said, "No. This needs to be better." Every day, we are bombarded with messages from the media, from politicians, from all sides, that we are silly women who can't make decisions for ourselves, who need to fit a certain mold.
Bullshit.
As I said to my friend this morning:
It's not about man-hating or anyone being better than anyone else. It's about equality and being able to live our lives as women without apologizing for being strong, or being called a bitch for having an opinion. It's about being able to walk down the street without some creeper intimidating us with a stare, a whistle, a disgusting comment. It's about smashing the ad industry's perception of what acceptable "feminine beauty" looks like, so maybe I can finally learn to be comfortable in the body I've got. It's about earning the same salary for the same work, it's about having a say in our rights in terms of reproductive health and when/if/how many children we have. I can't imagine why anyone wouldn't want to be a feminist!The sooner we all start recognizing this, the better.
Monday, October 21, 2013
Body Love Hate Love
Yesterday, I lay in a "Hydro-Derma Fusion" pod at Planet Beach, completely naked, letting my skin sweat in 118-degree steam. I love saunas; they always leave me feeling refreshed, as though I've sweated out the toxins and am freer, lighter for it.
As I lay there, my hands folded on my stomach, I could feel little of the lose skin and small extra store of fat I have, post weight-loss. I marveled at how much I love how my body has turned out, where I can feel my hip bones under a layer of fat that belongs there--not a huge layer, just that layer that's supposed to be there because I'm a woman who was born to have wide hips. I could feel my abdominal muscles--which do not show, but are nonetheless very fierce. I lay there thinking about how remarkable my journey has been, losing so much weight, but also becoming so strong as I learned to exercise and run. In that moment, I loved my body just as it is. A rare occurrence, for sure.
It's been on my mind a lot lately, and I've been struggling with loving my body. On the one hand, I adore the shape of my biceps and triceps, even as I frown at the jiggly parts of my arms. Some of it is lose skin. I have to remind myself--daily--that my body is strong, fit, healthy. I'm not what I used to be, and I am proud of that. Could I be even fitter? Yes. Do I want to be? ...Yes. Yes, I do, so I keep working, but I never, ever want that work to be driven by a need for perfection.
I walk a balance beam, basically.
So then fitness "gurus" come along and post "inspirational" photos like this, and I get a little steamed:
By now, you've likely seen this, and the brouhaha surrounding it. I was loathe to direct any more attention to it, until a few days ago, when Shut Up & Run posted about it (She Probably Doesn't Even Fart) and I had to comment. I got a little bit rant-y, because, if you recall, I'm already tired of some fitness-related blogging anyway.
I didn't expect much response, but a check back a couple of days later yielded all of this:
It felt good to see so many people agreeing, or feeling the same way. While I'm sure the lady in question probably didn't mean to alienate half the planet with her picture, when she posted it, she also didn't take into question the fact that everybody--and every body-- is different. I have friends of every possible shape, size, and most of us cannot, will not, look like she looks, no matter how fitness-savvy we get. The universe gifted me with an hourglass figure and curves galore, and I want to celebrate them (tummy and all) even as I celebrate my tall, slender friends, and my large-boned friends, and every other friend who has the body she's supposed to have. When people ask my advice on weight loss, I absolutely promote working out in whatever form is best for them....but I could never dream of telling any of them they ought to find time to get to the gym if they're not seeking to change their body. And I'd never shame them by telling them it's just an "excuse" if they miss a workout because this thing called Life got in the way.
On the same vein, I've seen this video going around, "Shrinking Women," and I find it both fabulous (very, very talented writing by this woman) and heartbreaking (because too many of us feel that need to shrink, to please society by taking up less space in it). She absolutely speaks of things I struggle with all the time.
I don't work out to shrink. I work out to grow.
Healthier.
Faster.
Stronger.
As I lay there, my hands folded on my stomach, I could feel little of the lose skin and small extra store of fat I have, post weight-loss. I marveled at how much I love how my body has turned out, where I can feel my hip bones under a layer of fat that belongs there--not a huge layer, just that layer that's supposed to be there because I'm a woman who was born to have wide hips. I could feel my abdominal muscles--which do not show, but are nonetheless very fierce. I lay there thinking about how remarkable my journey has been, losing so much weight, but also becoming so strong as I learned to exercise and run. In that moment, I loved my body just as it is. A rare occurrence, for sure.
It's been on my mind a lot lately, and I've been struggling with loving my body. On the one hand, I adore the shape of my biceps and triceps, even as I frown at the jiggly parts of my arms. Some of it is lose skin. I have to remind myself--daily--that my body is strong, fit, healthy. I'm not what I used to be, and I am proud of that. Could I be even fitter? Yes. Do I want to be? ...Yes. Yes, I do, so I keep working, but I never, ever want that work to be driven by a need for perfection.
I walk a balance beam, basically.
So then fitness "gurus" come along and post "inspirational" photos like this, and I get a little steamed:
By now, you've likely seen this, and the brouhaha surrounding it. I was loathe to direct any more attention to it, until a few days ago, when Shut Up & Run posted about it (She Probably Doesn't Even Fart) and I had to comment. I got a little bit rant-y, because, if you recall, I'm already tired of some fitness-related blogging anyway.
I didn't expect much response, but a check back a couple of days later yielded all of this:
 |
| The random dude from the interwebs actually kind of made my day--not because I'm looking for acceptance from men, but because it reminded me that there are men--and I've known a few--who appreciate a woman who loves her body. |
It felt good to see so many people agreeing, or feeling the same way. While I'm sure the lady in question probably didn't mean to alienate half the planet with her picture, when she posted it, she also didn't take into question the fact that everybody--and every body-- is different. I have friends of every possible shape, size, and most of us cannot, will not, look like she looks, no matter how fitness-savvy we get. The universe gifted me with an hourglass figure and curves galore, and I want to celebrate them (tummy and all) even as I celebrate my tall, slender friends, and my large-boned friends, and every other friend who has the body she's supposed to have. When people ask my advice on weight loss, I absolutely promote working out in whatever form is best for them....but I could never dream of telling any of them they ought to find time to get to the gym if they're not seeking to change their body. And I'd never shame them by telling them it's just an "excuse" if they miss a workout because this thing called Life got in the way.
On the same vein, I've seen this video going around, "Shrinking Women," and I find it both fabulous (very, very talented writing by this woman) and heartbreaking (because too many of us feel that need to shrink, to please society by taking up less space in it). She absolutely speaks of things I struggle with all the time.
I don’t know the capstone requirements for the sociology major because I spent the whole meeting deciding whether or not I could have another piece of pizza.I love going to the gym. It's not just part of my routine, it's something I enjoy. I like watching my muscles work, and feeling the sweat pour down my face and neck. I like nodding or smiling at people I see regularly, I like waving hello to Matt the Reasonable, talking football with Oscar at the front desk--who has the unfortunate affliction of being a Dallas fan. Poor kid. I go to the gym because it's good for me, because I feel good when I'm there, and even better when I leave, stronger for the time I've spent there.
A circular obsession I never wanted, but inheritance is accidental
I don't work out to shrink. I work out to grow.
Healthier.
Faster.
Stronger.
Thursday, March 07, 2013
Lessons In Being a Feminist
Tomorrow is International Women's Day, and I've been wanting to write a post in honor of this. For days, I wracked my brain for ideas, unsure just how to commemorate this day. Then, inspiration struck me: I'd write about the people who inspired me to believe in equality for women across the board. Not all of these people have held positive roles in my life, but from each one, I've learned a valuable lesson that I've taken with me as I've learned and grown.
Sadly, many people still associate feminism with the image of angry, screaming, bra-burning women. I have encountered people who think it's a man-hating view, but conversely, I've encountered plenty of men who are not at all threatened by feminism, who agree with the principle that women are equal, and our rights and pay should reflect that. I remember, a year or so ago, telling a guy friend, somewhat defiantly, "See, I'm a feminist..." before launching into a rant about why I wouldn't be supporting Komen's Race For the Cure in 2012 (after their now-infamous and temporary de-funding of Planned Parenthood). Curious and half afraid of his reaction, I stared right at him as I delivered the "f-word." He didn't even blink, just smiled and nodded, as if to say, "Go on..."
That's not always the case. In my adventures with online dating, I'm sure that having "feminist" proudly displayed on my profile has chased off many a guy who originally looked at my pics and thought, "Hey, she's cute." Fine. I will pay that price if it means not wasting time on a coffee date with someone who answered "yes" to the question, "Are women obligated to keep their legs shaved?"
But how did I get here? It's been a lifetime of learning and growing, and I was lucky to be born into a life where I not only had ample opportunities, I was encouraged to take them. Along the way, others have taught me life lessons that have shaped me as a person, but also as a feminist.
"When You Go to College..."
I cannot remember a time when responsibility for my actions and thought for my future was not emphasized in my home. My parents never said, "If you decide to go to college..." It was always, "When you go to college..." and there was no question that my aim was "university or bust" all through school. Dad insisted that the world I was growing up in was not one in which I could easily count on being taken care of, and he wanted me to have the tools to take care of myself. Because of this, I worked hard in school, finished my degree, and gained valuable work skills I've taken with me--even through unemployment.
My parents stressed to me that I had to put the responsibility for my own care on myself; that turning to others to keep me safe wasn't always going to be feasible. Even if I had married at 18, they always wanted me to have options because we live in an uncertain world.
"Don't Be Immature, Megan..."
For the most part, everyone adored Mr. Wolfe, a popular history teacher at my middle school, who transferred over to the high school with my class. I ended up having him for 9th grade history, too--I loved his classes and excelled in them. But Mr. Wolfe and I disagreed on one major point in 8th grade: women in combat.
Our great debate over this came rushing back from the depths of my memories recently when women were finally authorized to have a combat role in military operations. I remembered, suddenly, thirteen-year-old Meg, earnestly debating with her U.S. History teacher as another student stood nearby, watching.
"Women just don't have a place in combat," insisted Mr. Wolfe.
"I think they're just as capable as men are!" I retorted.
"Women are more necessary on the home front," was Mr. Wolfe's response. "Without them, the population can't grow." Twenty-one years later, I can still remember my hackles raising, as I realized my much-admired teacher was insinuating that women should be treated as baby-makers, not defenders. It was the first time a trusted teacher had made that claim to me.
"Well, you kind of need men for that, too!" I said with a huff.
Mr. Wolfe dismissed me with a roll of his eyes. "Don't be immature, Megan."
I still maintain that Mr. Wolfe was absolutely wrong to diminish women's role in society to being baby-popping homemakers. Should they wish to, women should be allowed to serve and defend their country, and his attempt to dissuade me from that point of view not only didn't work, but proved to be on the wrong side of history...and part of the making of a feminist.
"It's Not You, It's Me..."
From the moment "Helen" breezed into my life, smelling of fancy perfume and sophistication, I was smitten. I wanted to be just like her--owning a cute little house, living the city life, wearing nice clothes and adorable shoes. Helen and I were "past-life twins" and instant friends...and always, perhaps, a bit more of a big sister/little sister combo than true friends.
When my life started to change in big ways, around 2008/2009, Helen had recently married a man who was, by all surface accounts, everything a woman should want. He was successful, owned property in San Francisco, and he treated her like a queen...except for the fact that he cheated on her over the first six months of their marriage.
Many a strong woman I know says, "If my husband/boyfriend/lover ever cheated on me, I'd leave him right then and there." But Helen didn't leave, and the lesson I learned from her is that even the strongest feminist can fall into the black hole that is not believing anyone else will ever love you, and stay with a man who makes you lesser. As I watched her marriage progress, I saw her fade more and more into the background. Her profile picture on Facebook would be a picture of her husband standing slightly in front of her, dominating the picture in the same way he dominated her whole life.
When our friendship finally crumbled--rather pitifully--in 2010, it was through a letter Helen sent me, in which she actually wrote the words, "It's not you, it's me." I've always wondered if, as she watched me get stronger and more confident, just as her own sense of self crumbled, Helen just couldn't take it anymore.
"Shameless Jezebels"
Sometime in 2008, I discovered a blog called Jezebel. Part of the Gawker media empire, it is "Celebrity, Sex, Fashion for Women. Without Airbrushing." I was immediately smitten. Here was a site where I could learn about women's issues, and interact with like-minded feminists. I had just moved to Stockton, I was opening up my own world view more, and soon would embark on my great weight-loss Odyssey. The Jezebel community was exactly what I needed.
Through Jez, I befriended a ton of like-minded women (and men) who want the same things I want--equality for women the whole world over. Equal pay, reproductive rights, freedom from the misogynistic rape culture that continually holds us back...all of these issues were discussed. But we also talked about pop culture, fashion, and eventually, our lives.
As the quality on Jezebel had its ups and downs, people disappeared from the commenting sections, but we moved our friendships to Facebook and Twitter. To this day, I count among my friends many people I met via Jez.
From these ladies, I've learned that I can be a proud feminist and still love romance novels. I've learned that even the strongest feminist I know can be weakened by addiction, but come out the other side even stronger, even better. I have learned that while white women have their share of complaints, women of color face even harsher challenges on the road to equality. And I have learned that there is no shame in creating a community of like-minded people that exists almost entirely online (though I've met a few of these awesome ladies in person).
Reading Jezebel helped me find my own path in my feminist beliefs. While I'd always sort of quietly said, "Yeah, I'm pro-choice," Jezebel helped me understand exactly why I am. It's not because I think abortion is a good option, but because sometimes, the alternatives are worse.
Queen Bees and Careers
In my career as a teacher, I've had the pleasure of working with and under the supervision of some pretty awesome women. Women who, like me, are passionate about education and providing opportunities for children.
But I've also had a boss or two who weren't so great, who taught me, the hard way, that just because we're both women, and both educators, does not mean that we are necessarily on the same side of anything.
Case in point: my boss a few years ago, the one who decided, without once seeing me teach, that I was a "bad" teacher. The one who blatantly lied on my performance evaluation, and sat across from me in her office telling me one lie after another, all the while knowing there was nothing I could do about it, as a "probationary" employee. She had the power and authority, I did not.
Studies call bosses like this Queen Bees, and they point out the hypocrisy of women who complain about how hard it is to rise to a position of authority (like being a school principal), but then turn around and try to squash any other woman that might offer a hint of competition. I'll never know her reasons for taking an almost-instant dislike to me...but I did learn some important lessons from the experience. I can't rely on other women to take care of me--some women, like my friends from Jezebel, have a "we're all in this together" kind of mentality, but others do not. Women in positions of authority walk a very fine line--if you're too nice, people won't take you, the "little woman," seriously. If you're not nice at all, you're a bitch.
One of my intentions this year has been to forgive this former boss for her terrible behavior as a school administrator. Writing this, and thinking about Queen Bees, is actually opening me up to the first step of finally, firmly, leaving her in my past. I can see, in hindsight that her own insecurity in her authority must have led her to act the way she did. I can't hate her for it...though I do hate the system that spawned it.
Lessons From Myself
Obviously, our society promotes an impossible standard of beauty for women, and for years, I struggled to come to terms with my own inability to fit that ideal. I'm not going to lie--a very large part of my initial reasons for training were my desire to be "thin." I was so tired of being invisible to a society that didn't want my round body.
Over time, however, I started to notice a very important change in my mindset. While I appreciated being able to wear smaller clothes, that started to matter less as I discovered muscles building where they never had before, and as tasks at the gym became easier. As I realized I was just as strong as some of the badass women I looked on with envy, my journey became less about the number on the scale (though seeing 130 in September was amazing) and more about celebrating all of the things my body can do that used to be impossible. Running, lifting, moving.
Throughout my "Odyssey," I've realized that more than wanting some unattainable ideal, I want to be strong. As my body got stronger, so did my confidence. As my confidence grew, so did my optimism. My voice got louder, I became better at asking the world for what I want.
--
Being a feminist often feels like it comes with great responsibility. I worry about things like what I take for lunch on the days I'm at Petite School, because I want to set a healthy example for my kids (I often am seen at break munching on apple slices or baby carrots) but I also don't want to emphasize food to them and give them the idea that they have to be so strict with themselves. When, a few years ago, a sixth grade girl mentioned lying in bed with her 8th grade boyfriend, I had to decide how to react. I never want to shame a girl for her behavior as she learns about her sexuality, but I also knew that she was very immature and might not realize what this boy was trying to do until it was too late. In the end, I asked my (female) principal for advice, and she spoke to the student about our concerns.
I suppose we all just keep learning as we go. I am a proud feminist, and will work to show people that it's not a "man-hating" point of view, that we're not calling for "abortions for all!!" but rather a common sense approach to comprehensive sex education and access to birth control. Words like "legitimate rape" should never cross a politician's lips...ever. I will always maintain that if you pay a male CEO of Big Corporation $----, you should pay a female CEO of same corporation the same.
Women have made a lot of strides, though we still have a ways to go. I'm happy to do my part.
Sadly, many people still associate feminism with the image of angry, screaming, bra-burning women. I have encountered people who think it's a man-hating view, but conversely, I've encountered plenty of men who are not at all threatened by feminism, who agree with the principle that women are equal, and our rights and pay should reflect that. I remember, a year or so ago, telling a guy friend, somewhat defiantly, "See, I'm a feminist..." before launching into a rant about why I wouldn't be supporting Komen's Race For the Cure in 2012 (after their now-infamous and temporary de-funding of Planned Parenthood). Curious and half afraid of his reaction, I stared right at him as I delivered the "f-word." He didn't even blink, just smiled and nodded, as if to say, "Go on..."
That's not always the case. In my adventures with online dating, I'm sure that having "feminist" proudly displayed on my profile has chased off many a guy who originally looked at my pics and thought, "Hey, she's cute." Fine. I will pay that price if it means not wasting time on a coffee date with someone who answered "yes" to the question, "Are women obligated to keep their legs shaved?"
But how did I get here? It's been a lifetime of learning and growing, and I was lucky to be born into a life where I not only had ample opportunities, I was encouraged to take them. Along the way, others have taught me life lessons that have shaped me as a person, but also as a feminist.
"When You Go to College..."
I cannot remember a time when responsibility for my actions and thought for my future was not emphasized in my home. My parents never said, "If you decide to go to college..." It was always, "When you go to college..." and there was no question that my aim was "university or bust" all through school. Dad insisted that the world I was growing up in was not one in which I could easily count on being taken care of, and he wanted me to have the tools to take care of myself. Because of this, I worked hard in school, finished my degree, and gained valuable work skills I've taken with me--even through unemployment.
My parents stressed to me that I had to put the responsibility for my own care on myself; that turning to others to keep me safe wasn't always going to be feasible. Even if I had married at 18, they always wanted me to have options because we live in an uncertain world.
"Don't Be Immature, Megan..."
For the most part, everyone adored Mr. Wolfe, a popular history teacher at my middle school, who transferred over to the high school with my class. I ended up having him for 9th grade history, too--I loved his classes and excelled in them. But Mr. Wolfe and I disagreed on one major point in 8th grade: women in combat.
Our great debate over this came rushing back from the depths of my memories recently when women were finally authorized to have a combat role in military operations. I remembered, suddenly, thirteen-year-old Meg, earnestly debating with her U.S. History teacher as another student stood nearby, watching.
"Women just don't have a place in combat," insisted Mr. Wolfe.
"I think they're just as capable as men are!" I retorted.
"Women are more necessary on the home front," was Mr. Wolfe's response. "Without them, the population can't grow." Twenty-one years later, I can still remember my hackles raising, as I realized my much-admired teacher was insinuating that women should be treated as baby-makers, not defenders. It was the first time a trusted teacher had made that claim to me.
"Well, you kind of need men for that, too!" I said with a huff.
Mr. Wolfe dismissed me with a roll of his eyes. "Don't be immature, Megan."
I still maintain that Mr. Wolfe was absolutely wrong to diminish women's role in society to being baby-popping homemakers. Should they wish to, women should be allowed to serve and defend their country, and his attempt to dissuade me from that point of view not only didn't work, but proved to be on the wrong side of history...and part of the making of a feminist.
"It's Not You, It's Me..."
From the moment "Helen" breezed into my life, smelling of fancy perfume and sophistication, I was smitten. I wanted to be just like her--owning a cute little house, living the city life, wearing nice clothes and adorable shoes. Helen and I were "past-life twins" and instant friends...and always, perhaps, a bit more of a big sister/little sister combo than true friends.
When my life started to change in big ways, around 2008/2009, Helen had recently married a man who was, by all surface accounts, everything a woman should want. He was successful, owned property in San Francisco, and he treated her like a queen...except for the fact that he cheated on her over the first six months of their marriage.
Many a strong woman I know says, "If my husband/boyfriend/lover ever cheated on me, I'd leave him right then and there." But Helen didn't leave, and the lesson I learned from her is that even the strongest feminist can fall into the black hole that is not believing anyone else will ever love you, and stay with a man who makes you lesser. As I watched her marriage progress, I saw her fade more and more into the background. Her profile picture on Facebook would be a picture of her husband standing slightly in front of her, dominating the picture in the same way he dominated her whole life.
When our friendship finally crumbled--rather pitifully--in 2010, it was through a letter Helen sent me, in which she actually wrote the words, "It's not you, it's me." I've always wondered if, as she watched me get stronger and more confident, just as her own sense of self crumbled, Helen just couldn't take it anymore.
"Shameless Jezebels"
Sometime in 2008, I discovered a blog called Jezebel. Part of the Gawker media empire, it is "Celebrity, Sex, Fashion for Women. Without Airbrushing." I was immediately smitten. Here was a site where I could learn about women's issues, and interact with like-minded feminists. I had just moved to Stockton, I was opening up my own world view more, and soon would embark on my great weight-loss Odyssey. The Jezebel community was exactly what I needed.
Through Jez, I befriended a ton of like-minded women (and men) who want the same things I want--equality for women the whole world over. Equal pay, reproductive rights, freedom from the misogynistic rape culture that continually holds us back...all of these issues were discussed. But we also talked about pop culture, fashion, and eventually, our lives.
As the quality on Jezebel had its ups and downs, people disappeared from the commenting sections, but we moved our friendships to Facebook and Twitter. To this day, I count among my friends many people I met via Jez.
From these ladies, I've learned that I can be a proud feminist and still love romance novels. I've learned that even the strongest feminist I know can be weakened by addiction, but come out the other side even stronger, even better. I have learned that while white women have their share of complaints, women of color face even harsher challenges on the road to equality. And I have learned that there is no shame in creating a community of like-minded people that exists almost entirely online (though I've met a few of these awesome ladies in person).
Reading Jezebel helped me find my own path in my feminist beliefs. While I'd always sort of quietly said, "Yeah, I'm pro-choice," Jezebel helped me understand exactly why I am. It's not because I think abortion is a good option, but because sometimes, the alternatives are worse.
Queen Bees and Careers
In my career as a teacher, I've had the pleasure of working with and under the supervision of some pretty awesome women. Women who, like me, are passionate about education and providing opportunities for children.
But I've also had a boss or two who weren't so great, who taught me, the hard way, that just because we're both women, and both educators, does not mean that we are necessarily on the same side of anything.
Case in point: my boss a few years ago, the one who decided, without once seeing me teach, that I was a "bad" teacher. The one who blatantly lied on my performance evaluation, and sat across from me in her office telling me one lie after another, all the while knowing there was nothing I could do about it, as a "probationary" employee. She had the power and authority, I did not.
Studies call bosses like this Queen Bees, and they point out the hypocrisy of women who complain about how hard it is to rise to a position of authority (like being a school principal), but then turn around and try to squash any other woman that might offer a hint of competition. I'll never know her reasons for taking an almost-instant dislike to me...but I did learn some important lessons from the experience. I can't rely on other women to take care of me--some women, like my friends from Jezebel, have a "we're all in this together" kind of mentality, but others do not. Women in positions of authority walk a very fine line--if you're too nice, people won't take you, the "little woman," seriously. If you're not nice at all, you're a bitch.
One of my intentions this year has been to forgive this former boss for her terrible behavior as a school administrator. Writing this, and thinking about Queen Bees, is actually opening me up to the first step of finally, firmly, leaving her in my past. I can see, in hindsight that her own insecurity in her authority must have led her to act the way she did. I can't hate her for it...though I do hate the system that spawned it.
Lessons From Myself
Obviously, our society promotes an impossible standard of beauty for women, and for years, I struggled to come to terms with my own inability to fit that ideal. I'm not going to lie--a very large part of my initial reasons for training were my desire to be "thin." I was so tired of being invisible to a society that didn't want my round body.
Over time, however, I started to notice a very important change in my mindset. While I appreciated being able to wear smaller clothes, that started to matter less as I discovered muscles building where they never had before, and as tasks at the gym became easier. As I realized I was just as strong as some of the badass women I looked on with envy, my journey became less about the number on the scale (though seeing 130 in September was amazing) and more about celebrating all of the things my body can do that used to be impossible. Running, lifting, moving.
Throughout my "Odyssey," I've realized that more than wanting some unattainable ideal, I want to be strong. As my body got stronger, so did my confidence. As my confidence grew, so did my optimism. My voice got louder, I became better at asking the world for what I want.
--
Being a feminist often feels like it comes with great responsibility. I worry about things like what I take for lunch on the days I'm at Petite School, because I want to set a healthy example for my kids (I often am seen at break munching on apple slices or baby carrots) but I also don't want to emphasize food to them and give them the idea that they have to be so strict with themselves. When, a few years ago, a sixth grade girl mentioned lying in bed with her 8th grade boyfriend, I had to decide how to react. I never want to shame a girl for her behavior as she learns about her sexuality, but I also knew that she was very immature and might not realize what this boy was trying to do until it was too late. In the end, I asked my (female) principal for advice, and she spoke to the student about our concerns.
I suppose we all just keep learning as we go. I am a proud feminist, and will work to show people that it's not a "man-hating" point of view, that we're not calling for "abortions for all!!" but rather a common sense approach to comprehensive sex education and access to birth control. Words like "legitimate rape" should never cross a politician's lips...ever. I will always maintain that if you pay a male CEO of Big Corporation $----, you should pay a female CEO of same corporation the same.
Women have made a lot of strides, though we still have a ways to go. I'm happy to do my part.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
The C-Word
I got called "cunt" today.
I hate using that word on my blog, but I use it in full because I want you, the reader, to be as shocked as I was, when I opened a message on eBay--on eBay!--and found a disgruntled buyer calling me a really horrible name. I've received the occasional negative feedback on eBay. Someone once got mad that I wouldn't break up a set of magazines (causing way more work than I had time to deal with at that point) and left dishonest feedback that the magazines were missing several pages, etc. I took it in stride--whaddaya gonna do, right? But today, I actually felt myself shaking a little bit as I read a message liberally sprinkled with the f-word and calling me an extremely vile insult.
Here's the back story: I sold a collectible item recently, starting bidding at $1.99. Bidding got a bit competitive and finally, a man won the item for $25. He messaged me before winning the auction to ask a couple of specific questions--does the item work? It does, indeed, look like the picture? Yes, I responded. Last time I tried it, it worked as it's supposed to and I see no reason it wouldn't still. I wrap everything very well for shipping, the item will not break in transit.
Yesterday, I received a message from the auction winner, stating he did not want to be a bother, but he had not received the mug yet. I told him it certainly was not a bother, and checked the shipping--the item had left Los Angeles but the United States Postal Service had no tracking information for it once it got to Canada, where the buyer lives. I told him to please let me know when the item arrived. Apparently, it arrived today, because I received the offensive message telling me that the item does not work as I advertised. I've misled and scammed a poor, broke college student. He hopes I use his money for something really nice for myself, and admonished me that I should feel like a horrible human being.
None of that bothered me--not even the f-word sprinkled all over the place, hell, I use that word all the time (just not often here at the LPB). It was that one c-word that glared at me, that upset me. It was so unwarranted, so angry--not once did he ask me to explain what might have happened, not once did he stop to consider that despite my careful packaging (a ton of bubble wrap and those plastic air-filled pouches that are used for shipping), all of the different hands that handled the package en route from California to Canada could have caused damage to the item. He just assumed I had wronged him, and that I deserved to have an extremely derogatory slur thrown at me.
I did not respond to the message, and immediately reported him to eBay for "foul/abusive language," clearly stating in my complaint that I was called a "cunt" in a message from a buyer. Obviously I've saved the message to use should anyone contact me for more information, or should this buyer try to open a case against me. If he leaves negative feedback, I can leave a note on it stating my side of things.
A few minutes later, I received another message, in which the buyer apologized for using "vulgar language" but re-stated that I should feel horrible. He was adamant in both messages that I should carry some sort of burden of guilt for making him so miserable.
By now, I was getting angry. This immature boy sends a long, hate-filled message, accuses me of lying in my eBay listing (I'll just insert here that I have an excellent seller rating and am a "Top-Rated Seller" on eBay because I have very fast shipping/handling time and reasonable prices--not to mention excellent communication with buyers), swears up one side and down the other, and caps it all of by using an offensive slur...and he thinks I am in the wrong?
Because I am an excellent seller, willing to resolve issues and communicate with buyers, I sent him this message:
Most likely, what we have here is a bully who is looking to get something for nothing. Maybe he's thinking he can be vile and rude and accuse me of being a liar and I will scurry into my corner and offer a full refund, just make the kid happy...what he doesn't realize is that he's dealing with a seasoned middle school teacher. While being called the c-word threw me momentarily, his childish, rage-filled tirade only made me steamed enough to pull on my teacher pants and deal with him as I would any snotty child who thinks they can get along in the world by treating others in such a way. Uh-uh. No way.
Throughout the afternoon, I got to thinking about my knee-jerk reaction to being called the c-word. Why, exactly, is this word so offensive when used as an insult (had he called me an asshole, a bitch, or any other myriad insulting names, I probably would have shrugged it off). So I took to Google and I found a really fascinating article, A Fascinating History of the "C-Word" by Lindsay Zoladz. The whole article is worth a read, but what really caught my attention was her assertion that, "a word meant to signify female pleasure has been turned against us into something evil, fearful, unspoken."
The history of the word basically encompasses all of female genitalia, including the parts that give pleasure. For a man to use the c-word as an insult is a perfect example of a patriarchal society making women's sexual pleasure something that is taboo or wrong. Of course, today's disgruntled eBay buyer wasn't thinking about my sexuality when he angrily chose to call me a the c-word--he was merely looking for the best possible way to put me in my place for "wronging" him, and he knew, instinctively, that using this slur would be the most effective way of making me feel bad.
I'm not going to allow it to work.
I hate using that word on my blog, but I use it in full because I want you, the reader, to be as shocked as I was, when I opened a message on eBay--on eBay!--and found a disgruntled buyer calling me a really horrible name. I've received the occasional negative feedback on eBay. Someone once got mad that I wouldn't break up a set of magazines (causing way more work than I had time to deal with at that point) and left dishonest feedback that the magazines were missing several pages, etc. I took it in stride--whaddaya gonna do, right? But today, I actually felt myself shaking a little bit as I read a message liberally sprinkled with the f-word and calling me an extremely vile insult.
Here's the back story: I sold a collectible item recently, starting bidding at $1.99. Bidding got a bit competitive and finally, a man won the item for $25. He messaged me before winning the auction to ask a couple of specific questions--does the item work? It does, indeed, look like the picture? Yes, I responded. Last time I tried it, it worked as it's supposed to and I see no reason it wouldn't still. I wrap everything very well for shipping, the item will not break in transit.
Yesterday, I received a message from the auction winner, stating he did not want to be a bother, but he had not received the mug yet. I told him it certainly was not a bother, and checked the shipping--the item had left Los Angeles but the United States Postal Service had no tracking information for it once it got to Canada, where the buyer lives. I told him to please let me know when the item arrived. Apparently, it arrived today, because I received the offensive message telling me that the item does not work as I advertised. I've misled and scammed a poor, broke college student. He hopes I use his money for something really nice for myself, and admonished me that I should feel like a horrible human being.
None of that bothered me--not even the f-word sprinkled all over the place, hell, I use that word all the time (just not often here at the LPB). It was that one c-word that glared at me, that upset me. It was so unwarranted, so angry--not once did he ask me to explain what might have happened, not once did he stop to consider that despite my careful packaging (a ton of bubble wrap and those plastic air-filled pouches that are used for shipping), all of the different hands that handled the package en route from California to Canada could have caused damage to the item. He just assumed I had wronged him, and that I deserved to have an extremely derogatory slur thrown at me.
I did not respond to the message, and immediately reported him to eBay for "foul/abusive language," clearly stating in my complaint that I was called a "cunt" in a message from a buyer. Obviously I've saved the message to use should anyone contact me for more information, or should this buyer try to open a case against me. If he leaves negative feedback, I can leave a note on it stating my side of things.
A few minutes later, I received another message, in which the buyer apologized for using "vulgar language" but re-stated that I should feel horrible. He was adamant in both messages that I should carry some sort of burden of guilt for making him so miserable.
By now, I was getting angry. This immature boy sends a long, hate-filled message, accuses me of lying in my eBay listing (I'll just insert here that I have an excellent seller rating and am a "Top-Rated Seller" on eBay because I have very fast shipping/handling time and reasonable prices--not to mention excellent communication with buyers), swears up one side and down the other, and caps it all of by using an offensive slur...and he thinks I am in the wrong?
Because I am an excellent seller, willing to resolve issues and communicate with buyers, I sent him this message:
At the time of shipment, the item was exactly as I described it in the listing, and exactly as pictured. I pride myself on being an honest seller and I have been 100% honest in my dealings with you.He has not responded to this.
If it is not to your liking, you can return the item for a full refund of the payment you made and the original shipping cost. Return postage, as per my seller policies listed on all of my auctions, is paid by the buyer.
Most likely, what we have here is a bully who is looking to get something for nothing. Maybe he's thinking he can be vile and rude and accuse me of being a liar and I will scurry into my corner and offer a full refund, just make the kid happy...what he doesn't realize is that he's dealing with a seasoned middle school teacher. While being called the c-word threw me momentarily, his childish, rage-filled tirade only made me steamed enough to pull on my teacher pants and deal with him as I would any snotty child who thinks they can get along in the world by treating others in such a way. Uh-uh. No way.
Throughout the afternoon, I got to thinking about my knee-jerk reaction to being called the c-word. Why, exactly, is this word so offensive when used as an insult (had he called me an asshole, a bitch, or any other myriad insulting names, I probably would have shrugged it off). So I took to Google and I found a really fascinating article, A Fascinating History of the "C-Word" by Lindsay Zoladz. The whole article is worth a read, but what really caught my attention was her assertion that, "a word meant to signify female pleasure has been turned against us into something evil, fearful, unspoken."
The history of the word basically encompasses all of female genitalia, including the parts that give pleasure. For a man to use the c-word as an insult is a perfect example of a patriarchal society making women's sexual pleasure something that is taboo or wrong. Of course, today's disgruntled eBay buyer wasn't thinking about my sexuality when he angrily chose to call me a the c-word--he was merely looking for the best possible way to put me in my place for "wronging" him, and he knew, instinctively, that using this slur would be the most effective way of making me feel bad.
I'm not going to allow it to work.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Little Lady
Okay, I get it, world. I'm tiny.
Little. Small. Itty-bitty. Whatever.
I will probably never see myself that way, for two reasons:
Here's the thing: Most of the guys are perfectly fine with me helping, and after some initial, "You got this? You sure?" they realized that yes, I've got this, and yes, I can hold my end of a choir riser up as we slowly haul it up a flight of stairs, around a few corners, and into the sanctuary.
It just still amazes me that people don't look at me an automatically know that I lat-pulled 90 pounds that morning, or ran three miles, or...you get the picture. I have to remind myself that people look at me and see 5'2" and 130-ish pounds. "Tiny." I'm toned, but last night I was wearing a sweater and jeans. Knee-high boots. If I'd been in my gym gear and sturdy running shoes, maybe they'd have looked at me differently.
Our director, Don, a man in his sixties, was hauling a riser up the stairs with another guy and saw me heading down to get another. "Are you okay, Megan?" he asked as he struggled backwards up the stairs with his half.
"I'm fine!" I replied with a laugh. "I'm an athlete!"
I helped haul about four or five of those risers up the stairs with one of the guys. I told him the short version of my story, and he was impressed. Maybe that's one reason I insisted on being the only woman helping with the lifting and hauling last night. Sure, some of it is the feminist in me who winces every time Don asks for "the men" to help with the risers at rehearsal. But some of it is also my need to tell my story and get it out there in the world. I won't lie, I love the reactions I get, and the kudos. But I also love knowing that maybe, just maybe, someone else who struggles will look at how far I've come and think, "Hey, I can do this, too."
In the end, what I found hilarious was that hauling risers up stairs was perfectly fine--what ended up making my back hurt last night was spending too much time sitting on a wooden pew while the soloists and instrumentalists rehearsed!
Next time Don calls on the guys to help set up, I'll help again--if I feel like it.
Don't worry boys, I got this. ; )
Little. Small. Itty-bitty. Whatever.
I will probably never see myself that way, for two reasons:
- The negative: I will always, always hold on to that feeling of being bigger because I spent most of my adult life to this point overweight. It doesn't matter what the scale says or what size clothing I wear, I'm going to feel bigger than I actually am. I suppose I'll always carry a little bit of body dysmorphia around with me.
- On the positive side, while logically I know I'm small in stature, I also know how strong I've become. Don't let the physical size you see when you look at me fool you--I am quite strong and capable, thank-you-very-much.
Here's the thing: Most of the guys are perfectly fine with me helping, and after some initial, "You got this? You sure?" they realized that yes, I've got this, and yes, I can hold my end of a choir riser up as we slowly haul it up a flight of stairs, around a few corners, and into the sanctuary.
It just still amazes me that people don't look at me an automatically know that I lat-pulled 90 pounds that morning, or ran three miles, or...you get the picture. I have to remind myself that people look at me and see 5'2" and 130-ish pounds. "Tiny." I'm toned, but last night I was wearing a sweater and jeans. Knee-high boots. If I'd been in my gym gear and sturdy running shoes, maybe they'd have looked at me differently.
Our director, Don, a man in his sixties, was hauling a riser up the stairs with another guy and saw me heading down to get another. "Are you okay, Megan?" he asked as he struggled backwards up the stairs with his half.
"I'm fine!" I replied with a laugh. "I'm an athlete!"
I helped haul about four or five of those risers up the stairs with one of the guys. I told him the short version of my story, and he was impressed. Maybe that's one reason I insisted on being the only woman helping with the lifting and hauling last night. Sure, some of it is the feminist in me who winces every time Don asks for "the men" to help with the risers at rehearsal. But some of it is also my need to tell my story and get it out there in the world. I won't lie, I love the reactions I get, and the kudos. But I also love knowing that maybe, just maybe, someone else who struggles will look at how far I've come and think, "Hey, I can do this, too."
In the end, what I found hilarious was that hauling risers up stairs was perfectly fine--what ended up making my back hurt last night was spending too much time sitting on a wooden pew while the soloists and instrumentalists rehearsed!
Next time Don calls on the guys to help set up, I'll help again--if I feel like it.
Don't worry boys, I got this. ; )
Thursday, August 09, 2012
Heroes
There are mornings I get up and the last thing--the very last thing--I want to do is run. I'm tired. It's hot. My knee is twinging. I'm bloated. Whine, whine, whine, don't wanna.
But I do it, because I feel better when I run. I feel sluggish when I don't. I do it because it helps me lose weight, keep the weight off. I do it because it's good for my heart, but also good for my soul.
And I do it because I can.
On various feminist blogs I follow, I've heard of the women from various Muslim countries who have been finally granted the right to compete in the Olympics--women from Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Afghanistan, and other countries that previously balked at allowing women to participate in sports. This year, every country represented at the Olympics has at least one woman on its team--a first in modern Olympic history.
Some of these women have to have bodyguards when they train. Some of them could be assassinated for daring to be a runner. But they do it anyway, because they want to make a change in their countries, to ensure that the girls who come after them will have more opportunities.
My hat is off to them.
Tonight, I saw this article linked on Twitter--it brought tears to my eyes. The author, Stephen Hume, is right on the money. These women are some of the truest heroes of the Olympic games...and they are finishing dead last. While the fastest and the strongest get the glory of medals and photo ops and anthems ringing out, these incredible women are quietly and courageously making history.
Tomorrow morning, I have to get up early to run before the heat sets in on another 100+ degree day. No doubt I'll moan when the alarm goes off, wish for more sleep, whine a little as my calves ache at the very thought of hitting the pavement.
But I will get out there and run, because I can, and because I owe it to these women to do my part to make this world safer and easier for women who want to run.
To quote Mr. Hume: "Not all Olympic champions stand on the podium. Some finish last."
But I do it, because I feel better when I run. I feel sluggish when I don't. I do it because it helps me lose weight, keep the weight off. I do it because it's good for my heart, but also good for my soul.
And I do it because I can.
On various feminist blogs I follow, I've heard of the women from various Muslim countries who have been finally granted the right to compete in the Olympics--women from Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Afghanistan, and other countries that previously balked at allowing women to participate in sports. This year, every country represented at the Olympics has at least one woman on its team--a first in modern Olympic history.
Some of these women have to have bodyguards when they train. Some of them could be assassinated for daring to be a runner. But they do it anyway, because they want to make a change in their countries, to ensure that the girls who come after them will have more opportunities.
My hat is off to them.
Tonight, I saw this article linked on Twitter--it brought tears to my eyes. The author, Stephen Hume, is right on the money. These women are some of the truest heroes of the Olympic games...and they are finishing dead last. While the fastest and the strongest get the glory of medals and photo ops and anthems ringing out, these incredible women are quietly and courageously making history.
Tomorrow morning, I have to get up early to run before the heat sets in on another 100+ degree day. No doubt I'll moan when the alarm goes off, wish for more sleep, whine a little as my calves ache at the very thought of hitting the pavement.
But I will get out there and run, because I can, and because I owe it to these women to do my part to make this world safer and easier for women who want to run.
To quote Mr. Hume: "Not all Olympic champions stand on the podium. Some finish last."
Friday, May 04, 2012
The Kids Are Alright
Julia Bluhm is a teenage girl in Maine who saw something that bothered her and set out to fix it. Specifically, she was disturbed by the airbrushed and Photoshopped models in Seventeen magazine, a publication aimed at and read by teenage girls who are constantly pressured to be thinner, prettier, cooler, more fashionable, and everything else.
So Julia started a petition, hoping to get some signatures and maybe the attention of the editors at Seventeen. So far, she has over 50,000 signatures and she's met with the editor-in-chief.
She has also helped continue the crucial conversation about our society and the pressures young women face to be accepted as "beautiful."
As a woman who grew up reading these magazines, wishing I were "skinny" like the models, not understanding that the hips and breasts that were developing on me were, in fact, quite beautiful in their own right, I applaud Julia. As a teacher who once had an ambulance drive up to her high school classroom to take a 15-year-old girl to the hospital to treat her for dangerously low blood sugar, I applaud Julia. My student had decided that skipping a few meals made sense in her weight loss plan. She was a beautiful young woman who felt she ought to be skinnier.
Sign Julia's petition. And every day, think about the pressure and demand we all place on each other to be prettier, better, everything-else-er, and maybe back off a bit. Focus on what is within. Recognize true beauty--a good heart, a sharp mind, a warm smile.
So Julia started a petition, hoping to get some signatures and maybe the attention of the editors at Seventeen. So far, she has over 50,000 signatures and she's met with the editor-in-chief.
She has also helped continue the crucial conversation about our society and the pressures young women face to be accepted as "beautiful."
As a woman who grew up reading these magazines, wishing I were "skinny" like the models, not understanding that the hips and breasts that were developing on me were, in fact, quite beautiful in their own right, I applaud Julia. As a teacher who once had an ambulance drive up to her high school classroom to take a 15-year-old girl to the hospital to treat her for dangerously low blood sugar, I applaud Julia. My student had decided that skipping a few meals made sense in her weight loss plan. She was a beautiful young woman who felt she ought to be skinnier.
Sign Julia's petition. And every day, think about the pressure and demand we all place on each other to be prettier, better, everything-else-er, and maybe back off a bit. Focus on what is within. Recognize true beauty--a good heart, a sharp mind, a warm smile.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Birth Control Blog Carnival
I've signed up to participate in Thursday's Birth Control Blog Carnival, sponsored by National Women's Law Center and Planned Parenthood. They've invited bloggers to participate in the discussion about birth control and its place in women's lives. This post will be shared, along with many others by bloggers all over the country.
According to Planned Parenthood:
I have used the Pill off and on since the age of 18--mostly as a way to control hormone fluctuations, acne, and (forgive the overshare) extra-long, extra-heavy menstrual periods. In this last year on unemployment, I've missed being on the Pill, and one of these days I may actually drag my lazy self over to Planned Parenthood to get back on it. I'm thankful I still have Planned Parenthood in California--the organization is facing all kinds of challenges across the U.S. right now (you can read a post I wrote about that in March, here).
Anyway, now that I've got the ranty stuff out of the way, the bottom line (and my point) is that allowing all women access to affordable family planning and health screening should be a top priority--and, of course, we should continue educating people about health and wellness in all areas of life, without denying reproductive health.
According to Planned Parenthood:
This summer, the Institute of Medicine (IOM) will issue its recommendation on women's preventive health care and whether it includes birth control. The final decision on this important aspect of health care reform will be made by the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (HHS). If the HHS concludes that women's preventive health care includes birth control, it will be covered by new health plans without a co-payment — a major victory for women's health! (Source)It is hard for me to fathom why, in 2011, this is still an issue--I'm glad, certainly, that so many people are working hard to make this happen, but it's still sad that women's health is something that has to be fought for in these so-called "enlightened" times. Men can get little blue pills (and those cheesy-as-hell ads are all over TV) and giving women access to birth control is still this Big Issue. It makes me want to scream.
I have used the Pill off and on since the age of 18--mostly as a way to control hormone fluctuations, acne, and (forgive the overshare) extra-long, extra-heavy menstrual periods. In this last year on unemployment, I've missed being on the Pill, and one of these days I may actually drag my lazy self over to Planned Parenthood to get back on it. I'm thankful I still have Planned Parenthood in California--the organization is facing all kinds of challenges across the U.S. right now (you can read a post I wrote about that in March, here).
Anyway, now that I've got the ranty stuff out of the way, the bottom line (and my point) is that allowing all women access to affordable family planning and health screening should be a top priority--and, of course, we should continue educating people about health and wellness in all areas of life, without denying reproductive health.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
*Sigh*
Just an observation. Here are two stories that were on my Yahoo homepage a few minutes ago. It really drove home to me just how few shits I give about a has-been R&B singer (or any "star," for that matter) when there are women in the world who still struggle for the most basic freedoms.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
It's Not A Compliment
Yesterday, I was enjoying my stroll around downtown Stockton--as blogged--when something a little more disturbing happened to me.
I was rounding a corner, turning onto a side street to get a few sign pictures, when a man in a pickup truck rolled up, heading in a westward direction (I was walking east). I wouldn't have noticed him were it not for his slow wolf-whistle, which made me look up and see him leering at me as he rolled to a stop at the intersection. My immediate reaction was confusion, followed by a quick, "Oh, hell no!" muttered under my breath as I glared at him from behind my sunglasses and introduced him to my middle finger.
This all happened in the space of maybe ten seconds. It was broad daylight, and he wasn't an actual threat to me--it's not like he was going to climb out of his truck and physically harm me on a busy public street at 2:30 in the afternoon. But I felt threatened nonetheless, and was happy to walk away from him, round another corner one block down, and then meander back to Rosie Pro with the knowledge that he was long gone in the other direction.
When I got home, I posted a status update on Facebook about it; how creepy it was, and how no man should treat a woman like a piece of tasty-looking meat. I'm not a steak, I'm a human being, and I have every right to walk down a city street--day or night--without being harassed or treated like an object.
Imagine my surprise when more than one friend told me I should feel complimented.
Here's the thing--I gained weight in my twenties in part because I felt a need to be invisible. No one notices the fat girl, right? At 18 I was this naive young coed who suddenly had men asking me my bra size and coming on to me in ways I wasn't prepared for. I fell for a couple of boys in that time period that didn't reciprocate my feelings and suddenly being noticed by the opposite sex didn't feel so safe anymore. It's not the only reason I ballooned in weight, but it's a big part of it. And it's an issue I still deal with in my thirties, whether I weigh 220 pounds or 165 pounds.
And I'm getting past it, slowly but surely. These days I work out because it feels good, and because I want to be healthy.
But I digress.
I guess I used to think, when I was heavier, that getting whistled at or cat-called would feel good...but I've learned that it doesn't. Sure, it's nice when I see a man look at me, look away, then look again. There's nothing wrong with a glance, or a friendly smile. Holding a door for me, or smiling as we pass and saying "Hello." But leering at a woman, overtly showing her--and everyone else in the vicinity--that you think she's hot devalues the human being inside. It's not a compliment. It's a show of power. It makes him feel in control and me feel vulnerable. It's so "Me, Tarzan. You, Jane" that all I could do in the split second I had to react to him was flash my middle finger (not my finest moment, but honestly it was a gut reaction made in fear and disgust).
So having people tell me I should feel complimented because getting whistled at means I'm "hot," or "foxy," is really offensive to me. Most of my friends agreed with me; they get it. But those few who don't are missing the forest for the trees--as long as we continue living by that mentality that we need men to approve our looks in order to feel good about ourselves, women will continue to be treated as less than fully equal to men. And I am not less than--I refuse to be less than. I am a woman, yes, but more than that, I am a human being with thoughts, feelings...and the right to be ignored.
I was rounding a corner, turning onto a side street to get a few sign pictures, when a man in a pickup truck rolled up, heading in a westward direction (I was walking east). I wouldn't have noticed him were it not for his slow wolf-whistle, which made me look up and see him leering at me as he rolled to a stop at the intersection. My immediate reaction was confusion, followed by a quick, "Oh, hell no!" muttered under my breath as I glared at him from behind my sunglasses and introduced him to my middle finger.
This all happened in the space of maybe ten seconds. It was broad daylight, and he wasn't an actual threat to me--it's not like he was going to climb out of his truck and physically harm me on a busy public street at 2:30 in the afternoon. But I felt threatened nonetheless, and was happy to walk away from him, round another corner one block down, and then meander back to Rosie Pro with the knowledge that he was long gone in the other direction.
When I got home, I posted a status update on Facebook about it; how creepy it was, and how no man should treat a woman like a piece of tasty-looking meat. I'm not a steak, I'm a human being, and I have every right to walk down a city street--day or night--without being harassed or treated like an object.
Imagine my surprise when more than one friend told me I should feel complimented.
Here's the thing--I gained weight in my twenties in part because I felt a need to be invisible. No one notices the fat girl, right? At 18 I was this naive young coed who suddenly had men asking me my bra size and coming on to me in ways I wasn't prepared for. I fell for a couple of boys in that time period that didn't reciprocate my feelings and suddenly being noticed by the opposite sex didn't feel so safe anymore. It's not the only reason I ballooned in weight, but it's a big part of it. And it's an issue I still deal with in my thirties, whether I weigh 220 pounds or 165 pounds.
And I'm getting past it, slowly but surely. These days I work out because it feels good, and because I want to be healthy.
But I digress.
I guess I used to think, when I was heavier, that getting whistled at or cat-called would feel good...but I've learned that it doesn't. Sure, it's nice when I see a man look at me, look away, then look again. There's nothing wrong with a glance, or a friendly smile. Holding a door for me, or smiling as we pass and saying "Hello." But leering at a woman, overtly showing her--and everyone else in the vicinity--that you think she's hot devalues the human being inside. It's not a compliment. It's a show of power. It makes him feel in control and me feel vulnerable. It's so "Me, Tarzan. You, Jane" that all I could do in the split second I had to react to him was flash my middle finger (not my finest moment, but honestly it was a gut reaction made in fear and disgust).
So having people tell me I should feel complimented because getting whistled at means I'm "hot," or "foxy," is really offensive to me. Most of my friends agreed with me; they get it. But those few who don't are missing the forest for the trees--as long as we continue living by that mentality that we need men to approve our looks in order to feel good about ourselves, women will continue to be treated as less than fully equal to men. And I am not less than--I refuse to be less than. I am a woman, yes, but more than that, I am a human being with thoughts, feelings...and the right to be ignored.
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
Glamour FAIL
I have a subscription to Glamour magazine. I've always found it to be the best of the fashion magazines. It's by no means perfect, but at least they try to include some real-looking women, stories about women who are truly making a difference, and practical, real advice about things women are concerned about--health, wellness, finances, careers. It's mixed in with the crazy fashions, fun hair and make up ideas, and occasional celebrity news. I save them for the Stair Master--even though Gershom has yelled at me about reading while working out, I get super-bored up there and need something frivolous to read (and to hide the timer).
I particularly love the "Hey, It's Ok" feature each month, but this month in the December issue, it's full of FAIL. All-caps FAIL.
Instead of "Hey, It's Ok..." they did a feature called "10 Silver Linings of Life's Lowest Moments." I'll just list them and then add my commentary.
1. Your bag was stolen, giving you the best excuse ever to buy a new, even nicer bag. Joke's on you, robber man!
No, no, the joke would be on me if my bag was stolen...and along with it, my car key, my house key, my mailbox key, my wallet (bank card, driver's license, credit card,) cell phone, iPod...Going out to buy a new purse would not cheer me up--I'd be terrified that before I could get to the bank and USAA to stop all cards, my identity would be stolen. Or that some major creep might be waiting for me in my apartment when I get home.
The only silver lining I can think of when someone's bag gets stolen is, "Well, thank God they didn't hurt YOU."
Also? Implying that for all women, a new handbag will make it all better just perpetuates the myth that women are all cookie cutters who fit into a pretty, feminine mold. Aren't we sweet?
2. After three weeks on crutches, your triceps will be ripped.
I don't have a problem with this one.
3. Two days of stomach flu = Hey! take those jeans out of the giveaway bag...They fit again!
This one really got me feeling pissy on the Stair Master. We live in a society that values weight loss so much that getting the stomach flu is a cause to celebrate because woohoo!! Weight loss at any cost!
Yes, yes, I'm a big ole advocate for being fierce at the gym. But come on, Glamour, why are you promoting this idea? How many young women out there voluntarily throw up to gain/maintain that "ideal" body that fits into the jeans? Why are we perpetuating the celebration of such an unhealthy mindset?
Now that I think about it, this is worth writing in to Glamour.
4. An outdoor wedding in the rain makes for very cinematic pictures.
Again, no problem here.
5. Maybe the firemen will be hot. (Accompanied by a cartoon picture of a woman applying lipstick, clutching her wide-eyed cat, while smoke billows around them.)
Maybe I'm just feeling stabby after the "Throwing up is fun!" and "Hey, new handbag!!" of the other "silver linings," but this one made me kind of pissy, too. Not outraged, but come on, if my apartment caught fire, and God forbid, because this is one of my biggest, worst fears, I would grab my cats, my purse, and get the hell out of there pronto. I don't care what I look like, as long as I look, you know, alive. With two living cats.
6. Well, at least you know the air bags work.
Again, this is me being sensitive and stabby. I've been in enough car accidents with deployed airbags (two) to know that it's 1) not at all pleasant and 2) the smell of the powder they use in air bags is quite unpleasant and 3) not a whole hell of a lot is scarier to me (even my apartment catching on fire) than colliding with another car on the road. I still get shaky remembering the accidents I've been involved with, and thank my lucky stars all the time they were minor.
7. If someone steals your identity, that means they have to take on your credit card debt, right? Right?
This one just gives of the impression that women are clueless when it comes to things like credit card debt and identity theft. The first thing I would think if someone stole my identity would not be, "Oh, ha ha! They have to take on my credit card debt!" (which is very small, thankyouverymuch), but rather, "Oh, SHIT. This is going to be a nightmare." Because from everything I've read about identity theft, it's a hassle for years after. Let's not trivialize it with a cutesy joke.
8. Now they can see that, besides being brilliant and beautiful, at heart you're just a regular person with a temper.
No, in the real world, having a temper tantrum in public actually just makes you look like a spoiled snot with no impulse control.
9. Having a pimple makes you look younger.
Say what?
10. The baby. The baby is the silver lining even though you just got a million stitches down there.
I don't feel qualified to comment on this one, really. Moms out there? Cute/funny or FAIL?
I particularly love the "Hey, It's Ok" feature each month, but this month in the December issue, it's full of FAIL. All-caps FAIL.
Instead of "Hey, It's Ok..." they did a feature called "10 Silver Linings of Life's Lowest Moments." I'll just list them and then add my commentary.
1. Your bag was stolen, giving you the best excuse ever to buy a new, even nicer bag. Joke's on you, robber man!
No, no, the joke would be on me if my bag was stolen...and along with it, my car key, my house key, my mailbox key, my wallet (bank card, driver's license, credit card,) cell phone, iPod...Going out to buy a new purse would not cheer me up--I'd be terrified that before I could get to the bank and USAA to stop all cards, my identity would be stolen. Or that some major creep might be waiting for me in my apartment when I get home.
The only silver lining I can think of when someone's bag gets stolen is, "Well, thank God they didn't hurt YOU."
Also? Implying that for all women, a new handbag will make it all better just perpetuates the myth that women are all cookie cutters who fit into a pretty, feminine mold. Aren't we sweet?
2. After three weeks on crutches, your triceps will be ripped.
I don't have a problem with this one.
3. Two days of stomach flu = Hey! take those jeans out of the giveaway bag...They fit again!
This one really got me feeling pissy on the Stair Master. We live in a society that values weight loss so much that getting the stomach flu is a cause to celebrate because woohoo!! Weight loss at any cost!
Yes, yes, I'm a big ole advocate for being fierce at the gym. But come on, Glamour, why are you promoting this idea? How many young women out there voluntarily throw up to gain/maintain that "ideal" body that fits into the jeans? Why are we perpetuating the celebration of such an unhealthy mindset?
Now that I think about it, this is worth writing in to Glamour.
4. An outdoor wedding in the rain makes for very cinematic pictures.
Again, no problem here.
5. Maybe the firemen will be hot. (Accompanied by a cartoon picture of a woman applying lipstick, clutching her wide-eyed cat, while smoke billows around them.)
Maybe I'm just feeling stabby after the "Throwing up is fun!" and "Hey, new handbag!!" of the other "silver linings," but this one made me kind of pissy, too. Not outraged, but come on, if my apartment caught fire, and God forbid, because this is one of my biggest, worst fears, I would grab my cats, my purse, and get the hell out of there pronto. I don't care what I look like, as long as I look, you know, alive. With two living cats.
6. Well, at least you know the air bags work.
Again, this is me being sensitive and stabby. I've been in enough car accidents with deployed airbags (two) to know that it's 1) not at all pleasant and 2) the smell of the powder they use in air bags is quite unpleasant and 3) not a whole hell of a lot is scarier to me (even my apartment catching on fire) than colliding with another car on the road. I still get shaky remembering the accidents I've been involved with, and thank my lucky stars all the time they were minor.
7. If someone steals your identity, that means they have to take on your credit card debt, right? Right?
This one just gives of the impression that women are clueless when it comes to things like credit card debt and identity theft. The first thing I would think if someone stole my identity would not be, "Oh, ha ha! They have to take on my credit card debt!" (which is very small, thankyouverymuch), but rather, "Oh, SHIT. This is going to be a nightmare." Because from everything I've read about identity theft, it's a hassle for years after. Let's not trivialize it with a cutesy joke.
8. Now they can see that, besides being brilliant and beautiful, at heart you're just a regular person with a temper.
No, in the real world, having a temper tantrum in public actually just makes you look like a spoiled snot with no impulse control.
9. Having a pimple makes you look younger.
Say what?
10. The baby. The baby is the silver lining even though you just got a million stitches down there.
I don't feel qualified to comment on this one, really. Moms out there? Cute/funny or FAIL?
Monday, July 05, 2010
Ahh, Ranting and Raving
I'm going through a ton of old blog posts, assigning labels to them and replacing pictures, and I just came across this gem from 2005. It was in response to an article I'd read (sadly, no longer available) about a line of expensive Barbie-themed items aimed at women, in the hopes of encouraging the little girls who look up to these women to see Barbie as relevant. I was not amused.
This was before I was reading Jezebel, even.
It made me laugh. I stand by almost everything I said, except for my remark that little girls should be in head-to-toe pink ruffles. Let them wear overalls and t-shirts if they want, right?
This was before I was reading Jezebel, even.
It made me laugh. I stand by almost everything I said, except for my remark that little girls should be in head-to-toe pink ruffles. Let them wear overalls and t-shirts if they want, right?
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Fat-Shaming vs. Wanting to Be Skinny
A few days ago on Jezebel, a blurb was posted about a new diet pill in England that flew off the shelves and is now no longer available until more is produced. Somewhat quickly and without thinking, I posted a comment stating that I wonder what ever happened to losing weight the "hard" way, with a healthy diet and plenty of exercise, as I have done.
I immediately received a reply from a woman who said, "Bully for you..." and went on to tell me that she exercises regularly, eats a healthy diet, and still doesn't lose weight--because of a thyroid issue.
In reply, I apologized for speaking so quickly and let her know that of course there are exceptions to every rule, etc., but I still believe that the healthiest way to lose weight for 90% of the population is eating healthy foods and exercising. A pill is never going to make up for that.
I continued to receive replies accusing me of fat-shaming the whole wide world--I never said that everyone should take on the lifestyle I've adopted in the last year-and-a-half, only that if someone wants to lose weight, this is the healthiest way to do it. I also never said that everyone needs to lose weight. If you are on the heavy side, but feel healthy and happy in your body, that is great. But when I was fat, I was not healthy, and I was not happy in my body. I have found that my new lifestyle works for me because it promotes overall wellness, rather than just weight loss. The weight loss and buying smaller clothes is awesome--I won't lie. My goal, of course, has always been to lose body mass, first and foremost.
But is this fat-shaming? Does my desire to be Not Fat automatically make me a fat-shamer? Does the fact that I hated my body when it was fat make me a fat-shamer? Does wanting a smaller, tighter, more muscular body make me despise anyone who is fat?
Let's see: No, no, no and hell no.
I've been trying to find the words to articulate this. Maybe in this post, I have, but I am writing this because Shameless Britni sent me the link to this awesome blog post about size-positivity vs. weight loss. The author puts into words what I've been struggling to say for days now.
The further I get in my weight-loss adventure, the more I find out about myself, and the more I see that yes, some of my reasons for doing this are vain and based on what society thinks I should be. Sometimes I wonder if this means I need to turn in my membership card to the feminist movement...but obviously, it's more complicated than that.
I immediately received a reply from a woman who said, "Bully for you..." and went on to tell me that she exercises regularly, eats a healthy diet, and still doesn't lose weight--because of a thyroid issue.
In reply, I apologized for speaking so quickly and let her know that of course there are exceptions to every rule, etc., but I still believe that the healthiest way to lose weight for 90% of the population is eating healthy foods and exercising. A pill is never going to make up for that.
I continued to receive replies accusing me of fat-shaming the whole wide world--I never said that everyone should take on the lifestyle I've adopted in the last year-and-a-half, only that if someone wants to lose weight, this is the healthiest way to do it. I also never said that everyone needs to lose weight. If you are on the heavy side, but feel healthy and happy in your body, that is great. But when I was fat, I was not healthy, and I was not happy in my body. I have found that my new lifestyle works for me because it promotes overall wellness, rather than just weight loss. The weight loss and buying smaller clothes is awesome--I won't lie. My goal, of course, has always been to lose body mass, first and foremost.
But is this fat-shaming? Does my desire to be Not Fat automatically make me a fat-shamer? Does the fact that I hated my body when it was fat make me a fat-shamer? Does wanting a smaller, tighter, more muscular body make me despise anyone who is fat?
Let's see: No, no, no and hell no.
I've been trying to find the words to articulate this. Maybe in this post, I have, but I am writing this because Shameless Britni sent me the link to this awesome blog post about size-positivity vs. weight loss. The author puts into words what I've been struggling to say for days now.
The further I get in my weight-loss adventure, the more I find out about myself, and the more I see that yes, some of my reasons for doing this are vain and based on what society thinks I should be. Sometimes I wonder if this means I need to turn in my membership card to the feminist movement...but obviously, it's more complicated than that.
Friday, June 11, 2010
FAT Girl
After a lovely afternoon visiting with my friend Miz Minka, I sat down to catch up on Jezebel, and was promptly drawn to a blurb posted about an obese woman who was publicly asked to get off a piece of equipment because of fears she would break it.
The blurb itself doesn't tell much, and I haven't read the article yet. What captured my interest was the comments section.
Obviously, I have a lot of interest in the topic of fat-shaming, and even my share of things to say.
I was fortunate in that I didn't get a lot of fat-shaming directed at me--at least not that I noticed. I think more often than not, I was overlooked, really, relegated to the corner because I was obese...but no one ever said anything overtly disgusting or cruel to my face. I was once told, "You're the fat duck!" by a kindergartner in music class, but to a five-year-old, calling someone "fat" is not insulting them, merely pointing out the obvious. I didn't take it personally.
My reasons for losing weight are many--of course I want to "look hot" and "feel confident in my body." For me to feel confident, weight had to come off. I have friends who are happy and comfortable in themselves while carrying extra weight, and for that, more power to them. But of course, health was an issue, too--I went on medication for high blood pressure when I was 27, and had major issues with anxiety and depression--which have eased greatly since losing weight. Remember, I've had a pretty stressful school year and while I certainly had to deal with some stress, I managed a hell of a lot better than I've managed less stressful situations in the past. I credit regular workouts and a healthy overall diet with keeping me balanced. Also, I never ever want to experience sciatica again--and if weight loss will help prevent that, well, sign me up.
Plus, it's nice, on my teacher's salary, to be able to buy clothes at Target (the women's section at my Target sucks!) and not have to spend way more money at Lane Bryant and Macy's just to find stuff that is somewhat stylish and age-appropriate.
But I digress. In the comments section, I ran across comment after comment from women who are too ashamed or intimidated to go to the gym because they fear this kind of treatment, or people laughing at them.
Some excerpts:
I've learned that I like getting sweaty.
I used to HATE feeling sweaty. Most miserable thing on earth. Walking around on a hot day, with sweat in my hair and underarms, under my breasts, in every other crack and crevice, was awful. I couldn't tolerate it. That's changed. On a daily basis, I work up rivers of sweat.
I used to be embarrassed by my sweaty armpits, and think, "What must B. the Sadist/C. the Sweetie/G. the Meanie think? Eww!!" Then one day, I had an epiphany: "Duh, they don't even notice! They sweat, too. They want me to sweat, because it means I'm working hard."
Of course, I still carry a towel, because there's nothing worse than sweat dripping in the eyes, and I like to dry my hands before going in that push-up position, or dry off a piece of equipment I've just sweat all over (common courtesy, and I really wish that sweaty dude on the treadmill had been as courteous a few days ago--that was nasty!). But I'm not ashamed of the rivers of sweat coursing down my face and neck anymore. I'm proud of them.
And I know I'm not imagining the appreciative look I received just today from a very fit, very hot man who I passed on my way to the locker room after a very sweaty workout.
Forget about the camera...I add 10 pounds to myself.
My gym, like many others, has a lot of mirrors. Mirrors all over the aerobics room, mirrors in the weight areas. This is good for watching form, but bad for a girl who still sort of thinks of herself as a fat girl, even though she's really not a fat girl anymore. I look in the mirror to check my form and I see huge thighs, an enormous spare tire on the midsection, and ewwww...all that flab on my arms! I mentioned my "stocky legs" and how they haven't lost much size every time G. measures them to Mom last week. She replied, "Meg, your thighs really aren't that big, hon."
So I took another look, and she's right. I've gone through the tough part of asking for help, becoming a runner, and changing how I look at food (not a crutch, but a form of nourishment!) and exercise (not horrible, but rewarding and even fun!). I've put in endless hours of running, stair-climbing, lap-swimming, cross-training, weight-lifting and resistance training. Now my biggest fight, if you will, is finally seeing that all along, I've been a beautiful girl. I was a beautiful big girl, and I'm a beautiful girl now. I'll be beautiful at goal weight.
I think that, right there, is the hardest lesson to learn.
Strong is SEXY
As I mentioned above, my legs have not lost a lot of size. Every time G. the Meanie takes my measurements, my chest, waist and hips--even my neck--have lost size. Since February, I've lost something like five or six inches from both my waist and hips (two jeans sizes). My thighs and calves, however, have remained stubbornly stocky (in my mind). They've gotten smaller, but barely. A quarter inch here, a quarter inch there.
Last time we measured, I groaned out loud when G. showed me the leg measurements. He remained enthusiastic. "You know what I think?" he said. I didn't, and knew he'd tell me anyway. "Your legs aren't getting smaller because you have built so much muscle, even as you're losing the fat. Your legs are so strong now."
A week or two later, we did a particularly grueling lower-body workout. At the end, G. told me I'd done a great job. "See? Your legs are super-strong now."
And I'm starting to see that he's right. My legs run, climb stairs, squat, and do a lot of intense, advanced exercises. They don't give out, they don't fail me. I'm not ashamed to parade around the gym in leggings. Yes, I have fatty spots up near my derriere...and my legs will probably never be described as gazelle-like, but I do sport a strong, butt-kicking pair of gams that look sexy as hell in my new Steve Madden shoes.
Working out is not a death sentence.
G. the Meanie got "the Meanie" tacked onto his initial (kept anonymous because I've never actually asked his permission to identify him in the LPB, even though he 1) knows I blog and 2) has read some of my blog entries that I've printed out to share with him. In fact, feel free to say "hello" to him in the comments, because I'll probably share this entry with him) because in the beginning, he had absolutely zero sympathy for me when an exercise was difficult. "Don't stop. Keep moving. Don't quit. Are you quitting?"..."FOR GOD'S SAKE, I'M NOT QUITTING!"
If he thought an exercise was getting easy for me, he'd add weight, or make me do it while standing on my head (okay, not really, but close). If I complained he'd just scoff and say something like, "Well, otherwise this is too easy for you." I can't tell you how many times I've half-shouted, "None of this is easy!!"
At this week's session, he led me through a cycle of exercises that have, over time, become easier. He commented as we left the aerobics room, "This isn't so bad for you anymore, is it?"
"It's definitely easier than it used to be. I mean, don't think I'm not working hard--it's still a good workout. I just don't feel like I'm walking through the Valley of the Shadow of Death anymore when I do them." This got a belly laugh.
And its true. I honestly can't call any of the exercises I do "easy." They're supposed to hurt a little--my muscles are supposed to feel the burn, etc. The big difference these days is that I walk away from an exercise feeling invigorated, not beat-up.
Everyone is more than what they appear to be on the surface.
Just as I never liked being judged by my weight...I shouldn't judge those around me. So G., I'm sorry about the meat head comment. You're not a meat head (though you are a pain in the ass sometimes). And I really couldn't have done any of this without you.
For the rest of you, scratching your heads and wondering what this is about, last week G. mentioned a charcoal drawing he'd completed for a friend. "You draw?" I asked. "Who knew?"
Followed by, "I dunno, I thought you were just...a meat head." (What was actually running through my mind was, "I didn't know you had any other interests besides working out, torturing your clients, and watching TV.")
"A meat head?!"
At the end of that particular appointment, my vain and cocky (his words, not mine) trainer said, "Do you really think I'm a meat head?"
"No! I was teasing you! I was just surprised to find out you're artistic, that's all." This comment came back to haunt me on Wednesday, and I had to defend myself by explaining that I was simply surprised to find out he's good at drawing, after all the stories he's told me about running with a catch can, "over your head, with one arm tied behind your back and one leg tied to the leg of the guy next to you...or whatever it is you guys did for fun in the Air Force."
See, G. gets a bad rap here at the LPB for all of the craziness I've gone through working with him, and some of the comments he's made ("I think I might throw up, G." "Good!")...but the truth is, I give him a lot of hell, too.
And finally:
"Nothing tastes as good as thin feels" is utter bullshit.
I'm sorry, but chocolate cake tastes marvelous whether I'm 220 pounds or 161 pounds. And I'm not going to give up chocolate cake forever and ever--I'm just going to eat it a lot less often, and really, really appreciate it when I do have it.
Last week, I had the first red meat I've had since December. I've given up on red meat for cholesterol reasons, but I didn't want to miss out on barbecued sirloin a la Mom. So I kept it small and enjoyed every delicious bite, as well as every delicious bite of the mushrooms and broccoli that accompanied it.
I can't stop living my life. I've limited how often I eat out and made it more of a special occasion thing, instead of a regular thing. I look up menu items for popular restaurants and plan what I'll eat before I go. I've made adjustments to keep my life healthier, and it works for me.
You know what's better than feeling thin? Feeling strong. Feeling capable. Lifting a little more weight the next time I do an exercise because my body is that much stronger. Knowing that even though I'm still 30-40 pounds over my "ideal" or "goal" weight, I'm still in better shape than many skinny people who work out at my gym simply because I'm there every day, working my body. Peeling off sweaty gym clothes and stepping into the shower? That feels good. Gracefully leaping from one stepping stone to the next between my building and the one next to it as I walk to the gym, without losing my balance--that feels awesome. Being able to grip handfuls of extra denim around my derriere because my jeans are getting too loose--amazing.
Besides, I'll never be "thin" by society's standards. As my body whittles its way down, I am finding I am less
The blurb itself doesn't tell much, and I haven't read the article yet. What captured my interest was the comments section.
Obviously, I have a lot of interest in the topic of fat-shaming, and even my share of things to say.
I was fortunate in that I didn't get a lot of fat-shaming directed at me--at least not that I noticed. I think more often than not, I was overlooked, really, relegated to the corner because I was obese...but no one ever said anything overtly disgusting or cruel to my face. I was once told, "You're the fat duck!" by a kindergartner in music class, but to a five-year-old, calling someone "fat" is not insulting them, merely pointing out the obvious. I didn't take it personally.
My reasons for losing weight are many--of course I want to "look hot" and "feel confident in my body." For me to feel confident, weight had to come off. I have friends who are happy and comfortable in themselves while carrying extra weight, and for that, more power to them. But of course, health was an issue, too--I went on medication for high blood pressure when I was 27, and had major issues with anxiety and depression--which have eased greatly since losing weight. Remember, I've had a pretty stressful school year and while I certainly had to deal with some stress, I managed a hell of a lot better than I've managed less stressful situations in the past. I credit regular workouts and a healthy overall diet with keeping me balanced. Also, I never ever want to experience sciatica again--and if weight loss will help prevent that, well, sign me up.
Plus, it's nice, on my teacher's salary, to be able to buy clothes at Target (the women's section at my Target sucks!) and not have to spend way more money at Lane Bryant and Macy's just to find stuff that is somewhat stylish and age-appropriate.
But I digress. In the comments section, I ran across comment after comment from women who are too ashamed or intimidated to go to the gym because they fear this kind of treatment, or people laughing at them.
Some excerpts:
Some gyms do have an attitude of "no fatties please," which is disheartening considering the ranting a lot of non-fat people do about big people and exercise.On being self-conscious:
When I go to the gym, I sometimes feel self-conscious about being fat, but I just try to focus on what I'm doing rather than feel like an ugly whale among thin beautiful dolphins.On women-vs.-men:
I'm a hefty woman, and I've been given downright dismissing or contemptuous looks by other (usually young) women at the gym. Men don't care if you're a whale among dolphins, though - they care that you just finished a grueling hour of cardio on the elliptical at the highest level. They care that you can leg press 200 pounds.On sweating and red faces:
I've recently taken up jogging and biking. I'm overweight and out of shape, so I sweat like a beast and turn beet red when I get going. I know people are looking at me, but I try really hard not to care. It's hard, but dammit, I keep going. But I think I heard a kid ask 'why is that lady so red?' but I'm trying to laugh it off!Another self-conscious lady:
so sad :(. I didn't go to the gym for so long because I thought I was too fat to work out. And now after losing 80 lbs - the 10lbs i just gained back i still feel too fat to hire a personal trainer to teach me to lift weights. I feel your pain girl. I feel your pain.And the worst experience of all:
Exercising outdoors can actually be more of a health hazard than just being obese would be. I know that (before I stopped going outside alone) walking or biking along the side of the road was viewed as an open invitation to hurl insults or garbage out of car windows at me. The cigarettes were my favorites, once in a while they were even put out first.
The worst was the time I was actually injured by a piece of garbage, and at the hospital waiting for a ride after getting stitched up, the nurse told me 'if you would just eat better and exercise a little, instead of insisting on staying morbidly obese, this wouldn't have happened'. Then she handed me a weight watchers pamphlet and another one on bariatric surgery.
So while it may have been an equipment limitation issue, I can just as easily believe it is just more fat hate... especially as I can see a fitness center not wanting it's other clients and prospective clients to think they would be seeing disgusting fat people all the time. Bad for business you know.Reading and responding to these comments got me thinking--really thinking, about just how much I've accomplished since February 2009. It's easy to minimize everything I've done to just "losing sixty pounds" and "dropping from size 18 to size 10." But what I have done and learned is so much more than a number on a scale, or even less important, a number on a clothing tag.
I've learned that I like getting sweaty.
I used to HATE feeling sweaty. Most miserable thing on earth. Walking around on a hot day, with sweat in my hair and underarms, under my breasts, in every other crack and crevice, was awful. I couldn't tolerate it. That's changed. On a daily basis, I work up rivers of sweat.
I used to be embarrassed by my sweaty armpits, and think, "What must B. the Sadist/C. the Sweetie/G. the Meanie think? Eww!!" Then one day, I had an epiphany: "Duh, they don't even notice! They sweat, too. They want me to sweat, because it means I'm working hard."
Of course, I still carry a towel, because there's nothing worse than sweat dripping in the eyes, and I like to dry my hands before going in that push-up position, or dry off a piece of equipment I've just sweat all over (common courtesy, and I really wish that sweaty dude on the treadmill had been as courteous a few days ago--that was nasty!). But I'm not ashamed of the rivers of sweat coursing down my face and neck anymore. I'm proud of them.
And I know I'm not imagining the appreciative look I received just today from a very fit, very hot man who I passed on my way to the locker room after a very sweaty workout.
Forget about the camera...I add 10 pounds to myself.
My gym, like many others, has a lot of mirrors. Mirrors all over the aerobics room, mirrors in the weight areas. This is good for watching form, but bad for a girl who still sort of thinks of herself as a fat girl, even though she's really not a fat girl anymore. I look in the mirror to check my form and I see huge thighs, an enormous spare tire on the midsection, and ewwww...all that flab on my arms! I mentioned my "stocky legs" and how they haven't lost much size every time G. measures them to Mom last week. She replied, "Meg, your thighs really aren't that big, hon."
So I took another look, and she's right. I've gone through the tough part of asking for help, becoming a runner, and changing how I look at food (not a crutch, but a form of nourishment!) and exercise (not horrible, but rewarding and even fun!). I've put in endless hours of running, stair-climbing, lap-swimming, cross-training, weight-lifting and resistance training. Now my biggest fight, if you will, is finally seeing that all along, I've been a beautiful girl. I was a beautiful big girl, and I'm a beautiful girl now. I'll be beautiful at goal weight.
I think that, right there, is the hardest lesson to learn.
Strong is SEXY
As I mentioned above, my legs have not lost a lot of size. Every time G. the Meanie takes my measurements, my chest, waist and hips--even my neck--have lost size. Since February, I've lost something like five or six inches from both my waist and hips (two jeans sizes). My thighs and calves, however, have remained stubbornly stocky (in my mind). They've gotten smaller, but barely. A quarter inch here, a quarter inch there.
Last time we measured, I groaned out loud when G. showed me the leg measurements. He remained enthusiastic. "You know what I think?" he said. I didn't, and knew he'd tell me anyway. "Your legs aren't getting smaller because you have built so much muscle, even as you're losing the fat. Your legs are so strong now."
A week or two later, we did a particularly grueling lower-body workout. At the end, G. told me I'd done a great job. "See? Your legs are super-strong now."
And I'm starting to see that he's right. My legs run, climb stairs, squat, and do a lot of intense, advanced exercises. They don't give out, they don't fail me. I'm not ashamed to parade around the gym in leggings. Yes, I have fatty spots up near my derriere...and my legs will probably never be described as gazelle-like, but I do sport a strong, butt-kicking pair of gams that look sexy as hell in my new Steve Madden shoes.
Working out is not a death sentence.
G. the Meanie got "the Meanie" tacked onto his initial (kept anonymous because I've never actually asked his permission to identify him in the LPB, even though he 1) knows I blog and 2) has read some of my blog entries that I've printed out to share with him. In fact, feel free to say "hello" to him in the comments, because I'll probably share this entry with him) because in the beginning, he had absolutely zero sympathy for me when an exercise was difficult. "Don't stop. Keep moving. Don't quit. Are you quitting?"..."FOR GOD'S SAKE, I'M NOT QUITTING!"
If he thought an exercise was getting easy for me, he'd add weight, or make me do it while standing on my head (okay, not really, but close). If I complained he'd just scoff and say something like, "Well, otherwise this is too easy for you." I can't tell you how many times I've half-shouted, "None of this is easy!!"
At this week's session, he led me through a cycle of exercises that have, over time, become easier. He commented as we left the aerobics room, "This isn't so bad for you anymore, is it?"
"It's definitely easier than it used to be. I mean, don't think I'm not working hard--it's still a good workout. I just don't feel like I'm walking through the Valley of the Shadow of Death anymore when I do them." This got a belly laugh.
And its true. I honestly can't call any of the exercises I do "easy." They're supposed to hurt a little--my muscles are supposed to feel the burn, etc. The big difference these days is that I walk away from an exercise feeling invigorated, not beat-up.
Everyone is more than what they appear to be on the surface.
Just as I never liked being judged by my weight...I shouldn't judge those around me. So G., I'm sorry about the meat head comment. You're not a meat head (though you are a pain in the ass sometimes). And I really couldn't have done any of this without you.
For the rest of you, scratching your heads and wondering what this is about, last week G. mentioned a charcoal drawing he'd completed for a friend. "You draw?" I asked. "Who knew?"
Followed by, "I dunno, I thought you were just...a meat head." (What was actually running through my mind was, "I didn't know you had any other interests besides working out, torturing your clients, and watching TV.")
"A meat head?!"
At the end of that particular appointment, my vain and cocky (his words, not mine) trainer said, "Do you really think I'm a meat head?"
"No! I was teasing you! I was just surprised to find out you're artistic, that's all." This comment came back to haunt me on Wednesday, and I had to defend myself by explaining that I was simply surprised to find out he's good at drawing, after all the stories he's told me about running with a catch can, "over your head, with one arm tied behind your back and one leg tied to the leg of the guy next to you...or whatever it is you guys did for fun in the Air Force."
See, G. gets a bad rap here at the LPB for all of the craziness I've gone through working with him, and some of the comments he's made ("I think I might throw up, G." "Good!")...but the truth is, I give him a lot of hell, too.
And finally:
"Nothing tastes as good as thin feels" is utter bullshit.
I'm sorry, but chocolate cake tastes marvelous whether I'm 220 pounds or 161 pounds. And I'm not going to give up chocolate cake forever and ever--I'm just going to eat it a lot less often, and really, really appreciate it when I do have it.
Last week, I had the first red meat I've had since December. I've given up on red meat for cholesterol reasons, but I didn't want to miss out on barbecued sirloin a la Mom. So I kept it small and enjoyed every delicious bite, as well as every delicious bite of the mushrooms and broccoli that accompanied it.
I can't stop living my life. I've limited how often I eat out and made it more of a special occasion thing, instead of a regular thing. I look up menu items for popular restaurants and plan what I'll eat before I go. I've made adjustments to keep my life healthier, and it works for me.
You know what's better than feeling thin? Feeling strong. Feeling capable. Lifting a little more weight the next time I do an exercise because my body is that much stronger. Knowing that even though I'm still 30-40 pounds over my "ideal" or "goal" weight, I'm still in better shape than many skinny people who work out at my gym simply because I'm there every day, working my body. Peeling off sweaty gym clothes and stepping into the shower? That feels good. Gracefully leaping from one stepping stone to the next between my building and the one next to it as I walk to the gym, without losing my balance--that feels awesome. Being able to grip handfuls of extra denim around my derriere because my jeans are getting too loose--amazing.
Besides, I'll never be "thin" by society's standards. As my body whittles its way down, I am finding I am less
Boobs
Waist
Hips
and more
Boobs
Waist
Hips/Booty
The classic hourglass. I'm more than okay with this.
Back to the topic I started with--it makes me so sad that so many women feel ashamed to even step into a gym, or ask a trainer for help. It makes me ashamed for our society that anyone has ever had trash thrown at her as she made an attempt to get healthy by working out. I'm so very lucky that my experiences have been as positive as they have been. It has never been easy, but I have had nothing but support and encouragement from the people at my gym--from G. the Meanie doing whatever it takes to encourage me along (have I ever once quit on you, dude?) to the manager high-fiving me and offering support. The ladies at the front counter who greet me by name when I walk in the door, and the guy I've pounded on the treadmill with who once chuckled at my sigh/gasp of relief when I finally finished my workout, and who has offered encouragement ever since. Ann, the fiercely fit 40-something who inspires me and always has a friendly word. Mom and Dad, who've supported this operation from day one. Random people who have noticed my success and commented about it with a "Look at you! You're awesome!"
I wish everyone could have that experience.
Thursday, June 03, 2010
A Great and Terrible Beauty
It just seems like there's got to be more middle ground. I've always cherished my male friends as much as my female friends. We are different. We have different things to contribute, and that is great. We also need to be aware, as women, that we often hold ourselves back. I often say that the most radical question a girl or a woman can ever ask is "What do I want?" We are not conditioned to ask that. But only by asking yourself that, by knowing what you want, can you really go and get it. Only by knowing what you want can you stop waiting for other people to supply it for you, which just leads to frustration and a feeling of powerlessness. What you want is valid. What you care about is important. Who you are, all of it--not just the "nice" qualities--is important. And if anybody wants to photograph you for the cover of a major magazine wearing only a thong and an expression like you've gotten something in your eye, just tell them to...well, just say no.Libba Bray, author of A Great and Terrible Beauty (The Gemma Doyle Trilogy)
I'd love to write a review of A Great and Terrible Beauty but I haven't yet formulated the right words. It can be classified as a suspenseful fantasy novel set in Victorian England with a definite feminist twist. Oh, and it's written for young adults, but like the wonderful and incredible Harry Potter series
, it's not dumbed down for kids. Bray really understands sixteen-year-old girls and how they exist and survive in the world, no matter what era.I'm currently reading the second in the trilogy, Rebel Angels
.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Sluts, Whores, Cooks and Cleaners
I'm pretty quiet on this blog most of the time about my feminist leanings...but a couple of things today got me thinking...and fuming a wee bit. I just have to vent some steam.
It started this morning. A former NFL player, Steve Grant, came to my school today to give an inspirational talk to the 5th-8th grade students. It was a great talk--full of thoughts on choices, relationships, and how to succeed in life, etc. The kids seemed to like him; he was funny, engaging, and inspirational (not to mention, a former pro football player).
However, he had one point that bothered me--in his discussion of the roles men and women have in a relationship. Apparently, the man is the earner, the one who brings home the bacon to his castle. The woman's job, then, is to keep that castle fit for her king. He didn't use these exact words, but the implication was clear. He talked about how a woman cooks for her man, keeps the house nice for him, because "a man's home is his castle."
I quietly seethed. I'm very careful about what I say to my kids regarding feminism and the patriarchy. Frankly, I avoid the conversation altogether. At least 90 percent of my student population is Latino, and I know there are some unavoidable cultural views on the roles of men and women in society. This is not to say that all of my kids view the world this way--but it's definitely there in many of them.
After the assembly, I went to gather my 4th period class. Their homeroom teacher was discussing the assembly with them, and asked if I minded him keeping them into their VAPA time. I didn't, and I sat down to join in the discussion. Only to find that this particular teacher agreed with the traditional gender roles mentioned in the assembly.
He talked about how happy he was that he'd married his wife, because she takes care of him so well. She wakes him up with coffee and toast every morning, does the cooking, keeps the house clean, presses his shirts. She's "not the smartest woman in the world," but she's a good woman.
I wanted to scream. I watched my girls--these 8th grade girls who are so bent on having boyfriends to up their social value--and I wanted to cry for them. This is what they're getting? I try, when I can, to point out to them that happiness is not necessarily found in having a boyfriend/husband/lover. I wanted to shout, "If you're not enought without a guy in your life, you'll never be enough with one!!"
Instead, I just at there and seethed. And vowed to myself that I will counter these "lessons" they're hearing with lessons of my own from time to time.
I put it mostly out of my mind, and then I arrived home to read a post on a NASCAR board I read that my favorite driver, Dale Earnhardt Jr., is reportedly responsible for the breakup of a marriage--two years ago.
First off, the "news outlet" reporting this story is National Enquirer, and their source is a friend or the father of the ex-husband. The divorce was finalized in 2008, and the only pictoral evidence they have is a picture of Junior and the lady in question riding in a golf cart at a NASCAR event. He's in the front seat, she's in the back.
Obviously, I'm reserving judgement. The rest of the Internet, however, is not. I made the collossal mistake of reading some of the comments out there on the World Wide Wierd, and it's not pretty.
Look, if this story is true, I will be disappointed in Junior. Will it make me stop rooting for him? Probably not. If this story is at all true, he is partially to blame--and so is the woman in question.
The amount of slut-shaming I saw on the Ineternet today, however, boggles my mind. Too many people made comments that leave Junior blameless. What did he do wrong? He's just being a man. Hey, he's a rich and famous racecar driver, of course he's gonna sleep with lots of women. That slut shouldn't have broken her vows.
It went on and on until I was seeing red. I hit the "back" button on my browser and got the hell out of that mess as quickly as I could.
Look, when you marry someone and take a vow to be faithful, you are, of course, to blame if you break that vow--man or woman. But it takes two to tango, and calling her a slut or a whore while allowing Junior the "boys will be boys" defense is hypocritical. Proving that women have come so far...and yet still have such a long way to go.
I just don't have it in me to judge. I may be Pagan Megan, but I'm also convinced that my job is to leave the judgement to whatever higher power there may be out there. Like I said, I will be disappointed in Junior if this is true, because I think he's a better person than that. I just don't feel I can judge him though. A few years ago (in England), I had a crush on and a close camerarderie with a married male colleague. Nothing ever happened--we were simply friends who supported each other in a crazy workplace--but I can't say with 100% certainty that I would have said "no" if things had progressed beyond friendship. I'm not proud of this, and I'm not making excuses for anyone. I'm just saying that being human is a complicated and messy business, and it's not my job to judge.
It started this morning. A former NFL player, Steve Grant, came to my school today to give an inspirational talk to the 5th-8th grade students. It was a great talk--full of thoughts on choices, relationships, and how to succeed in life, etc. The kids seemed to like him; he was funny, engaging, and inspirational (not to mention, a former pro football player).
However, he had one point that bothered me--in his discussion of the roles men and women have in a relationship. Apparently, the man is the earner, the one who brings home the bacon to his castle. The woman's job, then, is to keep that castle fit for her king. He didn't use these exact words, but the implication was clear. He talked about how a woman cooks for her man, keeps the house nice for him, because "a man's home is his castle."
I quietly seethed. I'm very careful about what I say to my kids regarding feminism and the patriarchy. Frankly, I avoid the conversation altogether. At least 90 percent of my student population is Latino, and I know there are some unavoidable cultural views on the roles of men and women in society. This is not to say that all of my kids view the world this way--but it's definitely there in many of them.
After the assembly, I went to gather my 4th period class. Their homeroom teacher was discussing the assembly with them, and asked if I minded him keeping them into their VAPA time. I didn't, and I sat down to join in the discussion. Only to find that this particular teacher agreed with the traditional gender roles mentioned in the assembly.
He talked about how happy he was that he'd married his wife, because she takes care of him so well. She wakes him up with coffee and toast every morning, does the cooking, keeps the house clean, presses his shirts. She's "not the smartest woman in the world," but she's a good woman.
I wanted to scream. I watched my girls--these 8th grade girls who are so bent on having boyfriends to up their social value--and I wanted to cry for them. This is what they're getting? I try, when I can, to point out to them that happiness is not necessarily found in having a boyfriend/husband/lover. I wanted to shout, "If you're not enought without a guy in your life, you'll never be enough with one!!"
Instead, I just at there and seethed. And vowed to myself that I will counter these "lessons" they're hearing with lessons of my own from time to time.
I put it mostly out of my mind, and then I arrived home to read a post on a NASCAR board I read that my favorite driver, Dale Earnhardt Jr., is reportedly responsible for the breakup of a marriage--two years ago.
First off, the "news outlet" reporting this story is National Enquirer, and their source is a friend or the father of the ex-husband. The divorce was finalized in 2008, and the only pictoral evidence they have is a picture of Junior and the lady in question riding in a golf cart at a NASCAR event. He's in the front seat, she's in the back.
Obviously, I'm reserving judgement. The rest of the Internet, however, is not. I made the collossal mistake of reading some of the comments out there on the World Wide Wierd, and it's not pretty.
Look, if this story is true, I will be disappointed in Junior. Will it make me stop rooting for him? Probably not. If this story is at all true, he is partially to blame--and so is the woman in question.
The amount of slut-shaming I saw on the Ineternet today, however, boggles my mind. Too many people made comments that leave Junior blameless. What did he do wrong? He's just being a man. Hey, he's a rich and famous racecar driver, of course he's gonna sleep with lots of women. That slut shouldn't have broken her vows.
It went on and on until I was seeing red. I hit the "back" button on my browser and got the hell out of that mess as quickly as I could.
Look, when you marry someone and take a vow to be faithful, you are, of course, to blame if you break that vow--man or woman. But it takes two to tango, and calling her a slut or a whore while allowing Junior the "boys will be boys" defense is hypocritical. Proving that women have come so far...and yet still have such a long way to go.
I just don't have it in me to judge. I may be Pagan Megan, but I'm also convinced that my job is to leave the judgement to whatever higher power there may be out there. Like I said, I will be disappointed in Junior if this is true, because I think he's a better person than that. I just don't feel I can judge him though. A few years ago (in England), I had a crush on and a close camerarderie with a married male colleague. Nothing ever happened--we were simply friends who supported each other in a crazy workplace--but I can't say with 100% certainty that I would have said "no" if things had progressed beyond friendship. I'm not proud of this, and I'm not making excuses for anyone. I'm just saying that being human is a complicated and messy business, and it's not my job to judge.
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