Tag Archives: beauty

You Go, Girl…But I’ll Stay Here.

Posted on by
Reply

A couple of weeks ago, the TwitterFaces of the Internets were all up in arms about the supposed release of a photo of Cindy Crawford that was “unretouched.”

(I’m putting the link here, but FYI, most of these photos have inexplicably vanished from the interwebs….leading me to think JUST MAYBE their release was lead by a disgruntled photographer who couldn’t get Cindy’s phone number.  But if the picture at the link is gone, just Google “Cindy Crawford Photoshop” and it’ll likely come up.  It’s the one with the black hat and boa.)

The word on the street at the time was that Marie Claire was publishing their April 2015 issue with all un-Photoshopped images – celebrities in their natural, unretouched glory! – and THIS was a sneak peek.

And as the picture took off across the World Wide Web at the speed of gossip and lost workplace productivity, the women of the internet cheered and rejoiced!  She looks even MORE beautiful here!  Finally, a REAL-looking woman!  Huzzah, she has sagging skin and cellulite, just like me!

Uh…Yay?

Well, first off, the alleged au naturel mag isn’t going to print.  Marie Claire tells us that, while this IS Cindy Crawford, this is from an old (12/2013) shoot and not a preview of what’s to come.  So if you were looking forward to celebrity close-ups of cellulite, loose skin, and plastic surgery scars, you’re stuck trolling Pinterest.  Sorry.

Incidentally, did you know there are SCADS of Pinterest pages DEDICATED in one way or another to exposing really bad pictures of famous people?  Models without makeup, before/after Photoshop… What the heck is wrong with us?  There’s a slightly bitter irony to the fact that we sell, and buy, fictional perfection – we pour obscene gobs of money into magazines, fashion, makeup, fitness clubs, diet food, and plastic surgery – but then seek out, and sometimes TAKE DELIGHT IN, discovering and exposing every flaw on those we seek to emulate.

Initially, this victory feels about as triumphant as discovering there is no Santa Claus.  Do you remember that feeling?  For a moment, you felt pretty smart – you busted the Christmas Code, dude! Ha ha, “Santa,” I MEAN MOM, caught you! – but once the “I’m a genius” vibe wore off…wasn’t the world a little less…magical? Wasn’t it really more fun to be able to pretend?  Victory and discovery are a brief, but bittersweet, payout that is quickly cashed and spent.

The big difference here, though, is that with this whole Photoshop/supermodel/perfection-in-a-two-piece thing, we go back to believing in Santa Claus.

I don’t know how that’s even possible – but we do.

I’ll prove it to you.  Let’s take a quick poll:  Once you saw unaltered Cindy, how many of you took down those motivational pictures of Famous Perfect Body in Tiny Bikini from your fridge and replaced them with the “real” Cindy Crawford? How many of you said, “Once I look like THAT, I’ve achieved PERFECTION and I HAVE ARRIVED!”

<crickets>

Anyone?  Anyone?  <cough>

Okay then.  How many of you are still using a more traditional thinspiration picture for motivation?  Whether it’s hanging on your fridge, hiding on your phone, or carried around in your head….how many of you still are shooting for something closer to the Sports Illustrated cover look as the place where you’ll feel like you’ve met your goals?

WHOOSH <rush of wind from massive hand wave>

<gavel bangs>  I rest my case.

So when this Cindy Crawford photo hit my Facebook page…I have to confess that the very first thing I did was compare myself to her.  Oh, let’s be clear, I joined my peers in the general Grrl Power cries of “she looks awesome!” and “You GO Girl!”

But while I was SAYING that, I was looking hard at the “real” picture…and at myself.  To see if I could measure up.

Granted, I’m certainly a lot closer to THIS version of beauty than I am to the ones you see in Vogue, Elle, or Self.  I’m not THERE, but maybe, if I run five times a week AND add in yoga twice a week AND STOP BUYING THIS STUPID @#$@%#%@ KETTLE CORN THAT I CANNOT STOP EATING (curse you, Costco, and your ginormous addictive feed bags of crunchy deliciousness) – maybe, just MAYBE, I could look like a supermodel.  Well, like ONE supermodel.  Who happens to be almost fifty.  But a SUPERMODEL.   This is ATTAINABLE!  Sorta!

And then the next day I got up to run, and I sized myself up as I worked my way into my running tights.  Bulge above the waistband.  Check.  Back fat.  Yep, still here.  Thighs touch at the top.  Boo.  Bad.  All bad.  Saggy, baggy, and way too big all over.  Sigh.

Which leads me to ask the question:  Was I joining Team She Looks Awesome because I really thought she looked great?

Truth:  sadly, I wasn’t.

I mean, she DOES look good – certainly far better than most of the nearly-fifty set.  But if I’m completely honest with myself, I have to admit that I won’t be happy with MY body until it looks like the ideal that’s been welded into my brain for most of my life – and I was vocal about Cindy’s “natural” look out of…well…

Sympathy.

I’m sympathetic because she’s human, just like I am.  Because her body is on display to the world with absolutely no filter.  Because the internet never forgets.  Because she has to harden herself to the comments of public opinion, in addition to the critical voices she may have in her own head.

Because while I can’t be kind to myself, I’d hope others would be kind when I inadvertently expose the flabby bits and rough edges.  I’d want others to be supportive and uplifting.  And that’s what I tried to be.

(Hmm.  Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not a supermodel.  Although I don’t think there is any critical comment the public can make about my body that could out-shout the berating I deal out to the mirror daily.)

I’d love to live in a world where, when Facebook puts one of those pictures in my path like “NEW Beach Pic of Celebrity Cellulite – You Won’t BELIEVE Who This Is!” – that it won’t matter.  It won’t matter because I am healthy and strong. It won’t matter because perfection just isn’t, well, HUMAN.  It won’t matter because the sizes and shapes of Kim, Scarlett, and Jessica have nothing to do with me.

Actually, I’d like to live in a world where this isn’t news at all.

And while I’m trying to get there, can you ask Santa to bring me new red-patent platforms?  Seems it’s a lot harder to get where I want to be without shoes to click together and wish with.  But for now, I still believe.

I See Things in Black and…Blue

Posted on by
2

So last night, my daughter (who’s away at a music competition, she placed EIGHTH IN THE STATE, momma is SO PROUD!) texted me this picture:

IMG_0487Unless you live in a cave where your Wi-Fi doesn’t work, you’ve seen this dress, too.  Apparently, our drive as a nation to debate over health care, fix immigration, solve world hunger, and gossip about how much Oprah weighs today has been replaced by this dress and arguing about what color it is.  (You can read some of the debate here.)

For the record, my daughter and I are on Team Blue (the science behind WHY I’M RIGHT <ahem> is here) and my son is on Team White.  But he’s a boy, and don’t all boys think that there are only like 6 colors on the planet?  (If you’ve ever gone paint shopping and tried to sell your partner on the merits of true white vs. eggshell vs. cream….yeah, that.)

Anyway, if you poke around Google or Twitter, you’ll see that this debate has created quite a fuss.  Which I find absolutely fascinating.

The biggest point that this whole debate has highlighted – in bright, throbbing neon yellow that hurts your eyeballs – is that perception DOES, in fact, equal reality. Depending on which informal Facebook survey you read, 25-35% of us insist that the dress is blue and black, while the rest of the world thinks we’re insane because it is VERY CLEARLY WHITE AND GOLD.  And you will have a very difficult time convincing someone who is looking at a blue dress that it’s white, and vice-versa.  Blue is blue and white is white.  Two very different perceptions of the SAME PICTURE.

I work in HR (don’t hate me, I’m not entirely evil, and do have an actual personality that I bring out on occasion) and often work with managers attempting to coach them on this very subject.  This usually comes up around things like face time and favoritism.  Things that are difficult to quantify, but easy to complain about if you perceive them.

“Bill, your work is great.  But when your team is expected to open at 7, and you don’t roll in until 9, and then you take a two-hour lunch and leave at 4 PM, the perception from your team is that you aren’t working as many hours as they are.  Yes, I know you have told me that you often put in 4-5 hours on Saturday, and usually complete projects in the evenings.  But you could further engage and energize your team by working on those projects when they’re also working.”

“Marcus, I know you enjoy Terry’s company.  And I know she is a very hard worker.  But when you disappear with her for an offsite lunch several days a week, and Terry ends up with her favorite spot on the assembly line several days in a row, it creates the perception of favoritism.  I know Terry produces 20% more on that spot on the line, and her hard work makes the whole team look good…but the other folks might have a chance at hitting those numbers if they got a little more practice working that spot.”

Bill works hard.  Marcus works hard.  They see a blue dress, period.  But their teams are seeing a white dress, so Bill and Marcus need to change behaviors and play along with the perception that the dress is, in fact, white.  They’ll never believe it themselves, but that doesn’t matter, really.  One of their jobs as manager is to build the team – and if the team insists that dress is white, well, you best work with a white dress.  You have to respect your team’s perceptions as their reality.

So how does this apply to me?

Well, I’m fat.  I’ve always been fat.  Right now I’m just a hair under 5’5″ and weigh (gulp) about 118.  But I was fat when I weighed 10 pounds less a couple of years ago.  I was fat when I weighed 15 pounds less back in high school.

In other words….that dress will ALWAYS be blue to me.  I don’t know how, or if, I can actually change that.  I started therapy.  I am trying NOT to weigh my food, and my body, obsessively. I’m trying to get regular exercise because I know I’ll handle stress better and sleep better.

But I’m still fat.  Still mentally wearing a dress that is VERY CLEARLY BLUE.  But when I talk to my spouse, my friends, my DOCTOR….nope, I’m not fat, and at lower weights was too thin, actually, and had to think about nutritional supplementation, osteoporosis, and a weakened heart.  To them – and I suspect to the majority – the dress I’m wearing is white, and it’s crystal clear, and WHAT THE HECK IS WRONG WITH YOU that you don’t see how white your dress is?

My husband tells me quite often that he wishes I could see what he sees.  He thinks I’m beautiful, and certainly NOT fat.  (To his credit, he tells me this a lot.)

He sees my personal dress as white.

I wish I could see this dress as white, too.

And I wonder if this applies to my husband, and some of his extremist views, as well.  (I texted him the dress picture; since he does work in IT, he does, in fact, live in a cave where social media does not penetrate, and I haven’t heard back from him yet on this one.  I suspect his answer will be something deliciously snarky, but I also suspect he’ll see it as white.)

As I’ve mentioned before, the hubby is on an anti-religion kick.  His gut reaction to all things religious is “bad” and his approach has been kind of attack-ish.  (Who am I kidding?  Sometimes it’s downright hateful; at the very least, it’s angry.)

I’ve tried to have discussions with him on those occasions where I feel mentally strong enough to challenge him, and have tried to sell him on the concept that different ideas aren’t automatically “wrong” – they’re just “different” – and if you can start with the assumption that others are DIFFERENT, and not WRONG, you get a lot further in mutual understanding.

But his “all things religion” dress is stubbornly, frustratingly white, and I just can’t understand why he can’t even bend a teeny bit and admit that in certain lights, the dress MIGHT be JUST A LITTLE BIT blue.

Unfortunately, I can’t easily understand why his perception is his reality.  It can’t be explained by rods and cones and lighting.  Neither can I explain away my perceptions of why I can’t see myself objectively like others do.

It just is.

I just pray that one day, he’ll be able to at least articulate that sometimes, the dress looks more blue.  And I hope I get to the point where “you know what?  In the right light, in the right clothes, standing this way?  I don’t look so bad.”

That’d be a good start.  I can’t say my dress will ever be white, but if I could get to periwinkle with a slight gold sparkle to the lace, I think I could say I’ve made progress.

(P.S. – Hubs just now texted me back…he said the dress is “light blue and gold.”  That’s gotta be a sign, right?  There’s hope for us to meet in the middle?)

The voice of a flower…

Posted on by
Reply

One of the things I’ve always loved to do is sing.  I sing in a band on occasion, which is a total rush, but I got my start in church choirs.  When I first moved here, I sang with a local church, but my attendance petered out a few years ago.  I was traveling a ton for work, and seeing my family out East a couple times a month, and had an illness that would not go away – so I put the brakes on church so I could rest on Sundays.  Gah, that sounds weak…but sometimes, something has to give.  And that’s simply what gave out at the time.

So, since I’m trying to get healthier overall, I thought going back to church would help.  It’s like exercise, in a way.  Dragging myself out of bed takes a Herculean effort, and when it’s dark and cold and the bed is soft and warm and I’m sleepy I JUST DON’T WANNA. <whine>  But once I get up and get to it, I feel so much better.

I’ve been rehearsing with the choir once a week, and got to sing with them this morning.  The sermon was good, as it usually is, but today’s Children’s Message actually got me thinking after I left the four walls of the church.

(A lot of churches have messages targeted to kids before the actual “adult” sermon.  The Children’s Message is a short message, typically with props to keep it entertaining, and invariably one kid wanders off and spills the Communion juice or pulls his pants down or does something that makes you laugh – and makes you thankful that it wasn’t YOUR kid, this time.  After the message, the kids typically get chased down to the basement so the adults can stick around and really focus on the full sermon without worrying if darling little Brittney has enough crayons and animal crackers to keep her still until 11 AM.)

Today the Children’s Message featured flowers.   As the leader talked, she handed out flowers one at a time to all the kids.  Red and yellow roses, white lilies, pink carnations, magenta Gerber daisies.  The message was about Esther.  Essentially, Esther gets picked out of a whole gaggle of really pretty girls to be queen.  Sounds like it was a year-long beauty contest of sorts – they had a year just to make themselves look good (Extreme Makeover, Egyptian Year-Long Edition.)

Anyway – Esther’s Jewish, and one of the bad guys ordered all the Jews to be killed.  Esther has the opportunity as queen to bend the king’s ear and convince him that this isn’t such a good idea.  (Which was no easy feat, because normally if you approached the king without being invited, he had you killed, even if you were totally hot and queen to boot.  So it was kind of a big deal.)

The leader, after telling this story, showed all of the kids a dead rose.  It had blackened and withered, and the bud drooped lifelessly on its stem.  She reminded them that no matter what the kids did – no matter how careful they were, how much water they used, or how much pizza they gave it – in a couple of weeks, that pretty, pretty flower they were holding would look much like the one she was holding.  As one of the children put it, “It goes rotten!”

Hmm.  It goes rotten.

I worry (or re-center my worry) so, so much on what I eat, and how what I eat manifests itself in unwanted places on my body.  I’ve exhausted myself worrying about the bulges in my stomach and the width of my saddlebags.  I spend more time than I’d like to admit putting on this face cream and coloring this gray hair and trying to blend in that wrinkle and these under-eye bags….

Don’t I have more to offer this world?  SHOULDN’T I offer more?  Why is so much of my focus on something so meaningless and fruitless to preserve?

The pastor, in the adult version of the sermon, talked about “finding your voice.”  She specifically talked about the fate of women in many parts of the world – being no more than property, trinkets for trafficking, having no opportunities for education – and encouraged us to DO something.  Get involved, make a difference, at the very least raise your sons and daughters to CARE.

What’s my voice?

So often (between days of beating myself up over eating YET ANOTHER effing bag of kettle corn) I find myself wondering what the point is to my life.  I exist.  I get up, I work, I come home.  Why bother?  So much work, and eventually I’ll die anyway, right?

I’ve come to realize recently that this is a very selfish viewpoint, and maybe I should try looking at this from a different angle.  Why am I thinking that the world owes me a life?  Shouldn’t I instead be looking at how I can work to make the world better somehow?  Instead of wondering why life isn’t particularly meaningful, I should go out and MAKE it meaningful.

In other words – what can I do for this world?

There are things I can do.  I can volunteer.  I can control my anger and biting sarcasm.  I can treat people with kindness.

I did donate to a couple of charities recently, and I know of some volunteer opportunities locally.  I certainly can extend small kindnesses (especially when I’m driving, ha ha) and I can be a better friend, wife, and mom by being more engaged and mindful with my family.

I don’t have any big, lofty goals around this right now, other than to recognize that “just existing” isn’t enough – nor is it the point.  My focus should be on what I can do to make the other flowers here bloom as big and bright as possible.

How can you help someone bloom today?  How can you plant the flowers that make the world more beautiful?