Sex Sells

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Have you seen the re-creation of the Sports Illustrated cover using topless plus-size models? It’s hard to miss, as it had made the rounds on traditional and social media. The press has been positive overall–the feedback talks about celebrating the different ways women are sexy, it talks about acknowledging different body shapes and sizes. It talks about redefining the societal definitions of beauty.

All that is fine and good. I’m all about reclaiming body image and loving our bodies just as they are. So when my very independent, strong-willed, feminist friend rolled her eyes at the cover, I couldn’t believe it. What woman doesn’t want to change the goals of what we’ve learned to covet and chase, and the costs associated with that?

So she talked, and I listened. She truly believes to each their own–whatever you want to wear, wherever you are, is to be celebrated. Rock that bikini on the beach no matter what you look like as long as you’re comfortable with it! It’s your decision and she can care less what your body looks like or what your fashion choices are.

But she makes the very valid point that the re-creation of an SI cover is different–that magazine covers are expressly and solely designed to sell magazines. She makes the point that scantily clad women are used to sell products. And it doesn’t matter what size you are, showing your ass to sell a magazine is exploiting your body and yourself.

The secondary consequence is in fact shaping views on beauty and what society finds attractive, but the primary goal remains. We’ve lost sight that the goal we’ve been sold, and that we have bought into, is not just being thin. But to be exploited. That’s not a goal for anyone regardless of how you look in a thong.

Most of us can agree that the ideal standard should be one of health. We should promote healthy living and eating and activity to men and women. We should celebrate that and covet that instead of being thin. But when sex sells, that’s not healthy either.

And we’re exploiting both genders now. There’s a growing generation of men with body image issues as they chase hard bodies of their own with defined biceps and six-pack abs. Because sex sells. Hell, even I feel compelled to buy the men’s H&M underwear the Becks sells.

We need to not only redefine what society accepts as attractive, but we also need to stop exploiting ourselves. No one wins, and exploitation is not to be celebrated no matter what we look like.

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Lessons from Second Grade

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2014-06-05 20.03.14It’s that time of the year again–the end of the school year. When teachers rejoice for a well-deserved break. And when parents seek a better sangria recipe to tide them through a sweltering season of “I’m boooored!”s and “She won’t stop bothering meeeee!”s.

As for me, I’m not worried because I am a seasoned Summer pro: I’ve discovered the art of infusing vodka and gin for tasty cucumber or basil or peach or blueberry vodka tonics, gin and tonics, and anything else I can mix and enjoy. I would offer these as end-of-the-year teacher gifts but I’m pretty sure that won’t help my reputation around town. And I think the principal actually believes I’m a responsible parent.

So instead, the kids write notes to their teachers and I attach a more appropriate (but I bet less well-liked) gift. These are two notes La Chica wrote. They made me chuckle. Her word choices kill me–she’s so clearly parroting what she’s been told by adults.

“Dear Miss Merson, I love you. I like the way you teach kids at recess. I like the way you keep kids safe. You always have a good attitude.”

“Dear Miss. Murray, I am proud of you that you taught me a ton of stuff. I never knew so many things like haiku-poem. You’re a good teacher. I am proud of you. PS You’re the best 🙂 PS I love you so much”

Kids learn what they live. And I love her teachers even more than I did before. I am so grateful for them in our lives. Because they’ve clearly taught her through their daily grace and patience and love and kindness and respect:

-Safety first
-Play is important and is a subject worthy of being taught
-Love wins
-Good attitudes carry the day
-Affirming pride in efforts is always welcome feedback

Sounds like a successful year to me. And Miss Merson and Miss Murray: you know where I live and what time cocktail hour is–the door’s always open for you.

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George Will, You’ve Broken My Heart

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I started the day with my head aching. Steroid injections to the head elicit this type of reaction in the neurologist’s procedure room: “Holy mother of F*CK! I hate you!!” Yes, I’m still being treated for the head injury I sustained 16 months ago, and hopefully by the end of this year we can close this chapter.

Then I came home to see a friend had posted about George Will’s op-ed piece about rape, and so my day ended with my heart aching. Because I see now this is a chapter that can never truly be closed in my life. Because when he’s accusing rape victims of lying, he’s calling me a liar and I’ll have none of that. Because when he’s accusing me of asking for it, thems are fightin’ words and he does not want to tangle with me.

You’ve likely read all about the backlash, the Twitter hashtags, the social commentary. I won’t reiterate those points that others have been more eloquent about. I honestly view George Will like I do Ann Coulter, and I need not say more. People are calling for his job. But you know what? I’m OK with him keeping his job. I value the freedom of speech. And I value opportunities for people to rally together for an idea.

I must say I agree with the all the points made in Salon and Jezebel and other mainstream articles and commentaries. But here’s the thing: This has become a battle between fundamentalist sides–conservative versus liberals. This is about how people think he’s an idiot. We’ve lost sight of the other real issue: He wrote what he thinks and believes. He’s not the only man in this country that thinks this way.

He’s not the only man who dismisses a woman’s right to not be touched in ways she does not want. He’s not the only man to believe that if you’ve had sex with a man in the past, he’s allowed to again in the future regardless of what she says. He’s not the only man who believes certain woman asked for it by drinking alcohol or dressing in certain ways. He’s not the only man who believes women lie about being assaulted.

It’s precisely that he’s not the only man who believes these things that have created this rape culture that we live in that allows for people to be assaulted. And then not believed. We cannot shift this issue to a conservative/liberal or man/feminist issue. We cannot lose sight of the faces of the mothers and sisters and daughters and friends who have been assaulted. We cannot lose sight of the faces of the fathers and brothers and sons and friends who have assaulted women.

The man who assaulted me does not believe he did anything wrong. My friend who believes he can have sex with his girlfriend even if she says no because they’re in a relationship does not believe he does anything wrong (side note: we are no longer friends). We can only change this rape culture and their behaviors when we can acknowledge that safety is a human right. We can only change behaviors when we believe women are equals who deserve to not be viewed as property to have things done to, equals whose accusations are believed, equals whose boundaries are respected. We must focus our efforts in changing these belief systems if we are to change anything. We cannot continue to blame conservative pundits or angry feminists.

Though I appreciate the opportunity to get angry at people who voice opinions I do not agree with, we cannot stay in that anger and just call them names and call for their heads. We need to understand what they think, and why they think these things. We need to have the hard conversations with our sons and daughters and friends and neighbors. We need to teach them that everyone’s boundaries need to be respected. We need to teach them that everyone’s voice has a right to be heard. Otherwise, all our hearts will continue to break.

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The One Who Got Away

Magic 8 Ball

Dharma Comics

My friend told me a story about a man she dated a handful of times, maybe two handsful of times, years and years ago. He abruptly told her he didn’t think it would work out. Some moments she thinks he was the perfect one for her, the one who got away.

When she first told me this, my initial reaction was, “Wow! I had no idea! How sad?” Then she finished her story by telling me that of course she’s made this ending up for him and her–because she never really knew him. Because it was only the beginnings of a relationship, but they never got to really know the messy parts of the other, the crazy families of origin, the quirks and bad habits, the short tempers, the rigid way of loading the dishwasher, the “caring” mother-in-law, the dark moods, the healthy liver to process all the alcohol intake.

I sometimes need explanations to lessons, and I understood then. It takes a lifetime of getting to know someone. There’s a song from Churchill that I love, “Miles”: “’…Cause there’s miles of me and you to get to know.”

I understood my friend’s story because I say I accept people for who they are and take things as they come. If you know me even casually in real life, that sentence should have made you snort your coffee through your nose (sorry by the way). That is apparently my goal (goal being going with the flow, not pressurized liquids through your nose). But I’m a work in progress. When I say I take things as they come, I really mean I want to and I try to. In reality I’m a bit impatient and want everything tied up neatly. I want to know how things end. I’m happy to go along for the ride if you give me a hint about the direction we’re going. So those miles of me and you to get to know? I’d like a general destination, please–are we heading up North? Or out West? Or overseas? I’d like to know what to pack and how many snacks to bring.

So it’s easy to make up stories and assumptions and endings. It’s not so easy to sit in the uncertainty of just Being in the process and moments that make up an ending. For me, at least. There is someone who is in my life right now that is teaching me this lesson, yet again. I think this is one of the reasons why our paths crossed–I am still practicing this lesson. Well, he was in my life a lot, and now not as much. So I’m practicing just being as life unfolds. And I’m practicing not knowing what direction I’m heading, and practicing being OK with spending my time in the spaces in between, and risking myself in the process.

Another process opportunity of risking myself is when I write. I write without knowing the ending. I start with an idea, a notion I want to flesh out. I really don’t know what direction it will take until I keep stringing words and thoughts together. Paragraphs form. I keep typing away until I look and there’s an ending. Sometimes it surprises me, sometimes I knew in my heart that’s exactly where I wanted to land, but I didn’t have the words for it initially. Sometimes it takes an entirely different turn from my original intention. Sometimes I get really nervous because I’ve only got a half-baked essay on paper, and it dangles…for days or months. Sometimes I pound it out in minutes. Some of my favorite ones get the least amount of feedback, whereas the ones I didn’t like seem to resonate with people. But I’ve come to learn to accept each essay and not judge which ones are worthy to see the light of day. I’ve learned to just be proud of creating and sharing who I am and what I think, while being scared and brave enough to hit “Publish.”

And in the end, we just never really know how things will turn out, now do we? We never know which One is the One Who Got Away, or Which Essay Will Be Picked Up and Reprinted, until the end. A friend recently told me, “Isn’t that–not really knowing–the whole point? Or, the better point is maybe feeling that someone is worth the risk.”

Yes, I suppose he is right. Maybe that’s all I need to know–that I won’t ever really know. Honestly, that just made me cringe, typing that. Off to practice some more…

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Bad Hair Day

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We try to walk to school when we can. It’s a mile through lovely wooded open space. The paths meander through playgrounds and over creeks. This morning we saw a baby bunny in the grass by the path. It looked like a stuffed animal, only you could see it shaking and breathing hard, it was so terrified. A large chunk of its hide was missing, and you could see the raw, red skin on its back.

The Boy asked if we could take care of it. He could see the bunny was in pain. I said I didn’t know how best to help. I didn’t think it wise for me to try to scoop up an injured animal and walk it a mile to school, and then a mile back home, and then try to find a veterinarian that could help. I said if it was still there on my way back home, I’d see what I could do.

As we walked, we talked about how the bunny could have been injured. The children were very sad and concerned. They talked about the bunny’s mother, and how she must be scared too. We talked about how a band-aid probably wouldn’t help much in this case, and I was fresh out of large band-aids, gauze pads, and Neosporin anyway. We talked about how I didn’t have pockets to put the bunny in, and how it could bite me when frightened. They were very distressed by this all.

Then as we continued walking, La Chica brightened up and said, “I can’t wait to tell my teacher that we saw a bunny on the way to school today. I’m going to tell her it looked like a chocolate Easter bunny with wide eyes. And it was having a bad hair day.”

I turned to look at her. “What?!” I asked, “Bad hair day? A chunk of his hide was ripped off his back! If it gets infected the bunny might not live!”

She looked at me with her wide, innocent eyes, and said, “It was a beautiful bunny. I’m glad we got to see it. Really, if you think about it, he’s just having a bad hair day.”

Perspective. Gratitude. Thanks for the reminder, La Chica. Totally need that right now as I’m having a bad hair day myself.

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Saving Love, Saving Yourself

saving love, save yourself

Image courtesy of Stuart Miles / FreeDigitalPhotos.net”

You cannot save people. You can only love them.
Anaïs Nin

And sometimes that means you must love them from afar. I have a friend who had difficulty accepting that her now-ex-boyfriend continued to make life decisions that were not functional nor in his best interest. And when I say “friend,” this time I really do mean “friend” and not “myself.”

She came to understand he chooses to live a subthreshold life–a content, “meh” life, to avoid risks or getting hurt. He uses his defense mechanisms quite nicely to remain emotionally unavailable so that if he keeps his expectations low, his disappointments are smaller. This sort of living leads to a satisfactory life, but cannot lead to a vibrant, deep, fantastic life. This man deserves the latter. We all do. So this saddens my friend. His choices also mean she cannot remain in a relationship with him, so this saddens her even more.

She can see clearly the hard work he needs to do to take risks and be vulnerable, to put yourself out there for the big Woo-Hoo! She’s tried explaining this to him, she’s tried helping him with it. To no avail. He nods. And continues with his behaviors and patterns.

She can only love him. She cannot save him. And now she must love him from afar. And it breaks her heart. This time, this story truly is not about me. But in the past, all the other stories about Loves I Tried to Save were me. If I love you enough and explain to you the error of your ways, I can help you expunge the ennui from your life! I mean really, who doesn’t want to be happy?

Turns out a lot of people. Turns out a lot of people would rather live with the devil they do know rather than the devil they don’t. Turns out a lot of people have done a cost-benefit analysis, and believe their calculations say that a risk is not worth any outcome.

But we feel compelled to save. You’ve done this, I know you have. We all have. We enable people to different extents. Sometimes it’s truly enabling someone’s addiction. Sometimes it’s trying so hard to help a friend stop creating so much drama in her life. It’s exhausting trying to save someone.

But it’s hard to just love from afar. It can feel and look like abandonment. Like you don’t care. So when do you love from afar, and when do you love from anear? (Look, did you notice that? I just made up another word)

I am struggling with this now. At what point do you decide broken is too broken for you? At what point do you accept that we are all complex beings and the human condition is variable, and we’re all messy? At what point do you risk yourself and love from anear–accepting the person will not change, but instead your expectations or needs must change? And at what point do you cut your losses and love from afar because you’re losing too much of yourself?

When you love someone, it softens him. He may not accept it and may walk way. But he has been changed. He has felt the love. Perhaps he’ll tuck that away and remember it later and use it then to precipitate change. Perhaps he will not. Sometimes your love is what motivates someone to make changes that will save him. But in the end, its not the love that saves him. The person needs to make the decision to choose to change, to risk doing hard things.

And loving someone from anear requires kindness and believing you are both on the same team; it requires honoring the concept of being kind over being right. It requires compromising for the other even when you know he is making an unwise decision, because he will do the same when it’s your turn to make the foolish call. It’s time to love from afar when the other consistently won’t choose being kind over right; when the other won’t support your foolish decisions too. Then it’s time to save yourself.

 

Posted in Dating, Empowerment, Mindfulness, Relationships | Tagged , , | 9 Comments

The Bleeding Heart Party

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I am ending today’s pity party. We may have one later tonight, or tomorrow, or this long weekend at the beach. But for now, it’s over. Everyone go home. This time my pity party was over a fun date. I’d met someone who I was finally excited to get to know. He is so far fun and smart and honest. We have had a great time together so far.

And this is precisely why I fell into a funk. He, like all of us, comes with some red flags and a bit of carry-on baggage. I’m taking notes for now, wondering how they’ll play out. He also comes with a personality that I really enjoy. I actually like him. And so we’ve seen each other quite a bit of late. After the last date, when he said he had fun, I drove the longest drive home. Feeling so…icky.

I didn’t know why. I woke up still feeling distressed. And when I say distressed, I mean anxious and depressed. I realized I had shown my most vulnerable self to him. And at the time it seemed like a good idea. It seemed like the right thing to do. But apparently it freaked me the fuck out.

I drove home not knowing if I still liked him. Not knowing if he still liked me. Not knowing if I thought maybe I didn’t like him because I was afraid he didn’t like me anymore, and I was protecting myself from rejection. (Did you get that?) When we parted, he didn’t ask to see me again. I’m not sure if I want to ask. If I even want to see him again. If I only want to in order to quell the anxiety of possible rejection. Or if I really don’t like him anymore, or if I do and am just afraid. Or if I just don’t like being scared while waiting to see if I’ll see him again.

So I took the pity party hats and streamers out, and invited a couple friends. They showed up and pointed out I didn’t have a good DJ. So I cancelled my party. I remembered I can be scared and brave. I remembered I do hard things. I remembered I am fabulous. This morning he said he had a great time. Those are the facts I have.

And I want positive things to happen in my life. I must be positive and project positivity.
I will not project shaky sense of self, I will not project neediness. Because I know who I am and I love who I am, soft belly and inappropriate comments and all. I do not need anyone and do not need a relationship. I have fun with him so far. I would like to keep getting to know him so I can be more certain if I like him or not.

All of my fears–all of the fears of his coping mechanisms, his emotional issues, how he feels about me, blahblahblah, can all go live in the basement. I can’t do anything about a fear. What I can do, is I can keep finding out more about him and how he feels and how I feel, but that takes time. Forward movement is required for passage of time. So I move forward. I am going to have a fabulous vacation this weekend, I am going to have fun with my kids and friends upon my return, I am going to work hard at work, I am going to keep talking to him like nothing is wrong. Because nothing is wrong, or at least I have not been notified of such, so I’m going with it. He said he had a great time. Great. He has been very honest so far. Going with it.

I’m remembering to live in the moment. Enjoy the moment. Being brave doesn’t mean I can’t also be scared. There will be plenty of time to be sad if it comes to pass that there is a reason to be sad. Until then, there’s a mojito waiting for me on the sand for a proper party.

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My Kind of Guy

"Image courtesy of photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net"

“Image courtesy of photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net”

Each time I dip a toe in the dating pool, I learn more about what I want, and don’t want. I want what most people want–someone I find interesting and funny and smart and kind. I’ve realized there are simply Men I Cannot Date:

The Dreamer: You’re not an actual boat restorer if you only want to be one in your mind and really sweep the floors at the marina in real life. Close enough doesn’t count in this instance. This one is also known as “The Liar.” This makes for a very long dinner as well–please, please, please don’t order an appetizer.

The Hipster: I cannot take a man in salmon-colored skinny ankle jeans seriously, no matter how hip a hipster you are. If you’re small enough to wear those, I’m pretty sure I can arm wrestle you and win.

The Alias: Discretion and boundaries are important as you carefully get to know someone. However, when you are so paranoid that you ask to be called “Mr. V,” your control and trust issues aren’t something I want in my life. Plus I feel like I need a cool, mysterious alias and cape too–call me “Ms. X!” No, actually, don’t call me at all.

The Italian Model: When you’re more vain than I am, this just won’t work. When you tell me you love living in a climate with four seasons because you get to show the world how hot you look in turtlenecks and peacoats, this is a problem. And you really don’t have to keep reminding me you’re an Italian Model–I can see you, and I’m not impressed.

The Cleaner: When you ask me if I’m finished with my meal as you’re grabbing the plate away, and I’m in mid-bite, I wonder how many other social cues you miss and where I can grab a burger on my way home.

The Boss: When you tell me how Human Resources had to explain to you that you can’t lay your hands on your staff no matter how disrespectful they are to you, I have to wonder about your judgment and temperment. Then when you tell me you had no problem doing this in your previous job, I have to wonder what on earth you really do.

Son a Mexican Drug Lord: I’m not kidding. I’ve seen enough movies–I know what happens if things don’t go well. He knows people!

The Ex-Con: Seriously. So here’s the thing–a gentleman was just released from the state penitentiary seven days ago, and he kindly asked me out. I appreciated his courage and honesty and kindness. I kindly declined, as he wasn’t my type in other ways.

So I laugh that an ex-con has asked me out. But in all seriousness, he was the kindest and most authentic of them all from this list. The others I cannot date because they were not honest, they were not authentic, or they just weren’t kind. The postured, put on airs, or lied. So I guess when it comes down to it, the only kind of men I can date are kind, genuine, compassionate ones.

But here’s the other thing. It’s never the quirks or faults or rap sheets that are dealbreakers in a relationship. We each bring those to the table (perhaps not the mugshots). It’s the magical connection, the mysterious chemistry everyone talks about– that spark that you either feel or you don’t. It’s when you feel something, that you’re able to forgive the faults, tolerate the quirks, love the annoyances, understand the outstanding warrants. It’s when that magical mojo is missing that the quirk becomes a dealbreaker. I’m not talking about mojo being lightning strikes or love-at-first-sight-swoons; I’m talking about the “Huh, that was fun. I’d like to see him again sometime”-something. If that’s missing, there’s no second date. Or third date. Those quirks most definitely are not endearing then.

I was going to tell my friends about some of the irritations from my last date, when I realized it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. I would have easily overlooked any or all of those faults if I felt something click. So it doesn’t matter what he did or didn’t do. What matters is I didn’t feel it. Or anything quite honestly. These are perfectly fine men–so much so, that I’ve actually become friends with several of them and set them up with some of my girl friends. There’s got to be the beginnings of a rom-com here. Or at the very least, a mid-season replacement sitcom.

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Mommie Dearest

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Mother’s Day is here and every year I have a hard time finding the right Hallmark card. I’ve always had a really complicated relationship with my mother. As a young child, I remember being in such awe of her. Her beauty, her grace, her magic. I wanted to be around her all the time, it was like I wanted to soak her in–I wanted to be her. As I grew up and I began to see a more realistic picture of who she is as a human being, and how her expectations of me clashed with who I was, the tensions quickly arose. We have had many iterations of a mother-daughter relationship through the years, much of it neither close nor positive. Through it all, we loved each other deeply, and very ambivalently.

I have had trouble accepting her for who she really is, and, although I can’t know, I know she feels the same way about me. She, bless her heart, hasn’t had the easiest life. Unfortunately, she’s not very resilient so often plays the victim-card. You know, the “Oh woe is me, life always hands me a raw deal”-card. She’s the kind of person who can see something wrong in every possible circumstance, person, or rainbow. And she’ll gladly point it out for you. To be helpful, of course. She won’t do anything about it, but she’s generous in sharing her observations. She is always the helpless complaining damsel in distress. There is no bright side to anything. Silver lining? Gold is more valuable. There is nothing to be grateful for in this cold, unfair life. I have difficulty with people like that. Needless to say, conversations with my mom are short, and few and far between–I’ve found it best that way to keep our relationship positive. She is my mother, I do love her deeply. But no, Hallmark, she is neither my confidante nor my friend.

She can, in fact, be kinda mean. She is a master of backhanded compliments and passive-aggressive love. I think she lashes out and plays the victim  as a coping mechanism in the hopes of avoiding additional hurts in life. If she can keep people at bay, her theory dictates it minimizes chances of her getting hurt again. She can also feel better about herself if she tears others down.

And I realized that she and I genuinely get along only when she’s vulnerable. She has been in poor health the last few years. Some days she’s so weak she can’t open a kitchen cabinet or walk up the stairs. She has her good days and her bad days, the latter outnumbering the former. I’ve found that on her good days, I can’t talk to her. I don’t want to talk to her. Because I don’t want to hear my own mother essentially tell me she doesn’t think I’m worthy, that there are conditions to her love. But on her bad days, when she’s too physically exhausted to put up a front or keep people at arm’s length, I can have real conversations with her. We actually connect. She’s not judging or condemning me; in those moments she’s the mother of my childhood.

And I’m sad that she can only be genuine and authentic when she’s at her most vulnerable physically–when she’s literally so weak she can’t do anything else but put down her armor and be her true self. I wish she could be my mother more often.

I used to want to be just like her. Now I try my hardest to not be anything like her. I won’t wait until I’m sick or dying or compromised to open up to people and show my real self and connect truthfully with others. I want most days of my life, if not every day, to be a good day for me and those around me. I’ve accepted that we have an ambivalent and complicated relationship, and I know we love each other very much, and as best as we can. I’m not sure I’ll ever find a Hallmark card that conveys our complicated yet loving relationship, so I always just end up sending cookies or fruit. Can’t go wrong with food. Most cultures demonstrate love through food, so I’ve sent a tower o’ love.

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Squeal!

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I made her blog!!! http://momastery.com/blog/2014/05/09/wait-better-show/

OK, realistically I’m but a mere footnote to Glennon’s amazing Love Firestorm message–of showing up just as you are to make the world a better place. And that none of us are perfect. And that improving the world improves ourselves. She recapped the night in Herndon when 450 brave, beautiful souls got together and made the world a better place. It was such a powerful night, my friend tells people simply, “It was life changing.”

I started reading her essay…read read read…scroll scroll scroll…nod nod nod…recognize certain attendees…remember the discussions…recall the course of events….scroll scroll scrOMG THAT’S ME! SQUEAL!!!

Then, in such an ironic twist to accompany this wonderful essay of accepting oneself as is, I immediately started thinking “OMG, I look so fat in this. I look like I’m pregnant for God’s sake. I am most certainly not pregnant. You don’t even want to know when the last time I had such relations was. But here I am looking like I’m carrying twins. Granted, I did eat 3 sandwiches that afternoon, but cut me some slack–I did just run a half marathon that morning and I was hungry. And they were small sandwiches. OMG the entire world can see how unflattering I look.”

And then I took a deep breath and climbed out my crazy tree. I remembered that entire evening, and cried again. Not for the poor choice in flowy-yet-trendy outfit and camera angle. But for the love that filled that church, for the compassion everyone showed up with, for the courage each of us carried in our hearts. For the safety and intimacy that enveloped 450 strangers–that we created together. For the good works and love we were all there to share with the world.

I am proud of that evening, of being a part of that. I am grateful for the opportunity to change the world one act of kindness by another. I am grateful for this opportunity Life and God has afforded me to practice self-acceptance and self-compassion, no matter the clothing choice or body shape. I need to continue to practice my body image issues. I need to practice focusing on what really matters in life. I need to practice remembering the priorities in life. I need to practice remembering gratitudes in life. I need to thank Glennon for her continued gifts to me, and to the world. For her reminder and encouragement to show up just the way I am, all jacked up.

 

Posted in Empowerment, Mindfulness, spirituality | Tagged , , | 8 Comments