Mind Altering Drugs at the Mall

I think they must gas us at the mall–spray us with some mind-altering substance.  I went in feeling great about myself, and now I feel like a slob.

I smelled something strong around the Abercrombie and Fitch.  I thought it was cologne or the scent of those special people who can actually wear Abercrombie.  But now I know what it was: drugs.

Nothing is right anymore.

My shoes don’t match my bag, and they don’t go right with these jeans.  That doesn’t matter, because the jeans are saggy around the butt so they must go.  I will slip into a pair of these hundred-dollar jeans and then all shall be well.  My t-shirt doesn’t hug my curves right, so I’ll trade it for another.  I’ll drop a hundred bucks on jewelry.  I’ll buy new makeup, I’ll…!

Collapse at Starbucks, exhausted and broke.

The coffee soothes my nerves and washes away the drugs.  I see myself for what I am: a foot-sore consumer among thousands.  No one is looking at my clothes.  No one is looking at my hair.  They are busy looking at themselves, and their saggy jeans, and their outdated shoes.

Where has my reason gone?  Wasn’t I a fiscally responsible, ‘un-shallow’, free-spirited person just yesterday?  How did I get swept into this?

Drugs, I tell you.  They alter your mind.

So I sip my iced coffee and I resolve to smile bigger, to greet the sales people with more enthusiasm, to thank them for their help, to move with grace and peace, and mostly, to slow down–to stop this frantic acquiring and actually enjoy myself.  It may be the only way I stand out in the crowd.

 

Are You a Poser?

Today, on a whim, I walked into the sports store and tried on running tights.

All I wanted was to find shorts that would stay up on my non-existent hips. Running is hard enough without having to hike your pants up every two minutes. But the young lady who was helping me assured me that I wanted compression tights.

Let me digress to say that I’ve only been running for two weeks. I like it, but I have no inherent talent for it. This is the latest evolution in my fitness revolution (which seems to involve doing things I swore I’d never do).

I donned a pair of pants that could have been painted on, and peeked my head out of the fitting room. “Is this how they’re supposed to fit?” I asked the clerk.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s right.” She looked me up and down. “Wow, your legs are so strong! Do you, like, do weight training besides your running?”

“Umm…” A moment of awkward silence passed.

See, I have legs like a speed-skater. As my Oma says, some people are just built to be Clydesdales. And though three months of lunges, squats and the like have certainly toned them up, well… I probably haven’t ‘earned’ them.

“No,” I said. There was no sense in lying. “I’m a rookie at this, really. I’ve been doing
calisthenics, or whatever, for three months and I just got into running.”

When she left I did a couple of jump-squats in front of the mirror and struck an athletic stance. Heck, clad in Under Armour, my legs did look pretty amazing.

You’re such a poser, I thought as I walked out of the store without the seventy-five dollar tights. You’ve been running for two weeks. Two weeks!  This isn’t the first time I’ve thought this.  Almost every time I go out for a so-called run, I feel like a fake.  I’m just not good enough to be called a runner.

But is that true? Am I a poser?  Or am I just a beginner?  There’s a difference, right?

Because I can’t help it that I can’t run 5 kilometers. Sure, I let myself get this out of shape, but now that I’ve begun I’m working as hard as I can. I’m following my program with military precision, and I can honestly say that today I pushed myself to my physical limit.

Doesn’t sound like a poser to me.

I often feel like a poser when I call myself a writer, as well. After all, I don’t even have a published novel—yet.

But am I committed? Yes.

Orrin Woodward said:

Most people can identify what they want, some will even check out what type of commitment it would take to achieve it, but only a select few will apply the first two steps consistently in order to pay the full price. It’s not lack of talent or a lack of time or a lack of opportunities that deny a person success in the West, rather, it’s the lack of a singular focus on what one truly wants. A person must be willing to surrender who he is to become who he needs to be in the quest for significant success. This is a price that few are willing to pay.

A fake runs only when it’s sunny, and only as far as it doesn’t hurt. A poser writes only when there’s inspiration, plays the piano when there’s time, is a loving friend when it’s convenient—insert whatever end you’re trying to achieve. But if you are paying the price, you’re no fake. You may have a long ways to go—like I do (don’t I know it!). But you’re a beginner, not a poser.

I suspect that I will look back on myself, six, nine months from now, and laugh at my feeble efforts at running–writing for that matter. But it can’t be helped. I must suffer through the first few weeks of Couch to 5K to make it to the real running. I must hack out a hundred blog articles, and a couple novels in hopes of hitting the really good stuff.

So let’s be patient with each other, okay? We’re just getting started.

 

The Top 10: Swapping Heads, Swapping Stories

How many stupid things can one person do in a year?  And write about them?

Yes, I’ve been blogging for a year now, and as I look back over what I’ve written, I realized that much more has happened than I thought.  I’ve lost weight, I’ve written a book–and I’ve had my foot run over by a truck.

I began writing while unemployed, and now, doubly employed, I’m still going strong.  This is post 101, and to celebrate, I’m listing off my top 10 posts.

1. For Trade: One Head

Have you ever wished you could escape from your own head?  In a moment of silliness and disillusionment, I wrote an ad, trying to sell my head.  Read through the comments section to see other’s ads for their heads.  Some are hilarious, others are heart-breaking.

2. I Don’t Plan on Getting Married

Single gals can get pretty desperate around Valentines day.  I decided that this time, I wouldn’t be the one saying “I’m okay with being single,” because I wasn’t.  The response to this article was amazing.

3. The Funny Version 

Tragedy plus time equals humour, I was told.  So when my foot was run over by a truck, I tried to reframe it as a comedy.  By the way, if you want to meet cute medics, put your foot in front of a truck.

4. Why I Left Christian Music

If I love Jesus, why don’t I love Jesus music?  Btw, few things will bring out the therapist in your Christian friends more than admitting you don’t like Christian music.

5. Fat Girl’s Guide to Fashion Freedom

Do you ever look at pictures and say “I can’t believe I wore that?”  When I was little I was fearless about my fashion choices, but when I grew into a chunky, acne riddled teen, my confidence evaporated.  How could I get it back?

6. The Great Pizza Failure

After an epic quest for low-carb pizza produced disgusting results, I had a small existential crisis.  In hindsight it was pretty funny.

7. Trim Healthy What?

After enough people asked me ‘aren’t you doing some diet thing,’ I decided to own up to it and explain what Trim Healthy Mama is about.  Update: I am indeed still on that ‘diet’, and have dropped two pant-sizes.

8. 5 Ways to Name Your Baby (Or Not)

I don’t have a baby, but I think this is how to name one–if the baby names I’ve been hearing are any indication.  Did that Mom just call her kid ‘Satan’?

9. I Caught the Bouquet. Now What?

I caught the bouquet at my friends wedding.  I know that’s supposed to mean that I’m next to get married, but I’m not holding my breath.

And I still maintain that I did NOT knock that girl over.

10. Comment Section Wars: 3 Ways to Rise Above

Some people truly enjoy a good fight.  If you want to attend one, pick a YouTube video at random and scroll down to the comment section.  After reading through a comment section debate, I offered these three tips on how to succeed in this blood sport.

I’ve gained a bit more experience in this topic now, but I still stand by these three points.

Well, those are my ten–to a degree, in no particular order.  Now that I pick them I can think of others, but there we are.  Friends, it’s been a good year. Thanks for meeting me in the coffee shop and saying, ‘hey, I read your blog’.  It still gives me a thrill.  Thanks for  your ‘therapeutic’ advice.  Thanks for offering up your head when I needed to swap mine.

Here’s to a new year.

 

 

A Fat Girl’s Guide to Fashion Freedom

Because learning to dress myself was only the beginning.

They were white, with purple and pink roses. No wonder I still remember them. I doubt those hand-me-down sweatpants were ever stylish, but I rocked them. When I was six I wore what I liked. Purple and pink were my favourite colours, so I wore them together, along with every barrette in my arsenal. I even had this splendid set of pearl earrings (clip-ons), which I would wear to church and embarrass my mother. Those were the carefree days, where I didn’t even stop to consider what people thought of my clothes. Would that I could go back.

Or not.

Bellbottoms, or flares, were coming into fashion as I was entering my teen years. Pants, with flared-out legs so wide that you could park my little car under them, were paired with platform shoes—the clunkier the better. And I had neither.

When my birthday rolled around, I took my birthday money and bought a pair of black flares with white stripes down the side. They were haute. I wouldn’t be caught dead in them today, but I was twelve, and anxious to fit in. I asked my most stylish friend if they suited me, and she assured me they did. Great, I had one pair of fashionable pants.

I was a chunky, acne-riddled teenager. While my friends were wearing low-slung jeans and baby tees that showed off their flat midriffs, I was wearing a hoodie and modest jeans. Stores for kids that age don’t sell size XXL, and even if they had, my allowance didn’t permit much clothes shopping. I wouldn’t have known what clothes to put together anyway. That had to be learned.

I thought I wasn’t popular because I was fat, that I didn’t get attention from boys because I wasn’t beautiful like the other girls.

I did what I could. I bought makeup and experimented with covering my acne scars until I got it right. I tried different clothes, though I refused to shop in the plus sizes because that, somehow, made me ‘fat’.  But somewhere in my late teens I started to pull my wardrobe together. I had this great jacket that made me feel like a million bucks, and some pretty tops that dressed up my jeans. I remember (and laugh) about the first scarf I bought, when they were a new thing. I was afraid that my family would think it was too ‘out there’.

I suspect growing up and gaining confidence did more for my body image than new clothes ever did. I got a job in a meat-packing facility, which is a direct route to looking like crap every day. But I was forced to associate with guys (gasp), stand up for myself, and assert myself among a group of adults that didn’t give a damn about me, or my feelings. It thickened my skin. Knowing that I could hold my own in the real world helped me hold my head high, even when I couldn’t afford to dress like a show-window mannequin.

Shortly thereafter, I began college. My wardrobe consisted of 90% MCC thrift-store items—like a ruffled ‘pirate coat’, a spangled tunic, and a never-ending supply of cardigans. I had classmates who rocked their eclectic thrift-store duds, and from them I learned that clothes were art—meant to be original and expressions of your inner self—not one size fits all. My clothes might not have fit into the prepster, hipster or sophisticate categories, but I was accepted anyway. I was accepted for being me.

I’m still learning that.

These days I work as a ‘fashion associate’ part-time, which comes with discounts that make trendy clothes affordable. I’d say I’ve found out what I would wear if I could wear anything I liked. Right now it’s purple, fish-scale pants, a wine-colored blazer, a sequined black tee, and boots that have caught my fancy (notice the reappearance of purple?). And, I’ve at last found peace in shopping in the plus-sizes. Face it, they fit me better, and they look great.

It will eventually get through to me that my clothes have never won, nor lost me any friends. Rather, it is the content of my character that attracts others. The coworkers who see me in a cerulean uniform and safety glasses like me just as well as the ones who see me in purple pants and sequins.

I can’t go back to being five years old and carefree, but maybe I’ll grow up a little more and care a little less about what people think of me.

The Backhanded Cure for Low Self-Esteem

This is what happens to me when I walk through a mall: I observe another woman’s effortless elegance, hour-glass figure, or the handsome dude she’s with, and feel like a pitiful excuse for a human being. I might have felt like a million bucks when I left home, but once I saw what she was wearing… jig’s up.

And so I take the next left into the clothing store, or the makeup counter, and spend money I shouldn’t–or I medicate with a Pumpkin Spice Latte (no need for a spoonful of sugar to make that medicine go down). This insidious form of low self-esteem, called comparison, lurks at every corner of the mall.

I say to myself: “There must be something wrong with me. If I was beautiful like she was, I’d have a man.” Or, “It’s bad genes that keep me fat.” Or I just medicate with a Pumpkin Spice Latte.

That would be a lack of pride, right? I don’t feel proud of myself, so I lack self-esteem.

Edward T. Welch has a different take:

“Low self-esteem usually means that I think too highly of myself. I’m too self-involved, I feel I deserve better than what I have. The reason I feel bad about myself is because I aspire to something more. I want just a few minutes of greatness. I am a peasant who wants to be king When you are in the grips of low self-esteem, it’s painful, and it certainly doesn’t feel like pride. But I believe that this is the dark, quieter side of pride—thwarted pride” (1).

That’s a head-scratcher. Let me get this straight: low self-esteem equals thinking too highly of myself?

Right.

But it actually makes sense. Welch said “I feel I deserve better than what I have”—as if the hand I was dealt by the Creator is beneath me. I’m too good to be single. I’m too good for acne. I’m too good to be fat. I should have been given a better hand!

I’ve always believed that if someone was truly great at cards, they could win with whatever they were dealt. The glory was in winning against the odds, not with a stacked hand. We root for underdogs—just watch any sports movie Hollywood puts out.

Reason number one to stop bemoaning my life: if it’s bad, all the more impressive when I win. I must make the best of it.

And the biggest reason: God gave me this life and its set of circumstances. How prideful of me to say he was wrong!

“Yeah, you’re Creator and omniscient, but you should have given me a better face.” Tear, sob, sip of PSL.

Stop it, you big baby! (Talking to myself, here—or the person beside you). Put on your big-girl panties and get to work.

I’m not preaching fatalism, here. I’m saying play the hand you’re dealt, and play it well. It wasn’t given to you at random, but for a particular mission. If you don’t believe there is a creator, that doesn’t exempt you. What makes you so good that chance should have dealt you a better hand? Make good on it.

Get your focus in the right place—not on yourself, not on the other person’s stuff, but on the face of Jesus Christ. “And the things of earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of his glory and grace.”

Let’s work on this together, shall we?

Reference:

(1). Edward T. Welch, as quoted in Confidence of a Champion by Tim Marks.

A Lesson from Purple Fish-scale Pants

I’m a vain, vain soul. I know this because of the inordinate amount of time I spent staring at my purple fish-scale pants when I should have been paying attention to the pastor this morning. And yesterday my coworker teased me that every time she turned around I had my scarf arranged differently. And that would have been almost true.

I can buy new clothes every month and still not have enough. I can fix up my hair (which never falls perfectly even if I’m trying) and do my makeup, wear my most stylish outfit, strut around like a peacock, and feel like I’m really quite a spectacle—and that’s not enough.

And it isn’t enough. All the outer trimmings can’t make me truly beautiful.

The Apostle Peter said, “Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as elaborate hairstyles and the wearing of gold jewelry or fine clothes. Rather, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight” (1).

Someone once told me a story about a woman I know. This lady was working at a summer camp, and, as a grandmotherly woman, went to one of the girls’ cabins at bedtime to say goodnight to the girls, tell them stories and pray with them. As she gave out goodnight hugs, one of the girls said to her ‘you are the ugliest lady I ever saw’.

I was taken aback when I heard this. Ugly? The thought of this lady being ugly had never occurred to me. If I thought about it, I could reason that perhaps she wasn’t going to be on the cover of a beauty magazine. But ugly? Never. This woman, who is very dear to me, is a constant positive, smiling, encouraging presence. She has the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit.

I was convicted today, while gazing down at my purple pants, that I spend far too much time and energy on my outward appearance, and far too little on my inward appearance.

“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it” (2) and “the mouth speaks what the heart is full of” (3).

I’ve been praying for God to graciously show me the selfishness and hardness in my heart, and clearly this is one such example. I pray that as I know him more, this self-absorption that keeps my eyes on the mirror and on my purple pants, will dissipate, and leave behind the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.

References:
(1) 1 Peter 3:3-4, New International Version
(2) Proverbs 4:23, New International Version
(3) Luke 6:45, New International Version

All verses taken from Bible Gateway, at http://www.biblegateway.com/

Word of the Week: Sartorial

I’ve been posting the Word of the Week to my Facebook page for some time now, but I thought I’d extend it to the blog from now on.

I stumbled across this week’s word as I perused a fashion magazine on my break. It must have been the only big word the writer knew, because she used it more than once.  She had one up on me.  I didn’t know what it meant.

Sartorial |särˈtôrēəl| (Adjective)

of or relating to tailoring, clothes, or style of dress: sartorial elegance.  ORIGIN early 19th cent.: from Latin sartor ‘tailor’ (from sarcire ‘to patch’) + -ial.