It wasn’t until I met my biological sister that I realized my boobs were a genetic component to the makeup of me. Before then I’d assumed they were a terrible mistake meant to be placed above someone else’s heart.
But within the last year (or so) I’ve come to grips with what God gave me (thanks to my sister and the way she wears hers gorgeously) and I’m starting to kind of like them. I wish they’d stand up without help, but I don’t hate them like I did.
Last night’s Emmys red carpet was a bosom baring display.
One after another busty girls allowed their flesh to peek out from the beneath most dazzling dresses.
I felt a kinship.
Femininity in fashion never looked prettier.
But many on Twitter didn’t feel the same.
A barrage of nasty tweets proclaimed the look tacky and cheap, trying too hard and pathetic. The disdain for what I viewed as fashion risk taking (I do consider it a risk) combined with body acceptance was a disappointment.
So why all the fuss?
There were plenty of legs showing, too. And backs. And shoulders. And low cut dresses on flatter chested girls.
I don’t have an answer on this. I can’t explain why there was so much backlash, though I bet it has something to do with the new female empowerment or some sort of hatred toward women or the whole mother prostitute thingy. I don’t write about that stuff. I don’t think I’m deep enough.
I liked all the boobs.
I liked Heidi showing all that leg, though I wasn’t crazy about the dress.
I liked Ginnifer Goodwin’s choice not to show very much at all in that unbelievable red and nude flowered Monique Lhullier.
I liked that each woman chose the image that she wanted to project for the night.
As for the girls who put their girls on display.
I think you looked lovely (and not in a sexy vroom vroom kind of way).
Just plain lovely.
What did you think about the dresses? Did the boobs bother you? Have a favorite I didn’t mention?
I’ve succumbed to a bit of writer’s block since Sunday. Everything written has been tossed due to its scattered nature and ineffectiveness. I haven’t been able to get it together, though I’ve tried over and over again.
It’s a shame for a writer when the blockage rears its ugly head. There is nothing more frustrating.
I’ve been busy, too, and the abundance of good stories have led me back to the computer for try after try.
Yesterday I Skyped with my eighty-six year old grandmother whom I only met this past Thanksgiving, but whom I love like I’ve known my whole life. I’m learning to see my physical self a little more clearly through my relationship with my biological family. It was telling when Grandma complained about her medicines making it difficult for her to take off some extra weight she’d been carrying. It seems that our weight stickage is a genetic issue for all of us and I will probably continue my own struggle with the scale until I’m an old lady myself (rocking on a porch petting cats, no doubt).
On Tuesday I visited Target with my big girls who were being rewarded for their own tush wiping (finally) with big girl cups (the baby ones are being phased out). It’s a happy day when mothers finally get their kids potty trained. It’s a whole separate party when the kids no longer need assistance in the wiping department. A new sense of freedom all around.
Last night my husband’s friend Neal came over to install a couple of ceiling fans. I popped up excitedly when he entered the house with his daughters’ new husband, who incidentally is from Nepal. Vinod and Alecia met during her first year of college when she was visiting and volunteering in a Nepali orphanage. They fell deeply in love, these two from opposite sides of the world, and I’ve watched their story grow through uploaded images on facebook.
Neal’s daughter isn’t even out of college and yet he and his lovely wife Marcie have embraced this beautiful boy and the marriage of their eldest daughter. When Vinod called Neal, “Dad,” while handing him the proper screw for fan installation my heart melted a little. I love a good love story; a real one not found in a book. What moved me as much as the love story between the kids was the love involving the family. Baring witness to great parenting and the embracing of children’s dreams cannot be pushed aside or ignored. It’s an extraordinary love that when seen must be acknowledged.
It’s funny how the words can flow when I get a grip on what’s been bothering me causing decent writing to get stuck in the deepest corners of my head.
Christine, from Love, Life, Surf posted a piece that I read this morning about being labeled.
This week, I too was faced with one of the labels that I can’t seem to come to terms with.
This is the crux of my issue; the source of the block.
On Monday I went to visit to my doctor who has been there for me through ultrasounds with absent heartbeats, D&C’s, crazy pills and way too many tears. That much history gives someone enough knowledge about a person to have frank conversation.
Needless to say I was anxious about the visit.
That morning I put on mascara, which I never do because it hurts my eyes, in an attempt to look together. This was dumb, because all the reasons that I’m not together were imprinted in my file; proof of my past heartbreaks and medications and the reasons for them all permanently etched in black ink.
Everything was going fine until she went to check my weight.
“You don’t want to know what you weighed a year ago, Martha. My experience with you is that you eat when you’re sad. What’s going on?”
She’s efficient, my doctor, I must give her that.
Without missing a beat I put on my biggest smile in an effort to convince her that I had everything under control.
“I’m not sad!” I exclaimed.
“I ran a marathon!”
“I’m not taking Metformin anymore!”
“Brian and I are getting along!”
“Yes, we’re having sex!”
“Yes, I’m getting sleep!”
“No, I’m not depressed!”
“I’m blogging! I write! I’m doing things that make me happy!”
It all came out so fast; a high pitched attempt to convince Dr. Polly that I was totally A-Okay.
Driving home I was shocked by not only my behavior, but that feeling deep inside that pointed to self-loathing.
Am I a fraud? I blog about healthy living, yet I was just faced with all the ways I’m not.
In my anger I began to repeat the mantra, “I am more than a number on the scale!”
She hadn’t come out and labeled me fat, but the silent judgement rang in my ears.
The more I thought about it, the more anxious and angry I became.
I got home and the typical response to those kind of feelings took hold.
A chocolate chip cookie here, a bowl of ice cream there, a handful of marshmallows have no fat, dark chocolate is good for you, have a little more.
Food as comfort. Dammit. There it is.
Jenny C. may not be happy with me at my weigh in this morning, but it will be good to talk to someone about this pattern that I so easily slipped into in the moment my control of life seemed unmanageable. The moment that it wasn’t shiny and happy and not just perfect.
Perfection. None of us fit that description.
Happiness. It isn’t possible to be so all the darned time.
Managing. Living the best we can and recognizing our weaknesses.
Forgiveness. Believing that we deserve it, even when all signs point to the lack of perfection.
I am a work in progress.
I am more than a number on a scale.
I am a writer. I am a mother. I am a daughter and a wife. I am strong. I run. I care about people. I don’t lie. I am fair. I have worth.
With the post finally written I’m going for a run.
I feel best when my body is in motion. Somehow when moving the labels have less ability to grab hold and the fresh blood that surges through my body gives me renewed peace and comfort to be exactly who I am.