Some years back, before I went through the temple, I had a discussion with a non-LDS friend of mine about garments. She, of course, thought they were extremely weird and a sign of oppression and why would anyone wear them, etc. My main thoughts were that a) all things considered, yes they do limit some fashion choices, but at least it's not throat-to-wrist-to-feet coverings 24/7 like some faiths, and there are exceptions for circumstances and activities, and b)it's someone's underwear and how on earth is that ever anyone else's business? Lay off!
Only later after wearing the garment myself did I realize that the same question must then be posed to members of the Church. How is it anyone else's business whether an individual is wearing their garments on a given day or not? Or at all or not? It's not, but I'll tell you, it's impossible not to feel conspicuous about going out in public where other Mormons might see you and know/think you're not wearing them.
Example: I was recently at a friend's house for a get-together involving her mother on a day when I had run low on clean garments, so it was just me and regular heathen underwear. This mother can occasionally be a bit of a busy-body, and at one point when I was standing next to her, I'm fairly certain I felt the edge of my shirt lifted and then lowered. I was busy doing something so I can't absolutely confirm that this happened, and she made no comments, but I wouldn't put it past her from my experiences being around her. If this indeed happened, not only did she invade my personal space without permission--and I have very specific issues with people messing with my clothes, especially when I'm wearing them--but... what business is it of hers or anyone's? None. Absolutely none.
If I'm wearing my garments, it doesn't matter.
If I'm not wearing my garments, it doesn't matter.
My underwear is none of your business. Ever.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Saturday, August 11, 2012
The Self-Esteem Sandwich
Body image is on my mind, in case you couldn't tell.
I was on the phone with a man the other day--one that I greatly admire and think is more or less made of awesome and I-wish-I-were-more-like-you--and we've had some great phone conversations before, but that one just felt a little... flat. Maybe my fault, maybe his, maybe both, maybe neither, maybe I interrupted him doing something (in which case, I'm glad he took the amount of time he did out of what he was doing), maybe he was distracted... doesn't matter. It was shortish and inconclusive in the realm of "Hey, so when do you want to get together?" and I felt like a complete doofus who can't communicate with the Y-chromosome portion of the species to save my life after we hung up. Not my finest moment. (Then I got to whine about it to a friend afterwards to distract her from her own man-woes, so that worked out okay.) And, as so very often happens, it got me thinking. There might've been a nudge/shove from Dryad involved, too.
Anyway, I was finally able to verbalize something I've known about myself for a while but hadn't found the right visual for it. Usually, I think of self-esteem as one whole entity.
There's seeds of doubt or confidence at the core of it, and then the flesh is either good or bad, juicy or dry, healthy or rotten. That model never really satisfied me, though, and I finally figured out why. My personal self-esteem looks something more like this.
On top we find a fine, strong, lovely layer of good feelings about self and healthy attitudes. This is my smile, my laugh, my kindness to others, my encouragement, my Feminista, my "I am a good person to be around and know"ness.
On the bottom, we find a fine, strong, lovely layer of "I am a daughter of God and Goddess", divine nature, individual worth, core values, and a relative confidence that I have a right to be in the world, that I have a purpose, gifts, things to share and contribute to humanity: my "I am a good person to have exist."
And in the middle is a thick, brown, sticky layer of "What are you, why are you here, and why would anyone want you?" that leaves a bad taste in the mouth.
This is echoed in the conscious realization that the physical traits for which I do get complimented are all peripheral: hair, eyes, face, hands, feet... eyebrows. (Seriously, people love my eyebrows.) I have never, ever, ever been told by a reliable, male source that my body is beautiful. I've been called sexy by guys on dating sites, and at that point it doesn't feel like a compliment. I am unable to take it as a compliment; it feels objectifying because they don't know me. I can't or won't trust it, and I'm automatically suspicious of any man that says it.
Hell of a rock and a hard place situation, isn't it? I know I'm awesome, but I only know that on the top and bottom. The mush in the middle is hard to swallow, and there's precious little Mother's Milk with which to wash it down and tell me I'm good all the way through.
I was on the phone with a man the other day--one that I greatly admire and think is more or less made of awesome and I-wish-I-were-more-like-you--and we've had some great phone conversations before, but that one just felt a little... flat. Maybe my fault, maybe his, maybe both, maybe neither, maybe I interrupted him doing something (in which case, I'm glad he took the amount of time he did out of what he was doing), maybe he was distracted... doesn't matter. It was shortish and inconclusive in the realm of "Hey, so when do you want to get together?" and I felt like a complete doofus who can't communicate with the Y-chromosome portion of the species to save my life after we hung up. Not my finest moment. (Then I got to whine about it to a friend afterwards to distract her from her own man-woes, so that worked out okay.) And, as so very often happens, it got me thinking. There might've been a nudge/shove from Dryad involved, too.
Anyway, I was finally able to verbalize something I've known about myself for a while but hadn't found the right visual for it. Usually, I think of self-esteem as one whole entity.
 |
| Kinda like one of these. (Buy a tree here) |
There's seeds of doubt or confidence at the core of it, and then the flesh is either good or bad, juicy or dry, healthy or rotten. That model never really satisfied me, though, and I finally figured out why. My personal self-esteem looks something more like this.
On the bottom, we find a fine, strong, lovely layer of "I am a daughter of God and Goddess", divine nature, individual worth, core values, and a relative confidence that I have a right to be in the world, that I have a purpose, gifts, things to share and contribute to humanity: my "I am a good person to have exist."
And in the middle is a thick, brown, sticky layer of "What are you, why are you here, and why would anyone want you?" that leaves a bad taste in the mouth.
This is echoed in the conscious realization that the physical traits for which I do get complimented are all peripheral: hair, eyes, face, hands, feet... eyebrows. (Seriously, people love my eyebrows.) I have never, ever, ever been told by a reliable, male source that my body is beautiful. I've been called sexy by guys on dating sites, and at that point it doesn't feel like a compliment. I am unable to take it as a compliment; it feels objectifying because they don't know me. I can't or won't trust it, and I'm automatically suspicious of any man that says it.
Hell of a rock and a hard place situation, isn't it? I know I'm awesome, but I only know that on the top and bottom. The mush in the middle is hard to swallow, and there's precious little Mother's Milk with which to wash it down and tell me I'm good all the way through.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Busy Biz-y Buzz Buzz
I haven't forgotten you, darlings, I'm just trying to open a new business and pray my grandparents don't die. I am a bucket o' sunshine this year, aren't I? (There might be several episodes of Doctor Who involved, as well. Just sayin'.)
However, in lieu of recording my woes and insecurities about timing, staying, going, living, and dying, I'm just going to tell you all to go here and read some hilarious, often-profane, and insightful posts about what it's like to be a Mid-Single. I wanna make that woman my newest best friend.
Anyway, I'll be back again. I'm looking for something happy to talk about. There must be things of good report in this world, so I shall seek after them then return and report.
However, in lieu of recording my woes and insecurities about timing, staying, going, living, and dying, I'm just going to tell you all to go here and read some hilarious, often-profane, and insightful posts about what it's like to be a Mid-Single. I wanna make that woman my newest best friend.
Anyway, I'll be back again. I'm looking for something happy to talk about. There must be things of good report in this world, so I shall seek after them then return and report.
Black magic
I have seen black magic.
You have, too, if you know the signs,
The dark marks of a modern cursing
Born in loathsome mutters across the airwaves.
For you see, the black magic that poisons us is not transacted with
Chicken blood or
Eye of newt.
No, the incantations of black magic today
Tell us that we are ugly
That the shape of our bodies is wrong
That we eat, drink, sleep, dress, and play
Wrong.
It drains our pockets and our hearts
In the pursuit of an unattainable lie.
It promises glory with one more lipstick
A two-in-one mascara
A stream-lined car
And rock-hard abs.
The belly is meant to be soft,
Home to vitals and bowels,
Breath and blood and digestion,
A place of comfort and warmth,
The womb.
Black magic casts it with shame and demands that it and all other soft and warm and lovely things be sacrificed
upon an altar of stone and steel.
This is the black magic of our times,
The incantations that coax and coerce and cajole and convince
That we are not divine.
We are not already in the image of God or Goddess.
It isn't okay to be a little overgrown, a little lush, a little wild and untamed.
Black magic says that.
You have, too, if you know the signs,
The dark marks of a modern cursing
Born in loathsome mutters across the airwaves.
For you see, the black magic that poisons us is not transacted with
Chicken blood or
Eye of newt.
No, the incantations of black magic today
Tell us that we are ugly
That the shape of our bodies is wrong
That we eat, drink, sleep, dress, and play
Wrong.
It drains our pockets and our hearts
In the pursuit of an unattainable lie.
It promises glory with one more lipstick
A two-in-one mascara
A stream-lined car
And rock-hard abs.
The belly is meant to be soft,
Home to vitals and bowels,
Breath and blood and digestion,
A place of comfort and warmth,
The womb.
Black magic casts it with shame and demands that it and all other soft and warm and lovely things be sacrificed
upon an altar of stone and steel.
This is the black magic of our times,
The incantations that coax and coerce and cajole and convince
That we are not divine.
We are not already in the image of God or Goddess.
It isn't okay to be a little overgrown, a little lush, a little wild and untamed.
Black magic says that.
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