The Lorax

When we bought our house, this was the view out the front window. 

We were pretty pleased with it, considering we live in a rather urban area but are both nature-lovers (maybe one of us more than the other).

Recently, the builders of our complex started cutting down some of those trees to put in an office building. We know builders cut down trees. We know many trees were surely cut down to make the home we so enjoy. Still, we don't really like it. We hoped the builders would at least leave some nice groupings of the original woods, as they had done in other areas.

Last night on my way home B called.  "Babe! They clear-cut everything!" "Oh no!" "I know!" "I'm sad." "Me too."

When I got in the door, we commiserated over losing the trees. The cats meowed at us loudly and B goes, "I think they're upset about the trees too-you know what this feels like? That book The Lorax! Dr. Seuss had it right."

Via

More and more it seems like everything I ever needed to know I could've learned from Dr. Seuss.

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"As though all I had to offer the world...was my fairly nondescript face."

Via

I really am, and I have been trying. I sort of have this idea that since society has conditioned us to be uncomfortable in our skin (I mean, why else would we buy half of the creams and potions they are trying to sell us?) it is my duty to unlearn those traits and accept myself as I am, in the hopes of passing on a better view of self to the next generation.

It's complicated, of course. Baby steps. I try to only wear makeup when I want to do so for myself, not because I feel like it. I try to focus my energies on my quality of life. Reading books. Watching documentaries. Enriching my mind. Going outside, being active. Caring for the health of my body. 

And yet. Two weeks ago, seemingly overnight, the few pimple splotches that are generally ever present on my face spread like wildfire across my jaw and chin. I've conditioned myself to accept a couple blemishes, but not this. It didn't help that that weekend I attended a bridal shower for one of my dearest friends, and one of my other dearest friends confessed that she finds herself bothered by other people's extreme acne, even though she tries not to be. And while I know she was talking about cases that were much worse than mine (and I do recognize that mine is mild compared to many), I felt ashamed under my layers of concealer and powder. Ashamed for what? Why? No one gets acne on purpose. And yet.

I've been coming to work without makeup because a) I get up really early and I don't feel like putting it on and b) I think that its better for my skin when it is acting out and telling me something is wrong. I come to work without makeup all the time. Sometimes this results in people telling me I look "tired," but that's fine. But there is part of me that feels I should be compensating for having more blemishes, like I can only show my bare face when it is clear and healthy and it isn't fit to be seen in any other state. 

Then this morning I was perusing my usual websites and read this article on Jezebel. I skimmed it, blah blah women statistically spend more time worrying about their looks than anything else including their finances blah blah I already knew THAT. I was struck, however, when I read further to the author's personal story of how she felt when her face was bruised after having her wisdom teeth removed: "I would see my face and cry like a child, as though the only thing I had to offer the world before the teeth came out was my fairly nondescript face — really melodramatic, whiny shit. "  

Boom. I had one of those moments where everything becomes clear. I've been behaving as if the only thing I had to offer the world was my face. My regular, plain Jane face. As if somehow my job performance would be affected (I'm not a model or spokesperson, so it isn't except in the usual way of how society perceives you based on attractiveness). I've told my husband this week that "I will be pretty for you again, I promise," as if his love for me is dependent solely on my face. I've worried about going to a wedding this weekend and seeing some of my best friends, who've known me for years, as if my friends won't want be around me and relate to me the same way they have since middle school if they have to be distracted by my less than perfect skin. Well, fuck that.

Via

I can be pretty. I can not be pretty. Just like one day I can be funny and the next day I can not be funny. Just because I am not pretty today does not mean I am also automatically not funny. My qualities are not linked. My prettiness is not linked to my brain, or my job performance, or my ability to be a good friend and wife. I don't have to be happy about the way I look today or tomorrow, but I don't have to let it affect other aspects of my life. 

So I'm tucking the phrase "As though all I had to offer the world...was my fairly nondescript face" into my back pocket for when I feel like hiding to remind myself that whether or not I want or can to offer "pretty" to the world today, I can still offer a whole lot of other things too.

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Unspoken Rules for Commuter Train Riders

I've been riding my local commuter train for over five years now. I've come to the conclusion that SOME people need to be handed a written list of the heretofore unspoken rules of the commuter train that make the ride more pleasant for everyone.

1. If it is before 9 a.m. the train is generally quiet. This is because people are sleeping, or trying to. If you hold a conversation loud enough for all to hear, you are an asshat. You don't want to sleep, fine. You want to hold a conversation, that's fine too, but let's keep it respectfully quiet, ok?

2. Speaking of conversations, here are some guidelines:

• Recognize that there is a time and place for sensitive discussions. If you want to express your political opinions, however dumb they may be, fine. But be aware that if you are speaking loudly and angrily enough that others can hear you and you work in Washington, DC, it is highly likely that you will not only offend someone (not that you care, obviously, or you wouldn't need this list) but also that someone nearby is personally acquainted with the individual you are bashing. Or works for them. Or is them. And they may fight you, or tell your boss unflattering things about you. You just never know.

• For the love of cake please keep your cell phone conversations to a minimum. Yes, we all have times when we need to let someone know we're on our way or to pull the chicken out of the fridge. But why, why do I have to listen to you run through the list of things in your fridge and then dictate how to make grilled cheese all the way home? No one on the train needs to know how your doctor's appointment went. This is a perfect time to bust out the text message.

3. No touching! I can't tell you how many times I've been minding my own business in my seat when I feel a thigh press up against mine. And stay there. Clearly, the person next to me doesn't mind our flesh pressed together. But I do. These people are either have no respect for personal space or, what's worse, know that it's likely that I will scooch further into my already cramped seat to avoid feeling their warm leg, thus giving them more space than they are allotted. Nefarious.

4. You paid for one seat. You use one seat. Now, if it is the middle of the day and the train car is practically empty, sprawl all you want. But when it is rush hour and you are happily sitting next to your backpack while the rest of us are jammed so tightly together we create heat, I'm going to ask you to move your bag so I (or someone, at least) can sit. Don't give me that look. Unless your bag is full of something so precious it can't be jostled, in which case you probably shouldn't have it on public transportation, you can put it on your lap or the floor like the rest of us. Heck, on my train people even put their kids on their laps to make room for others. And they're a lot more precious (not to mention hot and wiggly) than your bag.

5. Please, please stop tempting me with your delicious-smelling McDonald's food. If you must eat on the train, couldn't you choose something that doesn't have a scent? Especially a greasy, fried, delicious scent? I think we all know the pain of sitting next to someone having crispy golden French fries while we have nothing. The scent, which is enviable. The sound of them masticating near your ear, which is disgusting. Please no. How about a nice banana instead?

These are only a few of my many complaints re: the commuter train. Still, it (usually) gets me into the city reliably, relatively cheaply, without my adding driving my car to my environmental imprint for the day. So for that, I am thankful, and will continue to patronize the train despite the behavior of the other passengers.

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Let me tell you something

I enjoy J. Crew. Mostly for their perfect fit tee shirts, as I consider a tee shirt, jeans, a scarf and ballet flats the perfect outfit for any and all occasions. I generally am only willing to purchase them on sale, however, so when I get a J. Crew sale e-mail, I generally check it out, as I did this morning. When I did, I came across this little gem:



From J. Crew

Your standard slim fitting gray sweatshirt reading "darling!," an object of clothing I would personally never wear and especially never purchase. Good thing too, because it was on sale for $199.99. Two hundred dollars people. On sale. The retail price was $398.00. Four hundred dollars. Now, it is made of cashmere, which I've never been willing to spend enough to own but I hear is very nice. But still. Where the hell would you even wear that? I'm fairly certain the only time I've ever spent over $100.00 for any single item of clothing was for a formal event dress. Somehow I can't reconcile the fact that the same store where I get tee shirts for less than 20 bucks is selling a four hundred dollar sweater. That's ugly to boot. This is what is wrong with us people. No one needs a four hundred dollar sweater. No one.

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Quote: Tiny Delights

Via C. Style

Yesterday's tiny delight: a Tesla kitten making biscuits on my tummy.

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The Curse of the Sexually Active Female

There comes a time in most women's lives where they are concurrently sexually active and desperately trying not to get pregnant. Married, single, swinging, what have you, we all go through it. During that period of time, you generally think you are pregnant at least once a day.

 

Logic goes out the window. Ok, rationally, I KNOW I need to have had sex within the last few weeks, at least, but what if, some how, some, like, SUPER sperm was just holed up in there waiting for ovulation day?

 

Feel a little nauseous today? Pregnant.

 

Warmer than normal? Pregnant.

 

Right foot itchy? DEFINITELY PREGNANT.

 

It doesn't matter if pregnancy is, in fact, the least likely cause of your minor ailment (see: too many burritos, effing summer and poison ivy for above). If you are desperately trying not to be pregnant (say, oh, you're still 25 and poor-ish and getting married in 3 months and living in a shitty one bedroom apartment like myself), then every abnormal thing can and will be taken by your brain to baby land.

 

Shows such as "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" only encourage this neurosis. I don't want to be one of those clueless women! I must be ever vigilant, you say to yourself. And God help you if you Google your symptom with the words "sign of pregnancy" because there is for sure one woman out there for whom the first sign of pregnancy was a runny nose and she will be happy to tell you all about it on some message board.

 

I like to think I'm not stupid. I went to graduate school and all that. I know the most common legitimate signs of pregnancy, what conditions you need to get pregnant and how to best prevent pregnancy. And yet, I have absolutely purchased pregnancy tests I knew I did not really need just to stop that little voice in my head from asking me just where I expect to put a crib in this tiny apartment.

 

Perhaps the most annoying thing about all of this is that I can't expect it to stop until I'm menopausal, because I know that it will be just as bad when I WANT to be pregnant and am looking for reasons to pee on the stick. Then, having had a baby, it will go back to "deargoodnesspleasenoIcanthandlemorerightnow". So heads up politicos-you don't need to be worried about the contents of my uterus. I do plenty of worrying for all of us.

 

Side note, I told my fiancé I was going to write this post and he responded that I should not because karma will ensure that I become actually pregnant any minute now. Here's hoping karma isn't that much of a bitch.

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There is Nothing Wrong With Me.

The other night I slept in my old room at my parents' house. I didn't have any books with me and I was looking for something to read before bed, so I pulled out a stack of old diaries (periodically I would get the bug to journal, start one, keep it for 3 months, and then get bored/realize I had nothing of importance to write. Much the path this blog has taken. But I digress.)

 

Firstly, I don't recommend reading things you wrote in middle school. I was deeply embarrassed for my 13 year old bespectacled and be-braced self who actually took the time to encircle her crush's name in hearts every time she wrote it. Gag me with a spoon. I put those down in favor of a journal I started in college, thinking it might reveal a more enlightened and less painful version of myself, but as it was written before I started taking social anxiety medication, it was mostly about how much I hated living at college and wouldn't have minded getting hit by a car (see, I wasn't depressed in the sense that I wanted to kill myself, just apathetic enough that I wouldn't have minded if someone else had. Thank God for paroxetine, amirite? My journey to acceptance of pharmaceutical help may be another post in the future.) Finally, I found one, count 'em, one, entry that I was not ashamed of, reading as follows:

 

"My mom tells me I 'know where I fall' on the looks spectrum. My grandmother says how unfortunate my pimples are. My advisor 'advises' me to get a boyfriend.

 

THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME."

 

You go college self. This was a particularly appropriate find as I have been really wrestling with body image lately (probably a combo of summer "beach season body are you good enough to be seen half naked" promos, reading Kjerstin Gruys' tale of her reflection-less year in Mirror, Mirror Off the Wall and my upcoming wedding). I find myself constantly vacillating between wanting to lose 10 lbs. and finally have "perfect" skin and wanting to be a model of body positivity, content to live in a healthy body and finding beauty in the experiences I have in said body. I don't want to want to change. I want to be happy with myself right now. When I tell B "I'm feeling fat today," (as if fat is a feeling) I want not to stop BEING fat, because I know that I am at a healthy weight, but to stop FEELING fat, but since the FEELING part is in my brain, it's a lot more difficult to change. I don't want to lose physical weight. I want to lose metaphorical weight made up of self-doubt and self-hate.

 

Sometimes I do have spurts of self-love, where I feel happy and healthy and beautiful. That feeling that your beauty is radiating from the inside to the point where it eclipses any physical "flaws". And then the doubt creeps in. Sometimes it comes from catching a glimpse of oneself in the bathroom mirror and realizing your mental image is not matching what you're actually seeing. Sometimes it comes from seeing an ad or some conventionally beautiful person and thinking, oh who am I kidding, my inner beauty can't possibly compete with that rack. And sometimes, and this, I think, is worst of all, sometimes it comes from a comment from those around us who think they are being kind.

 

None of the people I wrote about in my diary meant to hurt my feelings. My mother meant to imply that we should accept the "looks" we are given and learn to be content with them. My grandmother thought that, since acne can be treated, she should perhaps point out how much more conventionally beautiful I would seem if I did just that. My (college) advisor thought that I was lonely and that I needed to "get a life" (um, that one was still mean though and not really appropriate. Just tell me what classes I need, thanks). Still, they hurt, because they all seemed to imply that I was falling short of some standard. I'm glad I had the strength of self then to take that momentary sting, brush it off and remind myself "THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME" and I'm glad I came across it again in a time where the balance between self-hate and self-love seems so fickle. Because it's the truth. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me if I don't meet a conventional beauty standard. Or if I do. Or if I lose 10 lbs or if I don't. If I have pimples sometimes. Those things just...are. They simply exist, without being good or bad.

 

THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME. And there is nothing wrong with you.

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