Falling in Love With the Mirror

I went shopping with my grandma today. Shopping is generally pretty stressful for me. I don't really know why; I'm intellectually comfortable with my body. But, there isn't really a single good mirror in my house. The "full length" mirror is basically a fun house mirror. "When did I get so fat?" tends to be a question people ask when they look into it.

Today, standing in a dressing room in Target, I caught sight on my un-panted back end and smiled. There was my cute little butt and my nice long legs and, hey, I look pretty good under this shirt, too!

Liberating. Truly liberating to love your body when you see what it really looks like.

This isn't about Michael Jackson, really

You definitely don't have to watch the entire thing, but you do have to look at that girl, the subject of this blog post.

Okay, look at her. Obviously a dancer. Look at that physique. Tiny hips, tiny waist, massive shoulders, muscular arms, A cup, toned legs. A lot of girls would really want her body.

To girls who want her body but can't get it: you don't have to look like her. She's strangely disproportional and way too skinny anyway. You know that song "Love the One You're With"? Yeah, you've got to love what you've been given. If you're curvy and you're meant to be that way, take it and love it. Who says you're not beautiful too?

To girls who look like her: rock it! Michael Jackson danced for a solid 7 minutes to win her heart. That's real love. I know I tend to tear down less curvy body types, but I do it as part of a coping mechanism. Truth be told, your bodies are just as beautiful as any other curvy body. I just love my curvy body so much that I gloat and brag a little too frequently. Toned arms are beautiful! A dancer's rail thin physique is attractive to a lot of people, Michael Jackson included, so, enjoy it!

Side note: Michael Jackson's freaking sexy.

The Unavoidable, Unsightly and Ugly Stretch Marks

I had to take a break from The Height Chronicles because they just weren't coming. I mean, look, I've gone a whole week and still haven't gotten anything good for the next installment. So, here's a consolation prize that's been weighing on my mind. 

Oh hello, when did you get there, road map on my butt? If an emoticon weren't inappropriate for a semi-formal blog, I'd put this one: D:<

Yeah, I've had stretch marks from a very young age. I guess I must've been ten or eleven. They're not even the stretch marks that come from becoming a woman; they're the "oh crap, I got fat fast" kind. They're atrocious, they're everywhere and I really hate them. (See? They even make me ruin my grammar... stupid things.)

I have two major concerns with them. The lesser of the two has already been mentioned: they're the result of something that could've been prevented. I stopped running around and playing real games at some point in my life and I just kept eating and eating. I packed on a lot of weight in a very short amount of time and the multitudinous stretch marks were born.  I was young, so I know it wasn't entirely my fault. My parents probably should've stepped in and said, "Don't eat that third twice baked potato half" but they didn't, so, what's done is done. I managed to look like a much less fat individual so, no big. But the stretch marks are still there, unyielding. I had no idea I'd get them and that they'd never go away. But they were still preventable. Obviously, this is quite the dilemma in my mind (though, I guess not a dilemma as a mash of ideas, seeing as there aren't really just two sides). I guess I just regret not knowing about them or something. Heck, I don't know. But, the fact that they're still there leads to the second major concern.

This concern's far more poignant and personal and I think I have to preface it with this: I don't think any girl is entirely comfortable with herself naked. As such, we're all terribly concerned about presenting ourselves to a husband. What will he think when the clothes come off and I've got this unsightly blemish? What will he think when he touches me and there is a gross, not-smooth feeling to my skin because of those past mistakes? How can I be comfortable not knowing what he's thinking about me and my body?

I was talking about this in more general terms with one of my friends. She expressed similar concern. "But," she said, "He's not going to be thinking about that. You know." We smirked and shook our heads. Yeah, she's right. He's not going to marry me and then not love me all the sudden. Heck, he probably won't even think, "Whoa, gross, what are these strange scar things?"

But there's still this concern that we're going to be totally vulnerable and there might be some judgment happening.

Also, I apologize to anyone who might've felt that that was more information than necessary, but I'm fairly sure that someone has to say it. For the men who may/might read this blog... yeah, I don't know what the message is to you. Appreciate your women, maybe. Realize that we're very, very, severely self-conscious.

But, getting back to things, lemme just say that my stretch marks make me really excited about the Resurrection.

Wait--this blog is about accepting physical flaws? Well, piece of crap, I guess I should learn to love them or something. But how the heck am I going to do that?

No, they don't make me any more a woman.
No, they aren't something that someone once appreciated in the past.
No, God didn't give these to me.

There's nothing left. Except that, maybe, they've reminded me not to let my body get carried away? They're there to kind of let me know that I'm not totally perfect and that I have things I have to get over, too.

For most women, stretch marks can get passed off on the first item of the list. They got their stretch marks because their hips or whatever got big really quickly. "Look, I'm a real woman!" they can say. Lucky them. I have a few of those. And I don't have an issue with those ones. So, maybe just--

Stroke of brilliance! My stretch marks, like the feminine ones, can remind me how far I've come. I used to be pudgy enough to merit those stretch marks. Now, I'm not! Perfect. I'm beautiful with them because I don't need them.

Advice to you, struggling to get over some aspect of your body: write it down! I definitely started this blog entry with no idea how I was going to accept my stretch marks, but look at that! I have a reason to like them a little. W00t.

A Day of Jubilance!

It's Easter, after all.  

"We're going to be resurrected and I'll have all my hair!" my Young Woman's president exclaimed with delight in her eyes.

I smiled, since it was funny. But what does it mean to be in our "perfect form" spirit and body reunited? What does that mean for us as spirits? As bodies? As souls?

Let's take care of the silly physical things first. They're almost entirely useless compared to what's really going on with the Resurrection, but, since this blog is what it is, I'll talk about it.

Spencer W. Kimball said, "I am sure that if we can imagine ourselves at our very best, physically, mentally, spiritually, that is the way we will come back."

Does that mean we'll all look like our 16 or 19 year old selves, the same age we were when we ran our fastest miles? Does that mean we'll be wearing caps and gowns, having just received a diploma to recognize our educational prowess? Does that mean we'll look the way we did on our missions/when we went to the temple for the first time?

I can't be sure, but what I can be sure of is this: Christ asked to keep the scars from his crucifixion. Elder Oaks said that "all who have been disadvantaged in life from birth defects, from mortal injuries, from disease, or from the natural deterioration of old age will be resurrected in 'proper and perfect frame.'"

Probably, we'll be wiped clean of scars (including stretch marks). We'll be granted any missing limbs again. Anything we didn't have to start with will be given to us. The lame will walk. The blind will see. Christ healed people of those kinds of maladies during His mortal ministry; why wouldn't He in the Resurrection? "He healed the sick, the dead He raised." It only makes sense that He'd continue to do for all people what He did for those He was able to more literally touch.

So, what else did Christ do during His ministry?

Not only did He heal many people of their physical hardships, He also granted forgiveness and atoned for all mankind.

The Atonement and the Resurrection are constantly coupled and I think that's absolutely important. One cannot exist without the other. Why would one repent (or use the atonement) if there was no promise for the future? Alternately, why would we want to be resurrected if we were impure? Elder Oaks explained that not only will our bodies be perfected in the Resurrection, but so will our memories. We will have a bright recollection of our carnal desires if we failed to do something substantial about them during our mortal lives. One cannot exist without the other. Both are incredibly important, but the atonement, or repentance, is the part we can do now. Making sure we're comfortable with ourselves, physically, mentally and spiritually, will require repentance and constant work.

Side note. I went to an art exhibit and picked this one at as my favourite:

 

It's called "Christ the Comforter" by Carl Bloch and it's really one of his best pieces ever. Ever.  The resurrected Christ stands, in Bloch's traditional triumphant-arm stance, inviting those who need His succor to come unto Him. My favourite part of the painting was the people and their relationships to Christ. Those with physical difficulties are easily visible and lean quite dependently on Christ. The widow knows to whom she can cling, but her daughter feels betrayed by the divine hand. A peasant seems wary, cautiously glancing up to the Savior. An important looking man can't even bear to look up to the Redeemer, likely because of the guilt in his heart. The man in manacles looks physically capable (especially when compared to the others), but is unable to take care of himself. How did Christ's life, death and resurrection affect all these people? Why is it the resurrected Christ standing in the midst of them instead of the mortal Jesus?

Food for thought. I'm open for discussion.

I know that Christ is my Savior, Lord and Redeemer. He loves me enough to extend His hands to me and to change me when I ask Him to and do His will. He loved the entire world enough to have suffered for all our sins. He loved us enough to volunteer to take this mission to endure the pain of the Atonement, but to come forth triumphantly in Resurrection. He loves us enough to give us constant direction through a prophet and righteous leaders. He loves us enough to be our advocate at that great and terrible day. He loves us enough to cleanse us of our spiritual and physical scars and both are given to us to bring us closer to Him. I love Him, I know Him, I am grateful for Him. 

Let's remember the miracle of the Resurrection this Easter and always, but let us also remember the gift of the Atonement and let us not forget to use it in our lives. Christ is the way, the light and the rock and, without Him, we are nothing.

(For further reading: http://lds.org/general-conference/2000/04/resurrection?lang=eng&query=Resurrection, http://lds.org/new-era/2008/03/sunday-will-come?lang=eng&query=Sunday+Will+Come)

Episode One of The Height Chronicles: The Women and Social Critics

At an event that is almost solely populated by women, you can be sure to see me. Just get up on some stairs somewhere or take an aerial shot with your camera and, amid the sea of heads will be a beacon. Usually, that beacon will have a very silly expression on it. But, it will be visible. Easily.

The height to be considered "tall" as a woman is 5'11". Oh hai. I guess, technically, I'm 5'10 3/4". So, technically, "not tall." But, I'm still taller than your average woman.

There was a time when it wasn't fun. At all. I always worried about being "on the same level" as the other girls, so I'd slouch to get a more direct look into their eyes. It might have been an equalizing kind of thing... a subconscious drive to be politically correct or something, but I did it even though it made me look pudgier. 


A lot of women would tell me that I should embrace my long legs and arms. They'd say that I should look at all those super tall super models and enjoy that my height is comparable to theirs. Hey, guess what? I'm not a stick. I look pretty normal sized in relation to myself. It's only when you put me around those thin things that I look out of place or when you stuff me in a room full of average sized women that I stick out quite literally.


So, what's the key?


I look good when I look in a mirror. I don't look too tall or too big. I look correctly proportioned. Because I am. Why should I, once placed in a room with other women, become concerned about my image?


Right about then in the thought process I scoff at myself and shoo away all the silly ideas I let myself believe.

I am me and it doesn't matter what other women are or what they say I should be. It doesn't matter that my legs are longer than average, or that my feet are bigger than average because "average" for me is exactly what I am.


Such is the case with anything about our bodies; average is exactly what we are, within our personal context. Letting social norms impose their ideas about what is and isn't acceptable is just plain silly. If you're healthy, you're healthy. If you're proportioned in a unique way, you're unique. If you have a dimple/freckle/birthmark, you're special. Every aspect of our bodies is something to love because they're part of who we are, though they're not our defining characteristics. (It's a fine balance, really.)


Ultimately, I have nice long limbs. Doesn't matter what they look like around other people because they look nice around me.

Preface to the Height Chronicles: Julie Newmar

"Mom, how tall is Dorcas?"

"Hmm." Mom thought for a second. "Well, look at her compared to the others--she's got to be pretty tall. But, at the same time, everyone was short in the movies. So, maybe she's not. Let's look it up." My mom managed to tear herself from the always lovely "June Bride" song in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers to head over to the computer in the other room.

I watched the six girls dance in their negligee and realized that, not only was she tall, but Dorcas was curvier than the rest of 'em too. She was this leggy, tiny-waisted, dark eyed beauty who was always tucked in the back and made comments infrequently (although, her comments were always the most quotable of the six useless brides). She danced well. She stood tall. She had a tall man.

"She was 5'11"," Mom reported.

"What."

I rushed off to the computer to check the stats; she was 5'11"! How could there be anyone in the movie industry that was the same height as me, especially back then? I mean, the movie was released in 1953 and her next tallest female co-star couldn't have been within 4 inches of her. They even hired a taller actor, with no singing or dancing ability, to be her groom. Height was not a common thing during her time.

I found her quotations section.

"I'm magnificent! I'm 5'11" and I weigh 135 pounds, and I look like a racehorse."

My jaw likely dropped. 135 pounds? I hadn't been anywhere near that in years. Still haven't gotten close. I was inspired; maybe I could drop those pounds, if she could. Then I took a closer look at her body. 

 

Yeah, that tiny waist wasn't healthy. Or possible. Ladies during the 50s had to mold their bodies to look like that. (In fact, Newmar patented some hosiery specifically for shaping.) Also, I remembered that she was a ballet dancer before her acting career. We can basically assume the woman ate nothing. So, the weight was certainly unattainable.

But look at those legs. 37". That's something I can love seeing as I'm almost that leggy. Not to mention her attitude: "Tell me I'm beautiful, it's nothing. Tell me I'm intellectual - I know it. Tell me I'm funny and it's the greatest compliment in the world anyone could give me." Cocky, yes. Confident, yes. Admirable, in moderation. Her confidence in her body is something we can all try to accomplish in our own lives. 

My height has always been a physical trait I've struggled with, but look at ladies like Julie Newmar, I have been able to find a beacon of hope and a reason to not only accept my height, but love it.

My Atlantis: Hair

"We could probably find the holy grail in there. And maybe Atlantis. Is there a spot that's ever more wet than the rest?"

I laughed. I don't remember those comments hurting particularly, but I remember a time when I hated my big, poofy hair. I had no idea what to do with it except ask my mom to straighten it for me every so often. My mom talked about maybe getting it relaxed. I probably would've gone along with it if it hadn't been so expensive. As it was, my friends compared me to Hermione Granger and I embraced that my hair was better for the character than Emma Watson's. Similar comments to the ones mentioned above would be thrown around, all very entertaining really, but I still wasn't happy with my hair.

I don't know what happened, but I stopped straightening my hair and started to take care of my curly hair like a curly girl is supposed to, washing it less frequently and brushing it in the shower only, if at all. As my hair started to actually be curly instead of a poofy mess, I learned that the gift I'd been given was severely envied. And that it was really more me than hiding under a dandelion of brown.

Since then, I've read books, looked for hair products, examined styles... I even went through a "no-wash" phase. Before you get all grossed out, it's basically just the very hippie idea of not washing your hair with shampoo because the chemicals in shampoo are so bad for your hair. I mean, think about it; you put shampoo in your hair and it feels absolutely awful and then you put conditioner in and it feels good again until about two days later, or maybe the next day, and you have to do the same thing all over again. (It's like the corporations are trying to get you to spend more money by creating two expensive products that create a need for each other. Not to be preachy.) So, what I did, and what a lot of curly girls and hippie moms do, is rinsed my hair only, putting in a little conditioner, but not at the roots. After about a month n' a half, I reintroduced shampoo in very small amounts to only the roots. Never had a problem since! And, I go through shampoo half as quickly as conditioner, so I'm buying that less frequently. Perfect.

My roommate walked in the other day and reported someone's ideology on hair. She said that a girl she knew didn't straighten or colour her hair because God gave us our hair just the way it is and we should accept that that's how our hair is supposed to be. I didn't tell my roommate that I thought the same exact thing long ago, but I did agree vigorously when she decided she'd dye her hair back to its natural colour. What could be better than God's blessings?

My hair colour is something I've always really liked. It gets naturally sun bleached sometimes, other times it's a whole lot darker. All in all, I love that it changes naturally and looks good either way.

Best of all, I love it when someone I love touches my hair. Or smells my hair. Or says I have beautiful hair (even when it's dirty and gross).

So, yeah, there was an Atlantis in my hair. It was something beautiful and hidden, but when I let it happen, it was a visible beauty.

My Favourite Things: 1 - Hips

It was a very, very lazy Friday morning. The blinds were open, the sunlight was shining through. I had no where to be for a few hours more. I woke up with a smile on my face and a sigh of happiness issuing from my lips. I stretched a little and looked over my shoulder at myself in the mirror.

I don't think I even saw my face. My eyes were immediately drawn to the second largest part of my body; my hips. I felt my smile grow as I put my hand on the mass, covered and accentuated by my comforter. If someone had been awake, I'd have said, "Look at these! They're the best!" like I usually do, but, as it was, I just moved my hand to make my shoulders look smaller, making my hips the largest part of my body for just a few moments.

My hips are the culmination of my favourite things about myself. They're big, they're curvy, they're the definition of a real woman. I take just about any opportunity I can to brag about them. Here, I'll even do it a little more right now.

You can't even try to tell me that those things are not the best. Those are baby birthing, man wooing, bump-the-car/pole/miscellaneous object-you're-walking-around hips. And they are the greatest. Literally.

One could say I'm a little obsessed. When I lie on my side in bed, I tend to just look at myself and run my hand up and down the mountainous beauty and the valley-waist, observing the difference and relishing the beauty of the line. And, if someone's in the room, I'll let them know how awesome my hips are. (Also, it's probably no coincidence that I've been called a hippie and a hipster.)

One could also say I'm a little bit haughty about it. One evening, a girl I wouldn't ever describe as being "curvalicious" was talking about babysitting. "I love having hips," she said, "Because I can just put the baby right here and do things with my other hand." She demonstrated the traditional mommy hold and I wondered if the baby could actually stay there effectively. Yeah, she's probably better at it than a man, but she ain't got nothing on me, I thought.

(More power to her for embracing her hips when she didn't have particularly amazing ones, really. I shouldn't scoff at all.)

I'm just going to let you know that it's really unlikely that you could have better hips than I have, but you can give it a try. Look at your hips. In all honesty, if you're closer to my aforementioned friend than you are to me, you still have awesome hips. If you can set a toddler on that hip and get a meal ready at the same time, you're a wonder woman (speaking of whom, look at that awesome example of hips!) and you shouldn't doubt yourself. If you're closer to me, embrace it! Flaunt those babies!

Finding qualities about ourselves that we love without a doubt is crucial to accepting ourselves as a whole. We were blessed with really great things! For me, they were my eyes, hands, and hips. It's different for everyone, so I have to encourage you to try to figure out what you really love about yourself. Look in the mirror and, just for a second, ignore everything you hate. What's left? (Hopefully, a lot.) Remember those things and take a chance to brag about them. For realz. Exuding confidence about a few things will start to bleed over into the things you're not so confident about and suddenly, you'll love yourself. Trust me.

My Favourite Things: 2a - Hands 2b - Neck

I didn't have enough to say about either topic, so I thought I'd combine them. 

It was lunchtime at my high school. Instead of being a normal kid, I spent my lunch in the choir room, chatting with my pianist friend and my teacher. This particular lunch, someone played a Gershwin piece with a really ridiculous chord. It was two notes, bass clef, the E above middle C and the C sharp below. My pianist friend had to jump the notes when she played it, hoping that the pedal would cover up the fact that they weren't precisely on the same beat. I gave the chord a shot and found that it was comfortable, though any further than that was a little ridiculous. I probably bragged a little and then put my hand up to her hand, to compare finger lengths. I'm fairly sure I had at least one digit on her.

Comparing my hands with those of women is always great fun, but as soon as a man comes into the picture, I get just a little bit ashamed. When my hands are bigger/the same size as masculine hands, I have to be a little embarrassed for some reason.

Or maybe "had to" would be better.

My hands are a blessing. Long fingers designed for music playing. Thin fingers designed for hand modeling. Soft skin for when I hold hands. All good things. Not to mention absolutely awful circulation. (Not a good thing, entirely.) I can be totally comfortable outside except for my hands. I like to think that's an endearing flaw, but I'm not the person to ask.

Yeah, so, not everything about my hands is awesome, but I think the good things outweigh the bad. Significantly. And, the bad things even make the good things a little better. And I'm not so haughty about my hands, but I still get a fair number of compliments about them, all things considered. Which means that, probably, I should listen to those good things and take a second look at my hands.

My grandma used to always tell me how beautiful my collarbones are. I'd say, "Thanks, Gramma" but also I'd look at her with a bit of confusion apparent on my face.

"Just make sure you keep your shoulders back and have good posture," she'd advise. "I didn't and now my collarbones are crooked."

I thought that was such a weird thing to compliment; my collarbones are just like anyone else's. Then, one day, at the pool, I saw my grandma's and I realized what she meant.

(Appreciating things while we have them is extremely important. I could write a novel on that, but I won't. )

My collar bones and neck are a nice little picture of loveliness. My neck is long and slender. My collarbones are even and just prominent enough. They're perfect together as a fully feminine example of beauty. Something about curving straight lines.

That's what women are all about. Curves. Men are angular. Women are rounded and curvy. Men are strong, rock-solid. Women are soft and squeezable. Man necks and shoulders are meant to be clung to and rested on. Woman necks and shoulders are meant to be gently caressed and kissed. Women are just dainty and beautiful, but strong and undeniable too. We're the perfect mix of submissive and coy, loving and affectionate, dependent and independent, immovable and flexible.

And that flexibility and stability are especially manifested in our shoulders and necks. Our necks and shoulders can be rigid and stiff when they need to be, but we can also choose to let them be moved and molded.

Femininity is a marvelous thing. Our hands are dainty. Our necks are soft. But we are in control of our bodies and our emotions. We can choose to be affected by the comments others make, or we can choose to be strong. Taking a compliment and running with it is a great thing and so is being able to let a hurtful tone roll off our backs. Ultimately, it comes down to finding your inner grace and not letting anyone do anything except build that up.

My Favourite Things: 3 - Eyes

In order to really appreciate our bodies, it's necessary to first find the things we already like about them (before we try to get over the "blessings in disguise"). These next three entries are basically just me bragging about my best features. Hopefully, in reading these Beowulfs of physical traits instead of physical feats, you'll be able to find something about yourself you haven't ever struggled to love.

They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul. If such is the case, I have to gloat and say that my soul's got some really nice stained glass going on.

My eyes are brown. I've always wanted them to be green. Always. But, what's really nice, is my eyes are brown and green. They're not like my brother's; he's got brown around the edges and green around the pupils. But, my eyes are still both. Flecks of both are kind of intermingled into this nice mossy mixture of pretty.

I like purely green eyes. I like blue eyes. I even like gray and hazel eyes. But I wouldn't give my eyes up for anything. Being a bit of a hippie, I'm sure, doesn't help. What hippie in her right mind wouldn't want to have "earthy" eyes? "I look through life with earthy tones and really appreciate Mother Nature, man. What've you got?"

On an entirely different note, I've also got very glamorous eyes. You may wonder "how can she have Haight-Ashbury eyes and 1940s Hollywood eyes?" and, I would agree; they're quite different ideas. You know that hazy shot they show, just before a kiss, of the leading actress's eyes with a light strewn over them? (If you don't, click this.) Have you ever noticed anything about their eyes? Well, I sure did.

1. They're incredibly natural. They never caked make-up on. Ever. In fact, they tend to only put eyeliner on the top lash along with some mascara. That's almost never done in modern fashion. (the idea was to emphasize the lips, but, still, the dramatic sweeping lines are simple, feminine, and natural.)
2.  They tend to have really nice, almond shaped eyes that turn up at the corners (kind of a feline look) or go straight out (doe). And even if they did have "droopy eyes," the make-up would make their eyes look like they were up-turned. Magic.
3. They glitter and sparkle with emotion and excitement. The really important part is that they convey emotion and don't get lost in shadow or excessive amounts of make-up.

So, what does this have to do with my eyes? I got really lucky and ended up with the up-turned, almond eyes and have embraced that shape for many years with simple make-up, as mentioned. I grew up watching those icons of glamor and, after trying out eyeliner in the traditional, modern practices, decided that the best way to go was back; back in time and back to the basics.

Something about knowing that women were once loved for a look that I have is so invigorating. And, it could be the hipster in me, but going against the grain of societal expectations for fashion is absolutely liberating. I can't say that a 1940s look is the best for everyone; some people can really pull off the smokey look, some people need to put white on the bottom lash. My rule (I'll probably repeat it frequently) is to find a look that works and don't let trends get in the way.

(Okay, confession: I was about to try to find an example of a really famous, beautiful actress whose eye make up might sway public taste. I looked up Angelina Jolie and Scarlett Johansson. Both embrace the simple 1940s look. There's a reason I like those ladies.)

You want to know the best thing about my eyes?

They get really squinty when I smile. That's all that matters, really.

I'm Not Only My Body

5'11"
~175 lbs.
24.4 BMI (that's 0.6 away from being in the "overweight" bracket)
38", 31", 42"
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Brown

When you look past the numbers and rudimentary descriptors, I'm a healthy feeling young adult with a gummy smile and a hearty guffaw. I'm quiet in groups, piping up only when I have a strong opinion, something undeniably witty, or some bitingly sarcastic remark to make about someone (always with a smile, of course). I love to sing and dance and laugh. I'm pretty tall, compared to most girls and a lot of guys. I stand with bad posture. I tend to listen to people when I respect them. I have a pretty face, not drop-dead gorgeous, but pretty. I have really curly, thick, tangle-y, golden brown hair with natural highlights on the top layers and a part on the right. I taught myself guitar and piano. I'm a homegrown Californian (even if I was born and lived in Utah for the first six months of my life). I fell in love. I believe in Jesus Christ; He's my Savior and Redeemer. I love grammar. I can't cry nearly as much as I wish I could. I love Disneyland more than almost anywhere ever. I really enjoy editing peoples' papers (especially when they're bad). Part of me is naturally a hippie. Part of me is naturally a hipster. I really like vegetables.

I'm a complete person; I am not a list of numbers and statistics. 

Stephanie Nielson, famous blogger that you really should know about, said, "I am not my body."

I'm not my body, you're not your body. But, your body is part of you. My body is part of me.

But it doesn't rule my life to know that I'm more than my body. I can't tell you to ignore that you have legs you might not like, a middle that you think is less than perfect or a mole you hate to show. I can't tell you that you should ignore the make-up kit you have because you're beautiful just the way you are and, if they don't like it, they can't have it.

What I am going to tell you is that your body is a gift and a blessing. But, both your body and your spirit work together to create a soul. Neglecting your spirit to worry about your body is bad, but so is forgetting your body in self-righteousness.

Even when I'm feeling gross, slob-ish, and unpretty, I'm still smiling, laughing, observing, listening. I'm still Alison and I'm still worth self-confidence. Because I'm smart, empathetic, and patient. But also because I have nice eyes, hands and hips. Appreciating our physical characteristics and embracing imperfections is essential to becoming more confident, a spiritual aspect. Realizing that your body houses a spirit that's worth respecting in an outward fashion is just as important. Finding the balance between loving you for your spirit and loving you for your body is the only way to ultimately love you for your soul.

I'm more than my body, but my body is still part of me.

My Best Friend, a Nameless Statue

It must have been a summer's day in the suburban California neighborhood. As is typical for such a day, the weather was scorching. The air conditioning units in my house weren't the most effective (they were both the "in the window" kind) and we were all wearily lounging about the living room, trying not to let our arms stick too severely to our bodies.

"We're going to the museum today," Mom announced with a knowing smile and a sparkle in her eye.

We lept to our feet and put on some more clothes (for decency's sake) and piled into a car with a more promising air conditioning unit than that of the house. We relished the cold and, after a blissfully numb car ride, found ourselves at the museum.

I couldn't tell you what museum it was. Couldn't have been a science museum, that's for sure. But, what I can tell you is that whatever that museum was, whoever was the curator and whoever told my mom about it changed my life.

The exhibit we were going to see was filled to the brim with classical art, mainly in the form of sculptures. I don't know why I wasn't embarrassed; I was probably nine or ten and I was standing around a lot of (fake) naked people.

But, the fact of the matter is, I wasn't embarrassed. I was falling in love with them and, consequently, myself.

There were three tall girls at my school. Two of us weren't lanky or gangly and, therefor, we were worthy of the commentary some girls thought was necessary to throw around in fifth grade. I'd been wary about my body, uncomfortable with the way I felt in my own skin because of the way others perceived me: big. I thought that was part of who I was because I'd heard it so frequently. Insecurity was my middle name, but I couldn't help it.

"See, Alison, back then, it was beautiful to be heavier because that meant you were wealthy; you had enough to eat," Mom taught me in passing, striding over to look at another sculpture.

I looked back to the particular statue we'd been observing. I wish I knew her name. She was beautiful. Curly hair pulled back into a loose bun. A powerfully dainty stance (difficult to do, lemme tell ya). A dreamy look in her eyes. An arm in front of her body, not to hide herself, but to hold the useless sheer cloth she'd been given.

She was a normal, healthy, beautiful woman.

Her hips weren't tiny. Her thighs weren't skinny rods. Her waist wasn't without creases. Her arms weren't chiseled.

She was beautiful.

And she was me.

And if she was me, and someone had sculpted her frame into granite, why wouldn't someone want to do the same with mine?