That's my number. The number that my scale tells me and makes me think "uh oh". Now I know the lady-like thing is not to tell the world what your weight is...but I never claimed to be lady-like...so there. A couple weeks ago I stepped onto the pesky scale and the number it told me was not 150. It was 153. This called for a bigger mental "uh oh". I knew this wasn't a 'more muscular' 153 either. This was an 'I love to eat and can't motivate myself to work out' 153.
My first reaction of course was
"Well, now I really need to get down to business"
"Only vegetables and cardboard for me"
"A new iPod playlist will help"
"Sure I could get myself to look like ( fill in the actress' name )"
"This tbt photo of me from college will motivate me"
And that lasted for about a week.
Then some other thoughts came to mind
"Hey, this isn't high school and you're not an athlete anymore"
"Maybe this is my 27 year old body"
"My clothes still fit"
These were thoughts that had never really occurred to me before and how silly that they hadn't. Where is it written that I still need to have my "track body"?? I haven't run track in years! But on the other side of that coin what exactly does a "knitting body" look like? It doesn't sound great haha.
So I'm coming to terms with something in the middle. I don't like eating well but it's something that must be done, so while I'm not dieting, I will be more conscious of what I eat. I've also begun to go for small jogs in the morning. There's something about seeing the sun come up over the East River that's really pleasant.
I'm getting older and my body is changing and that's life. And while it's safe to say that I will not be pursuing a modelling career any time ever, I think it's important to feel good in this body I've got and treat it right. So I will jog for as long or little as I feel like; I will make sure that I'm not eating noodles for every meal of my day, much to my shagrin; and most importantly I will be realistic in my expectations of what my body should look like.
9.26.2014
9.19.2014
having a witness
One of the blogs I follow is one that I constantly find myself wanting to copy and paste here. The Wild and Wily Ways of a Brunette "Bombshell" is written by Meg Fee, another 20-something living in NYC and the only way to describe her writing is, sensational. Over the summer she and some of her friends wrote a series of posts about wanting men, not needing men. Being a single gal for longer than I'd like to admit, these posts spoke to me. They describe exactly where I'm at when it comes to my single-dom at the moment. One particular post said everything I had been thinking lately so I thought it would be best to share it.
This is a guest post from Meg's blog, written by her friend Laura Jane Williams, who has her own blog, Superlatively Rude. I encourage you to check both of them out. The link to Meg's blog also has links to the other posts from this series. I highly recommend them.
The thing is, it’s about having a witness to my life.
I didn’t understand for such a very long time. I’d had my heart crumpled young – too young, really. I was too naïve to understand that he was the making of me, not the breaking—and that misunderstanding coloured my choices for days that became weeks that became, in the end, about five years of healing. It took many forms: promiscuity, celibacy, travel: searching so that I got my answers but was still puzzled as to the question.
But, you see, because of all that, I’m really fucking proud of who I am. And the woman I’ve become? She wants to share her life with a man. A husband.
It’s not a desperate kind of want. It isn’t sleeplessness nights and pints of ice-cream salted with the tears of singledom. It’s not the ticking of a biological clock, nor the irritatingly true knowledge that rent would be cheaper split by two. It’s not about sex. I’m not searching for my other half, the soulmate who will make me whole. I’m not incomplete.
I’m not incomplete.
The obvious, practical stuff aside – making my own money, being able to change the fuse on a lamp, backpacking solo and how to figure out interest rates and train timetables and reverse parking and the best way to mow the lawn – emotionally, I’m ripe.
Beyoncé said it best (because she always does): you have to have a life, before you can be somebody’s wife. Oh baby, have I had a life. I’ve cried tears enough to earn the right to be empathetic and strong with the man who will feel courage from standing by my side. I’ve laughed so much that I’ll be able to make the future father of my children see the funny side of our lost luggage, or the leak in the ceiling, or even, with enough time, the tragedy that’ll blindside us both one sunny Friday afternoon.
Make no mistake, I’ve experienced so much anger and frustration, that when he thinks he can’t take anymore – of work, of family, of the tiredness of life – well, I understand the difference between psychological space from words, and the closeness of my chin on his shoulder, just for a minute. I’ve known the aching for roots, so we can build a home together, somewhere in the world. And I’ve developed a taste for freedom, too.
I don’t need a yes man, and won’t be a yes woman, either.
This man, my husband, the one I’m ready for, he’ll have lived as well. He’ll be whole from experience.
I don’t need a project, somebody to mother. He doesn’t have to be broken to be interesting (why do we always look for them to be broken?) but there’ll be cracks in us both that being together will help mend. He’ll know himself, and his self-kindness will teach me to go easier on myself. His manners will make me more accountable to those around me, and possibly his ambition will guide my own. I might be whole, but I’m not perfect; I still have more to learn, than has been learnt. But I’ll navigate those lessons eventually, with or without him. I don’t need him.
It’d be hella fun to do this next part of growing, of understanding, of learning and becoming together, though.
This want, it’s a want for watching how he talks to his parents over dinner, so that I get insight into how I engage with my own mum and dad. I want long and lazy Sunday afternoons wrapped around each other in bed, surprising myself with truths that feel safe to share in dappled, early evening light. I want blazing, heated rows in the aisle of Ikea over everything and nothing at all, friends over to our apartment for dinner, children who look like me and sound like him – everything it takes to unfold another human being so that I might unfold myself.
I want to love whole-heartedly and without restraint with a man who is there when I wake up, and knows when to leave me alone and when to take the small of my back with just the right amount of pressure. Doing so will make me better, will teach me – as will letting myself lose control enough to be loved. Because, of course, that’s harder than loving when we’re all waiting to get found out that somehow, we don’t deserve it.
We do. I do. My husband does, too. We all deserve a cheerleader, a champion, an equal.
I’ve taken it this far, and I’ve done it goddamn well. If this is life alone, then life in a partnership – a coupling where we make each other better, compensate for weaknesses and amplify strengths – well, shit. That’d be some life.
This is a guest post from Meg's blog, written by her friend Laura Jane Williams, who has her own blog, Superlatively Rude. I encourage you to check both of them out. The link to Meg's blog also has links to the other posts from this series. I highly recommend them.
having a witness | laura jane williams
I didn’t understand for such a very long time. I’d had my heart crumpled young – too young, really. I was too naïve to understand that he was the making of me, not the breaking—and that misunderstanding coloured my choices for days that became weeks that became, in the end, about five years of healing. It took many forms: promiscuity, celibacy, travel: searching so that I got my answers but was still puzzled as to the question.
But, you see, because of all that, I’m really fucking proud of who I am. And the woman I’ve become? She wants to share her life with a man. A husband.
It’s not a desperate kind of want. It isn’t sleeplessness nights and pints of ice-cream salted with the tears of singledom. It’s not the ticking of a biological clock, nor the irritatingly true knowledge that rent would be cheaper split by two. It’s not about sex. I’m not searching for my other half, the soulmate who will make me whole. I’m not incomplete.
I’m not incomplete.
The obvious, practical stuff aside – making my own money, being able to change the fuse on a lamp, backpacking solo and how to figure out interest rates and train timetables and reverse parking and the best way to mow the lawn – emotionally, I’m ripe.
Beyoncé said it best (because she always does): you have to have a life, before you can be somebody’s wife. Oh baby, have I had a life. I’ve cried tears enough to earn the right to be empathetic and strong with the man who will feel courage from standing by my side. I’ve laughed so much that I’ll be able to make the future father of my children see the funny side of our lost luggage, or the leak in the ceiling, or even, with enough time, the tragedy that’ll blindside us both one sunny Friday afternoon.
Make no mistake, I’ve experienced so much anger and frustration, that when he thinks he can’t take anymore – of work, of family, of the tiredness of life – well, I understand the difference between psychological space from words, and the closeness of my chin on his shoulder, just for a minute. I’ve known the aching for roots, so we can build a home together, somewhere in the world. And I’ve developed a taste for freedom, too.
I don’t need a yes man, and won’t be a yes woman, either.
This man, my husband, the one I’m ready for, he’ll have lived as well. He’ll be whole from experience.
I don’t need a project, somebody to mother. He doesn’t have to be broken to be interesting (why do we always look for them to be broken?) but there’ll be cracks in us both that being together will help mend. He’ll know himself, and his self-kindness will teach me to go easier on myself. His manners will make me more accountable to those around me, and possibly his ambition will guide my own. I might be whole, but I’m not perfect; I still have more to learn, than has been learnt. But I’ll navigate those lessons eventually, with or without him. I don’t need him.
It’d be hella fun to do this next part of growing, of understanding, of learning and becoming together, though.
This want, it’s a want for watching how he talks to his parents over dinner, so that I get insight into how I engage with my own mum and dad. I want long and lazy Sunday afternoons wrapped around each other in bed, surprising myself with truths that feel safe to share in dappled, early evening light. I want blazing, heated rows in the aisle of Ikea over everything and nothing at all, friends over to our apartment for dinner, children who look like me and sound like him – everything it takes to unfold another human being so that I might unfold myself.
I want to love whole-heartedly and without restraint with a man who is there when I wake up, and knows when to leave me alone and when to take the small of my back with just the right amount of pressure. Doing so will make me better, will teach me – as will letting myself lose control enough to be loved. Because, of course, that’s harder than loving when we’re all waiting to get found out that somehow, we don’t deserve it.
We do. I do. My husband does, too. We all deserve a cheerleader, a champion, an equal.
I’ve taken it this far, and I’ve done it goddamn well. If this is life alone, then life in a partnership – a coupling where we make each other better, compensate for weaknesses and amplify strengths – well, shit. That’d be some life.
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