Today I'm focusing on another Sark quote:
(page 19) “Choosing Succulence is a deliberate act of personal revolution. It means waking up! Embracing your true self, studying your patterns, and letting out your most alive self. We all have one!”
I've been struggling greatly lately, as depression has a hold over me. I think part of my struggle with depression at this point is realizing and recognizing that there are pieces of me that I don't particularly like.
I've recognized that I make excuses for the thoughtlessness of those I care about while condemning people I don't care about for the same mistakes. And when I recognize this trait in other people, it irritates the hell out of me.
I'm not even sure how to awaken and display my most alive self. Right now I have to remember daily that this too shall pass, that I will not be depressed forever, and that I will learn to be happy again.
I was on an anti-depressant, but I had to go off of it because it made the depression worse. It also caused my body to break out in acne, which seems like an insult to me. Now my skin has betrayed me? My skin is something I usually take pride in, but the acne itches and I don't like it. It seems to be going away now, but it's not very quick to leave.
I want my near-flawless skin back. I want to be content with all my pieces, even the ones that aren't very nice. I don't want to have to remind myself daily that things will get better, because I want things to be better now.
Guess I need to learn patience or else make my own miracle.
Showing posts with label beauty standards. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beauty standards. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Looking Good
Responding to "How Do You Fuck a Fat Woman" by Kate Harding
(page 68) "...Women's first--if not only--job is to be attractive to men. Never mind straight women who have other priorities or queer women who don't want men. If you were born with a vagina, your primary obligation from the onset of adolescence and well into adulthood will be to make yourself pretty for heterosexual men's pleasure. Not even just the ones you'd actually want to have a conversation with, let alone sex with--all of them."
Once upon a time I gave a damn about being attractive. And then I had a baby and decided that it was much more important to sleep. I used to have a cosmetics and hair routine, would only wear clothes that fit well to show off my body, and worried when I looked less than perfect.
Back then, I used to read fashion magazines, even knew the names of the most famous ones. Now I don't. I got tired of the same articles on the proper way to remove leg hair, and articles that actually intrigued me were few and far between.
Now I don't put as much effort into being attractive. I try to find haircuts that will look good with the absolute least effort, own only lip gloss, and would actually benefit from a wardrobe update. Most of my clothes are fairly old. But now I refuse to wear clothes that are uncomfortable. I don't need the distraction. I have better things to do than to readjust my undergarments or shirts over and over throughout the day. I really don't care if men-at-large find me attractive. Unless I'm trying to look good in the hopes of attracting compliments, the only people I care find me attractive are the ones I'm already physical with.
Up until recently at work, there was a guy who made comments about the attractiveness of various female co-workers. It was obvious to everyone but him and the higher up men who simply couldn't wrap their heads around the absolute inappropriateness of this practice, that he was indulged in sexual harassment. Many of the women he harassed were in fact teenage girls. I was never an object of his harassment. I would not have let him get away with it. I was not at all intimidated.
Regardless, the guy was in his 30s, was a walking cliche of maintenance men in body type and ill-fitting clothes, did not take pride in his appearance, but still felt completely entitled to judge the women, mostly girls, I work with as to their attractiveness. No one was trying to be attractive for him; they were all doing their best to avoid him. I called him out for his comments on multiple occasions, and he would give me a clueless look, stammering that he was just giving out a compliment. I would just repeat that he wasn't allowed to do that.
(page 72) "Of all the maddening side effects of our narrow cultural beauty standard, I think the worst might be the way it warps our understanding of attraction. The reality is, attraction is unpredictable and subjective--even people who are widely believed to meet the standard do not actually magically become more objectively attractive."
There are a few ways in which I do not and never will meet the cultural beauty standard. Not only do I not have fake breasts, my natural ones are not large. I am not blond. My teeth aren't perfect. I wear glasses. I am quite slender, which actually intimidates some women who see me as competition. Most of them have far more generous breasts than I have, so their focus on my thinness confuses me.
Really, it is far more important to be comfortable in the body you currently inhabit, and to wear comfortable clothes. Once I stopped thinking of looking good as a competition and worrying who was prettier than me, it was easier for me to relate to and empathize with other women. I can look good for me, should I choose to, and that does not in any way have to effect any one else.
(page 68) "...Women's first--if not only--job is to be attractive to men. Never mind straight women who have other priorities or queer women who don't want men. If you were born with a vagina, your primary obligation from the onset of adolescence and well into adulthood will be to make yourself pretty for heterosexual men's pleasure. Not even just the ones you'd actually want to have a conversation with, let alone sex with--all of them."
Once upon a time I gave a damn about being attractive. And then I had a baby and decided that it was much more important to sleep. I used to have a cosmetics and hair routine, would only wear clothes that fit well to show off my body, and worried when I looked less than perfect.
Back then, I used to read fashion magazines, even knew the names of the most famous ones. Now I don't. I got tired of the same articles on the proper way to remove leg hair, and articles that actually intrigued me were few and far between.
Now I don't put as much effort into being attractive. I try to find haircuts that will look good with the absolute least effort, own only lip gloss, and would actually benefit from a wardrobe update. Most of my clothes are fairly old. But now I refuse to wear clothes that are uncomfortable. I don't need the distraction. I have better things to do than to readjust my undergarments or shirts over and over throughout the day. I really don't care if men-at-large find me attractive. Unless I'm trying to look good in the hopes of attracting compliments, the only people I care find me attractive are the ones I'm already physical with.
Up until recently at work, there was a guy who made comments about the attractiveness of various female co-workers. It was obvious to everyone but him and the higher up men who simply couldn't wrap their heads around the absolute inappropriateness of this practice, that he was indulged in sexual harassment. Many of the women he harassed were in fact teenage girls. I was never an object of his harassment. I would not have let him get away with it. I was not at all intimidated.
Regardless, the guy was in his 30s, was a walking cliche of maintenance men in body type and ill-fitting clothes, did not take pride in his appearance, but still felt completely entitled to judge the women, mostly girls, I work with as to their attractiveness. No one was trying to be attractive for him; they were all doing their best to avoid him. I called him out for his comments on multiple occasions, and he would give me a clueless look, stammering that he was just giving out a compliment. I would just repeat that he wasn't allowed to do that.
(page 72) "Of all the maddening side effects of our narrow cultural beauty standard, I think the worst might be the way it warps our understanding of attraction. The reality is, attraction is unpredictable and subjective--even people who are widely believed to meet the standard do not actually magically become more objectively attractive."
There are a few ways in which I do not and never will meet the cultural beauty standard. Not only do I not have fake breasts, my natural ones are not large. I am not blond. My teeth aren't perfect. I wear glasses. I am quite slender, which actually intimidates some women who see me as competition. Most of them have far more generous breasts than I have, so their focus on my thinness confuses me.
Really, it is far more important to be comfortable in the body you currently inhabit, and to wear comfortable clothes. Once I stopped thinking of looking good as a competition and worrying who was prettier than me, it was easier for me to relate to and empathize with other women. I can look good for me, should I choose to, and that does not in any way have to effect any one else.
Friday, September 4, 2009
More Than Appearances
Responding to "A Woman's Worth" by Javacia N. Harris.
(page 64) "I'm not advocating that women ignore or hide their bodies. A woman's feeling good about her body and learning to enjoy it can only help her in the journey toward a healthy and satisfying sexual life."
The magazines regularly edit models and celebrities to depict bodies impossible to achieve in nature. Teeth are whiter than the most bleached ones out there. Absolutely no fly away hairs. Blemishes are nonexistent, and skin tone is magnificently even. I guess we're all supposed to be plastic mannequins, both thoroughly anorexic but somehow curvy, and then we'll all be perfect and happy.
Is it any wonder that even the highest paid, most fabulous supermodel may be completely insecure about her looks? No one can ever measure up.
Like many, if not most, American women, I often feel unpretty. I have stretch marks, mommy breasts, and a slighted rounded belly. I'm also practically anorexic. I shock people when I admit my weight, because they always forget to take my height and "childbearing" hips into account. Yet I fear I'm fat. I constantly get carded, yet I fear I may look old.
The impossibility of American beauty "standards" (perhaps fantasy is a better word) makes me want to hide beneath overly-large t-shirts and jeans. I feel ugly far more often than I'd like to admit.
(page 64) "My focus shifted from what my body looked like to what it could do, and I finally felt fabulous."
It's not always easy to focus on what my body can do, especially once I derail myself by spotting my flaws. But once I get started, I can accomplish many things with my body. My hands produce art. My arms hold and comfort my children. My feet can walk forever and not give up.
And while I may not always like the way my body looks, I love the way that it feels. My hair is soft. My nails are strong. My skin is soft, smooth, and velvety. My joints are very flexible, allowing me to move in surprising ways.
I'm not so hung up on my body that I can't enjoy myself in the light while I'm nude. The occasional acne or ingrown hair (aka blemishes) sometimes make me long for the dark, but that's fairly rare.
(page 64) "I have fun when I dance because I am enjoying my body, not putting it on display for someone else's pleasure."
Whenever I do stop worrying about how I look, relax, and have fun, I seem to draw attention from the male gaze. Supposedly, it's quite complimentary (according to men, at least), but I got over being told I'm cute a long time ago, about the same time I got over catcalls and guys honking and yelling when I happened to be out and about walking. Now it's just obnoxious. I'm more than eye-candy, and I prefer to be complimented on my accomplishments, not my face and body. Beauty fades and standards (fantasies) change.
My body is amazing, and that's what I need to remember. I'm not a mannequin. I'm not plastic. I'm flesh and blood, and I love it.
(page 64) "I'm not advocating that women ignore or hide their bodies. A woman's feeling good about her body and learning to enjoy it can only help her in the journey toward a healthy and satisfying sexual life."
The magazines regularly edit models and celebrities to depict bodies impossible to achieve in nature. Teeth are whiter than the most bleached ones out there. Absolutely no fly away hairs. Blemishes are nonexistent, and skin tone is magnificently even. I guess we're all supposed to be plastic mannequins, both thoroughly anorexic but somehow curvy, and then we'll all be perfect and happy.
Is it any wonder that even the highest paid, most fabulous supermodel may be completely insecure about her looks? No one can ever measure up.
Like many, if not most, American women, I often feel unpretty. I have stretch marks, mommy breasts, and a slighted rounded belly. I'm also practically anorexic. I shock people when I admit my weight, because they always forget to take my height and "childbearing" hips into account. Yet I fear I'm fat. I constantly get carded, yet I fear I may look old.
The impossibility of American beauty "standards" (perhaps fantasy is a better word) makes me want to hide beneath overly-large t-shirts and jeans. I feel ugly far more often than I'd like to admit.
(page 64) "My focus shifted from what my body looked like to what it could do, and I finally felt fabulous."
It's not always easy to focus on what my body can do, especially once I derail myself by spotting my flaws. But once I get started, I can accomplish many things with my body. My hands produce art. My arms hold and comfort my children. My feet can walk forever and not give up.
And while I may not always like the way my body looks, I love the way that it feels. My hair is soft. My nails are strong. My skin is soft, smooth, and velvety. My joints are very flexible, allowing me to move in surprising ways.
I'm not so hung up on my body that I can't enjoy myself in the light while I'm nude. The occasional acne or ingrown hair (aka blemishes) sometimes make me long for the dark, but that's fairly rare.
(page 64) "I have fun when I dance because I am enjoying my body, not putting it on display for someone else's pleasure."
Whenever I do stop worrying about how I look, relax, and have fun, I seem to draw attention from the male gaze. Supposedly, it's quite complimentary (according to men, at least), but I got over being told I'm cute a long time ago, about the same time I got over catcalls and guys honking and yelling when I happened to be out and about walking. Now it's just obnoxious. I'm more than eye-candy, and I prefer to be complimented on my accomplishments, not my face and body. Beauty fades and standards (fantasies) change.
My body is amazing, and that's what I need to remember. I'm not a mannequin. I'm not plastic. I'm flesh and blood, and I love it.
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