Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Hobby Hazard
Playing guitar will never be my occupation, but it's been my hobby for the past month. I'm learning a new skill. At the ripe old age of 37, mind you. This is the way I've always wanted to learn how to play music. My teacher is ridiculously talented as both a musician and a teacher. Really, I kind of think he walks on water. I'll save my praises of Justin Sandercoe for another day. Right now, check out my fingers. They look awful but I'm so proud of them! I certainly can't be accused of not practicing.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Not Enough Ruffles in the World
I hesitate to even write a post about body image. Everything worth saying has been said better than I ever could, and it always comes down to the same main ideas:
It's what's inside that really counts.
We shouldn't try to look like women in magazines.
Women in magazines don't even look like that.
You can't define yourself by a number on the scale.
And so on and so on and so on.
Those mantras have been drilled into me since my childhood. I'm guilty of drilling them into my Girl Scout troop. But the fact remains, women will always care. How can we not? We're supposed to look pretty. For every your stomach looks fine comment from a friend, there's an email in my inbox promoting a new exercise plan for flat abs. Images of beautiful women surround us. They're featured in displays at the grocery store, in the newspaper ads, in movies and on television, on album covers, and they taunt me every time I walk past Victoria's Secret. And there lies the root of my own personal insecurity.
No one but my close friends read this blog and anyone who looks at me can tell anyway, so here goes. To say it politely, I'm not blessed with a curvy figure. I've joked that my cup size is an A-minus, but there's nothing really funny about that to me. While I can run off fat and tone my muscles, the only way to make myself curvier is through surgery. Since I have reservations about doing something as safe as coloring my hair though, cosmetic surgery is completely out of the question. There is nothing fake about me. (Not even my hair, and my make-up is BB cream!) I'm an open book. I don't pretend to be anyone else (unless it's Halloween or the 3-Day/Ironman when my friend and I dress up to act out). Plus it costs too much. And it will probably hurt. If I did it (which I won't), what if I focus on another "flaw," and I still feel bad about myself? That last one will totally happen. I know me. Lastly, I can understand why young, single women might choose to have breast augmentation surgery, but I have a husband who loves me the way I am. What would be the point? It may be difficult to find clothes that fit well and bathing suit shopping is the worst, but in the grand scheme of life having small breasts is not a big deal. It makes running easier and I don't need a super-supportive bra. I should be happy I'm healthy. I am. Does it sound like I'm talking myself into it? I am. I don't judge women who have the surgery, either. Maybe they're braver than me or I'm braver for living with it. Who's to say? Not me and no one else but the owner of the body. I respect their decision to go through with it, just as I would expect people to respect my choice to not go through with it.
Speaking of bathing suit shopping, my friend went in search of her summer suit today. As I was sitting at the kids' swimming lessons, she was texting me updates. She kept putting herself down and focusing on her cellulite, her thighs, her hips. I told her none of that mattered; just find something pretty that accents the features she DOES feel good about. Why can't we talk to ourselves in the same considerate and compassionate way we talk to our best friends? Only hours before, I was trying on the three suits I own in anticipation of visiting the neighbors' pool this afternoon. Standing before the mirror, I was unhappy three times over. I bought a two-piece suit earlier this year after reading (in a magazine featuring swimsuit models) that small-chested women would do well to wear a top with ruffles. I'm easily convinced. It looks all right, but it doesn't enhance anything. It just looks like there are a lot of ruffles on my chest. And that's...okay, I tell myself. I should go on.... Hey Sara, look at how toned your arms are. Look at your pretty, naturally-colored hair. Your abs look better than they did a few months ago. I'm trying my best to not feel insecure about my body, but I know when I go to the public pool I will compare my figure to everyone else around me. However, practically every other woman there will probably be doing it, too. It's our nature. Maybe the exact same woman I am envying is wishing she had my ______. In any case, we all need to just get over it. I offer no solutions, but maybe playing Beautiful in our heads on repeat would get us on the right track.
It's what's inside that really counts.
We shouldn't try to look like women in magazines.
Women in magazines don't even look like that.
You can't define yourself by a number on the scale.
And so on and so on and so on.
Those mantras have been drilled into me since my childhood. I'm guilty of drilling them into my Girl Scout troop. But the fact remains, women will always care. How can we not? We're supposed to look pretty. For every your stomach looks fine comment from a friend, there's an email in my inbox promoting a new exercise plan for flat abs. Images of beautiful women surround us. They're featured in displays at the grocery store, in the newspaper ads, in movies and on television, on album covers, and they taunt me every time I walk past Victoria's Secret. And there lies the root of my own personal insecurity.
No one but my close friends read this blog and anyone who looks at me can tell anyway, so here goes. To say it politely, I'm not blessed with a curvy figure. I've joked that my cup size is an A-minus, but there's nothing really funny about that to me. While I can run off fat and tone my muscles, the only way to make myself curvier is through surgery. Since I have reservations about doing something as safe as coloring my hair though, cosmetic surgery is completely out of the question. There is nothing fake about me. (Not even my hair, and my make-up is BB cream!) I'm an open book. I don't pretend to be anyone else (unless it's Halloween or the 3-Day/Ironman when my friend and I dress up to act out). Plus it costs too much. And it will probably hurt. If I did it (which I won't), what if I focus on another "flaw," and I still feel bad about myself? That last one will totally happen. I know me. Lastly, I can understand why young, single women might choose to have breast augmentation surgery, but I have a husband who loves me the way I am. What would be the point? It may be difficult to find clothes that fit well and bathing suit shopping is the worst, but in the grand scheme of life having small breasts is not a big deal. It makes running easier and I don't need a super-supportive bra. I should be happy I'm healthy. I am. Does it sound like I'm talking myself into it? I am. I don't judge women who have the surgery, either. Maybe they're braver than me or I'm braver for living with it. Who's to say? Not me and no one else but the owner of the body. I respect their decision to go through with it, just as I would expect people to respect my choice to not go through with it.
Speaking of bathing suit shopping, my friend went in search of her summer suit today. As I was sitting at the kids' swimming lessons, she was texting me updates. She kept putting herself down and focusing on her cellulite, her thighs, her hips. I told her none of that mattered; just find something pretty that accents the features she DOES feel good about. Why can't we talk to ourselves in the same considerate and compassionate way we talk to our best friends? Only hours before, I was trying on the three suits I own in anticipation of visiting the neighbors' pool this afternoon. Standing before the mirror, I was unhappy three times over. I bought a two-piece suit earlier this year after reading (in a magazine featuring swimsuit models) that small-chested women would do well to wear a top with ruffles. I'm easily convinced. It looks all right, but it doesn't enhance anything. It just looks like there are a lot of ruffles on my chest. And that's...okay, I tell myself. I should go on.... Hey Sara, look at how toned your arms are. Look at your pretty, naturally-colored hair. Your abs look better than they did a few months ago. I'm trying my best to not feel insecure about my body, but I know when I go to the public pool I will compare my figure to everyone else around me. However, practically every other woman there will probably be doing it, too. It's our nature. Maybe the exact same woman I am envying is wishing she had my ______. In any case, we all need to just get over it. I offer no solutions, but maybe playing Beautiful in our heads on repeat would get us on the right track.
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