Woman in the mirror

Thus far on my quest I have determined that beauty, or more specifically feeling beautiful, comes partially from how one is treated by others. Beauty is a matter of perception after all. In the last few weeks I have made great strides in regards to loving myself again. A major factor in this has been my wonderful husband. The affection he has poured upon me has helped in an immeasurable fashion — being loved helps you love.

Beauty is perception. And, as superficial as it may sound, the second thing that has helped me is a batch of new clothing. 

I really believe that trying on a daily basis to pry on clothes that no longer fit was dragging me further and further into a state of despair. Granted — the process of trying on new clothing in the store caused me to want to curl up in a corner and cry, but once that part was over and I had the occasion to wear my nice new duds out in public, I very quickly started to feel better about myself in general. The woman in the mirror no longer seemed so misshapen, and started to transform into someone a bit more attractive and confident. 

Now, that’s not to say I don’t still have bad days or that I don't still hate the way I appear in photos, but for the moment, the woman in the mirror and I area getting along much better, and that’s a start.

Learning to love myself again

I have been absent from this space for some time now, partially due to my becoming pregnant with our first child. Our darling daughter was born in August.

Post-pregnancy I’ve been dealing with a number of challenges, including one I really wasn’t prepared for — my self-image.

While I was pregnant I was proud to show off my baby bump. I was relieved and pleased that the hormone influx did not cause me to become one of those women who complain about becoming “fat” (you’re not fat, you’re pregnant!).

I spent months mentally preparing myself for the remaining weight that would be — possibly permanently — added to my physique.

I have never been a skinny girl, I’ve always been a tad “solid” in regards to my weight.

I was determined to be OK with myself because I had had a baby — of course I was going to be heavier than I was before, of course I was going to have stretch marks, it’s all OK because I had a baby.

Truth is, now that I'm there, it’s not OK — I’m not OK.

I look in the mirror and I see fat and flab. 

In the photos taken of us with our daughter I could not see past the double chin that seemed to come out of no where when I looked down at our precious bundle of joy. I feel odd, out of sorts and not like myself — I used to love myself but now I’m not so sure.

These photos are an act of courage on my part, to post my imperfections for all the world to see. In my mind this is the first step down a long road to loving myself again, as I am. 

I want to accept my battle scars with pride. I want to be self-assured that I am beautiful, just as I am.

I want it. I’m just not sure how to achieve it.

Path of the author

"...For yea verily, the path of the author is strewn with dying liver cells." 

(Quote from the awesomeness that is Tea with the Squash God)

Always a lady

A week ago Sunday, my grandmother passed away. 

And after a week of reflection — interspersed with tears and laughter — I've decided to write some of the thoughts down.

I was 4 years old when my grandfather married "Grandma Dorothy." And all of a sudden this tiny woman with three (grown) children and one teenaged grandchild became step-mother to nine and grandmother to over half a dozen kids. Looking back, I can see how overwhelming it must have been for her.

For my part, I was the youngest of five grandchildren, the rest of them boys. An only-child, I had a flare for the dramatic and tendency to talk to myself. What little I remember of the wedding (in my role as flower girl) involves my new cousin and bridesmaid Marterese (then 16) keeping me occupied with games behind the alter, and having to hold my cousin Joe's hand going back up the aisle (It was sweaty. I didn't like it.)

I was jarred a bit by mother's reaction to her passing. While my mother loved and appreciated her, Grandma Dorothy was her second step-mother. Mom was very blunt about our place as her step family, something I had never considered before. She was never a step relation to me — she was my grandmother, period.

As said during her funeral service, grandma could enter an elevator with four strangers and leave it with four new friends. Growing up, whenever we were out to dinner — whether it was their regular place or someplace new – Grandma Dorothy would "adopt" the waitresses. She was always friendly. She was always polite and courteous. And she appreciated a good life-is-funny laugh. 

She was the epitome of a lady. I still remember her cringing when grandpa encouraged me to wipe my hands off on my pants instead of a napkin.

Perhaps most important to me — she tried. She may not have known to handle all us grandkids, but she made a damn good effort. She couldn't cook very well, so she made a point to stock a variety of Jello packs so she always had our favorites on hand. She took me berry picking, taught me to play Chinese checkers, and took care of me when I was sick. 

She made an effort to learn my favorite flower, and occasionally surprised me with rose adorned presents or souvenirs. Her favorite was iris, something I intend to add to my garden in her memory. She delighted in discovering things we had in common like favorite book ("A Girl of the Limberlost") and favorite TV shows (British comedies).

Grandma Dorothy was always happy to see you. She loved visiting and being social. Even when her memory faded to the point where I'm fairly certain she no longer knew who we were, she was always so happy to see us. One of my more recent cherished memories of her was four years ago when I brought my 6'3" then fiance over to meet them. Grandma, all 4-foot-nothing of her, insisted on giving him the grand tour of their two room, one bath abode — and he dutifully followed her around. It was one of the cutest things I think I've ever seen. I'm so grateful he got to meet her when she was still mostly herself — her wonderful, welcoming and utterly ladylike self. 

Writers

To "Review of a Reviewer"...

(I am a writer professionally. I am using this as an outlet, as I am unable to to address the person in this piece directly.)

To the college student who decided to write a bitter diatribe in response to a review I wrote of the production he was in — if you are going to be in the theater business, you have go to get a thicker skin. 

You only want reviews that say "you're awesome" and "wonderful job." Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not your mother. 

My job as a reviewer is not to sell tickets for the theater. It is not to stroke your ego. It is not to give a historical essay on the play in question. It is to give my honest opinion of the production, period. And frankly, I sugar coated it considerably. 

To your accusation of my naivety and lack of experience — I took theater classes for three years in high school, one year in college, and performed on stage and worked backstage for six years. I was a finalist in a young playwrights competition, as well as multiple Shakespeare competitions.

Your letter to the editor was presumptuous and rude to say the least. Tell you what — why don't you stick to your occupation, and let me handle mine.

Love yourself

Along the lines of my last post, I offer a further examination of "beauty."

I have a couple friends who are obsessed with how they appear, utterly convinced that they must be rail thin to get a man's attention. The truth is, that superficial mumbo-jumbo you've been fed since high school by TV and movies isn't true.

I've had over a dozen guy friends inform me — more than once in some cases — that watching a woman starve herself or workout to extremes to reach that "goal weight" is actually a turn off, not on. And if any man calls you fat or tells you to loose weight, the extra pounds you should be loosing is him.

My husband has never told me at what moment he knew he loved me, but I know it was very early on in our relationship. On one of our first dates, he got to watch me scarf down a fully dressed, 1/4 pound bacon cheese burger. I thought the sauce and juice dripping down my arms might be a turn off, but it's possible that's the moment he fell in love with me.

Every once and awhile when I'm off in my own little world, dancing in the car or sliding around in my stocking feet, I catch him looking at me with a smirk with look of adoration in his eyes. 

That's not to say I don't ever get self conscious or down on myself about my weight — I do. Particularly when I haul out the summer wardrobe and discover nothing fits — it sucks. But my husband has never once put me down about my weight, in fact he thinks I'm mental when I do complain about it.

Too many women settle for abusive men because they think they can't do any better. Figuring out how to love yourself without a man is far better than putting up with any form degradation.

Your goal should not be changing yourself for a guy — the right guy will be attracted to you for who you are, all of what makes you you, inside and out.
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