Monday, October 26, 2009

Like a Snake in the Grass..

Ever have one of those self-epiphonial moments where you realize you are going about things the wrong way? You stumble through the day to day events that make life, well life. Wondering how you got where you are. Not in a "Where's Waldo" kind of way but in a more surrealist way. Your emotional state of current being, not where your rump rests as Pumba would say.

I recollect every move I have made; the good, the bad and certainly the ugly. They say bad decisions make good stories, and I could certainly put together an entire encyclopedia at the this point based solely on the bad decisions I have made over the course of my lifetime.

I never have done anything out of malice, or spite. Well ok, may a little spite now and again, I mean we were all teenagers once weren't we? I have done what I thought to be right, to be just. Maybe I never did that the conventional way, but I tried nonetheless.

I have had my share of heartaches, and I know I have unintentionally caused quite a few in my day. I was young then, and those who made it past the 1 year mark were few and far between. It was almost like an alarm would sound internally and I knew their time was up. Almost always 1 year; no more, some less. A strange timeline but it seemed how it ended up, time after time.

And now I am Chuck. Like that fictional character of the Silver Screen, whomever I touch turns to the sense that 98% of my ex-boyfriend population has either married or is still with whomever they were with immediately after me. Like I awakened some senses inside of them and they realized that they were ready to settle down...just not with me.

And mostly I am ok with this phenomenon, because well, I did most of the breaking up. I had the begging to take them back thing happening a lot of the time. And though I am in good standing with these men now, and some even their wives, now at 30 I am saddened by it. Happy for them sure, but sad for myself.

I don't miss them per say, I miss being loved in such a way that someone wanted to be with me forever, even if only a dream. Miss knowing that someone was thinking about you when you weren't around. Miss being missed. Being longed for, wanted. Knowing that somewhere someone wanted nothing more than to be sitting idly with me, doing mundane things, or experiencing new things together. And moreover miss that being reciprocated.

I don't intend to jump into things sometimes, I don't try to attach my mind to certain people, places or times, but that overwhelming sense of inevitable future impedes me. You find like you did in high school, imagining your name paired with a variety of last names from potential daters or crushes. Imagine where you would live if already not in the same general area. Who would sacrifice what? Think of how my son would be affected, or them if they had kids already too. And then imagine the end of it, as it seemed to always come. The arguments over silly things, the who is sleeping on the couch tonight. Think of the contempt you would have if they hurt your child in anyway, or treated them different from their own if that were the case. You imagine them perhaps wanting a child if you didn't. The stress.

Then you blockade your emotions, your feelings. You hide under a blanket of cynicism and a blasé and callous view of relationships. You self sabotage. Turn everything into something that is only physical, if at all. It’s easier. You don't let yourself get least in theory. Fear of the unknown is a powerful thing.

I see myself doing this, before anything gets to anything, and I know its poisonous. I know it is a snake in the grass, ready to strike my psyche, and yet I do nothing to change it, to stop it from happening. Easier to imagine the hypothetical disasters that may never come than to experience something that may be wonderful and then leave me the one hurting. It's a vicious cycle.

Admittedly the first step is acknowledgment of such a twisted defense mechanism. But now what? Where to go from here? How to remind yourself that once upon a time you were a great catch? That you were longed for and adored? That people tell you you’re a great person? How do you believe them? Let yourself become the inner goddess you know that you may essentially be?

For now you let your imagination run rampant. Constantly worried about what someone else may be thinking. But why? You used to be carefree about such matters. Other people's opinions of you made you scoff, a don't give a rats ass attitude.

Perhaps therein lied my appeal. The ungettable get. Never the over thinker, never the self-conscious woman you have become. Cool, calm and confident.

Perhaps it’s time to mow that grass so when the snake tries to strike, I can move more adeptly through. Clear the path, and walk ahead. Completely aware of my surroundings, and with an air of alertness and prowess.

Perhaps I will be the one ready to strike. Armed with self-awareness and the strongest desire to not repeat my mistakes.

Maybe my time is now.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Screw Charades, I'm Playing Broke Bitch Today...

Sometimes I am completely baffled by life. Let me 'splain,

I am a United Way Captain for my job. We are famously involved in raising money and doing community outreaches every Fall for the charity, and due to my involvement with charities in general, I was nominated as a Captain by my boss for our department. Not like it's rocket science, but still it was a great gesture and surely I like doing it. Not to mention I get to rub elbows with a Patriots player at some point, but I digress.

So at our meeting last week, I was made aware that the "Leadership" of our company had participated at our kick-off for the UW in a "Poverty Simulation" exercise. Um, what?!

These 6+ figure salaried people sat in a room together and pretended they were in situations that would help them understand what it was like to be poor. I was completely dumbfounded. A week later, I sat there, listening to this and I was kind of upset. I lightly said to the woman next to me "They could have just come to my house", and I think she thought I was joking.

I don't know how this made them feel individually, if it gave them insight or was more like practicing for a play or what, but I was completely baffled. Having been through financial and emotional Hell the past few years, I started to tell a synopsis of things to that woman who thought I was joking.

I am a single mother. I get no child support and have to deal with the court system and restraining orders because my son's father is an addict and not exactly an upstanding citizen. I have received fuel assistance, I get WIC, Food stamps and used to get welfare. I had even received help from the Vincent St. DePaul Society. I gladly accept hand-me-down clothes for my child and I live paycheck to paycheck.

It sounds like a Lifetime movie when you think of it. Overcoming abusive relationships, raising my child alone. Being behind in bills month after month. Even at some points collecting unemployment. Dealing with utility shut-offs and wondering how you can survive on Ramen noodles with no gas for heat.

I am lucky I am able to be slightly more adept now with a steady and decent job that I love, but nothing is ever cast in stone.

So after my brief history, the woman says to me, "well at least you are ok now." What an assumption! I may be off some of the help, but not all. These forms of assistance don't pay attention to what you pay out a month. They look at everything BEFORE taxes are taken out, which to me has never made any sort of sense at all, since that is clearly not what you take home to pay bills with.

On paper I look ok, look like I make enough to survive. For one person. According to some accounts I make 133% over the poverty level, for a family of 2. To them poverty level is making minimum wage and having 37 children, most likely not fathered by the same person and living in a shack.

Poverty has many levels and affects people day after day. Yes there are definitely people far worse off than I am, but that doesn't mean it’s been easy my any means. I think it’s time they update their system, or at least take into account factors like your rent and bills and take a look at your income after taxes.

My mother has been struggling with disability and can't get help because she "makes too much money". How is that humanly possible when the 62 woman got let go from her job because she had been out disabled too long? When her disability barely covers her rent, let alone utilities and food?

So needless to say, as far as I have come, I still have a long way to go to secured financial independence, and with the economy in the toilet I doubt I will be fully out of the woods for some time.

Moreover, I can't believe they would play "Poverty Simulator" like it was some sort of fun party game. Screw charades, I want to play "Broke Bitch" today....


Monday, October 19, 2009

The Hills Weren't Alive for Nothing

Did you ever listen to a song, I mean really listen. Not just rock out to the beat, not just sway to light melodies, but listen. Take in the words, the meaning. Put yourself in that writers life. Envision your own muse and completely understand. A musical epiphany.

There are songs for all occasions sure, you have those blood-curdling moments when you are angry or frustrated and you need to vent. You could belt out "You Oughta Know" in your car, windows down, hair flowing as wildly as your mood. The typical woman scorned brought to life through music. Or maybe you like it heavy thrashing drums, writhing and beating into your very core.

Songs of remembrance, clichéd and over used through time, but some unknown, just for you and that particular person gone. Moved away, changed or passed. Doesn't matter. They touched your life and are no longer a part of it, and you find some attribute of some song to remember them. Immortalize that memory with a few measures of music. A lifetime stored in an 8 count.

I sometimes picture my life as a musical. Not those campy cabarets involving happy endings and sporadic musical numbers full of fluff. Music portraying the real parts of life. What would that sound like? The love, the loss? The life, the death? Every person their own theme song in my life, every step rhythmically choreographed.

In some ways we are all set to music, we all have those got-to songs that comfort or soothe us like an old friend. The ones you listen to on repeat, over and over again while you ponder what it is going on in your life at that particular moment. As if that song transcends you into another place and you are able to see things in a different light, or perhaps a new shadow casts upon it.

People take great care in choosing a song for their wedding, but this isn't the first time you have chosen your music so meaningful. You have been compiling your greatest hits your entire life. A song to commemorate your biggest milestones, your hardest failures. There is poetic justice in all of it.

The cheating song, the break-up. Songs to get you amped up for a night on the town, or ones that remind you of simpler times. Songs for our soldiers and our children. For the greatest love you couldn't have to the ones that just touched a small part of your heart. Hell there's even a song for the lunch lady.

Whether we realize or not, music and those gifted enough to bring it to us touches our lives in every way. It subconsciously seeps into your psyche. You sing along to song after song, not realizing how your brain can manifest and hold so much information. Lyric after lyric, note after note. A modern day sonnet, more powerful and ever-reaching than anything Shakespeare could have imagined.

I preface all of this because of how affected I am to it all. I hear a song and I am brought to certain places. I remember different people and sometimes what feels like a different life. I hear others and I have feelings of longing. To know and feel that I was that powerful a force in someone's life to have been immortalized in song. Sometimes moved to tears.

Or to find the irony in it all like Dave Matthews, "Funny the way it is, when you think about it, somebody's broken heart becomes your favorite song" To listen, to sing along mindlessly, never once thinking about the anguish behind some of the most popular and most played songs that have ever existed.

I have music on my blog for a reason. Some may find it distracting, but its mood affected. Its set at random to emulate the varying moods I have. The loss, the love, the longing. There is irony and comedy. Tragedy and bliss. All with a few strokes of a guitar strings and a talented voice saying sometimes what I can't. More over it makes you think. Remember. Empower you to have your own musical epiphanies.

The hills weren't alive with the sound of music for nothing....

Friday, October 16, 2009

Standing Ovation...

I've come to that point where I need to feel wanted. I miss that "Is that guy checking me out?" feeling I used to get in days of yore. I mean face it, they say 30 is the new 20, but does it really feel that way? Do you wake up refreshed and excited and full of that youthful piss and vinegar you once possessed every day?


I get up and go to work every day, living the same day seemingly over and over. Feeling fatigued by 4pm and ready for bed by 9. Wow I'm really the life of the party aren't I?

I have been busy sure, weekends full of miscellaneous plans and occasions. But I don't know if I would call it having a life per say. None of it was my doing. I am just a guest, an observer attending the goings on of others moving forward.

Not even sure I would know where to begin if that wanted feeling actually got me anywhere these days. That wooing I long for has left me so out of the loop I am afraid I would stare like a deer in headlights, shocked and awed, immobile and unsure of how to proceed.

I mean sure we all have that carnal instinct of a basic and sexual nature we need to fill. We've all had that go-to person or persons over the years. Those faithful standby's who serve that sole purpose of fulfilling such needs. But then what?

You find yourself in the throes of it, feeling fearless and sensual. Nary a negative thought goes through your mind as you tangle yourself in the sheets, on the couch, in the car or where ever your tryst make take you. You revel in the feeling for days. You feel untouchable, a wanted woman yet again.

And then the reality of it hits you again. I can do this, with ease, with candor. I can be witty and charming. Sexy and coy. Behind closed doors. Late at night. Incognito. The hush-hush nature of it all. The secretive society of the friends-with-benefits world you become wrapped up in. And it’s not bad, you don't dislike it, you just wonder about what else is out there more.

Is there something wrong with a public acknowledgment of your attraction? Why is it so taboo? You get to doubting yourself again, and not at the fault of your partner in crime, no. This was of course consensual, but your over-thinking antics and low self-esteem combined with an irrational loneliness creep slowly into your psyche and start to eat away at the tiny shred at self-confidence you had once again started to build.

Are you destined to be wanted only behind closed doors? Not good-enough to be put on someone else's pedestal and adored for all the world to see? To be someone a person is proud to call their own? Not in a proprietary sense mind you, but as a partner as well as a lover? More than a late night pit stop?

I tend to have no emotional attachment to sex, it is what it is. That desire to feel and to want, to give in to the moment and all that rigmarole. There is a mental separation, an emotional one. Sure if there is someone you care deeply for things are much better generally in that department, but who's to say that's necessary? It’s just another want. A bonus.

So that feeling of wanting. That knowing I'm wanted, but waiting. That giddy anticipation when you are getting to know someone. That clever flirtation between two people over time, the build up like the previews for that big summer blockbuster that gets people lining up outside the theater eagerly awaiting opening night. That's what I am waiting for.

I want my opening night, and I want a standing ovation.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Oink That

I am not a neurotic mother. I was never the "oh you can't touch my baby" type. Never over-coddled and worried beyond what I should have. Even his pediatrician was shocked I was a "new" mother in his infancy by my calmness and candor in all things kid related. I mean really, he was a baby. A human, not made of porcelain or china. I knew he wasn't as fragile as some overly OCD mothers made their precious little one's out to be. Maybe I was a bit apathetic, or maybe I was a realist, who knew.

IN any event, I find myself now with the threat of this Swine Flu petrified in silence of my child getting sick.

He's coming down with a little cold. Could be allergies even really, but I find myself reverting to that neurosis that I despise. Over antiseptically cleansing everything in my grasp, hand-sanitizing to my hearts content and making sure he washes his hands like he was a stand in for Jack Nicholson in that Helen Hunt movie, "As Good As It Gets"

I see it on the news every morning, every night. Another death somewhere in the US from the H1N1 virus. The Flu-gone-wild as it were. This crazy strain that started last spring that they thought was a fluke, now running rampant and having us all fearing for our children.

The elderly are safe, why? Their generation survived a similar virus in their day they believe and they have the antibodies to survive this. A virus that rivals one from 50 years ago and we have nothing we can do about it except tweak our existing flu vaccine and hope for the best.

Yeah, that's encouraging.

I had my son on public transportation with me yesterday and found myself gauging the crowd. Was anyone coughing, sniffling sneezing? Did anyone look nauseated? Of course, half of them were drunk from the various ball games that took place in Boston (and the losing ones to boot...but I digress) How has this become something that has become so worrisome to me?

I would die without my son. For the past 5 years, being a mom is all I know how to be. I don't even necessarily know if I'm any good at it really since I rule my child's life with sarcasm and humor, much like everything else, but its who I am now. How can I not be petrified watching news stories every day of people all over the country, every day people who's kids get sick and then just die who are the same age as my own?

And what about me? People my own age with "underlying" conditions are just wasting away, leaving their families with nothing. I can't chance that with my son. I can't let him be left alone, I am all he has. Sure he has my mom, and my brother. And somewhat an extended family, but I am IT. I would come back from the freaking dead and haunt the crap out of anyone who did my child wrong I can promise you that.

So as my son sniffles in the other room, I am hoping its only a cold, only allergies at most. I will be ridiculous over the next few months with Lysol, with antibacterial hand soap. I will hand sanitize at inopportune moments, and I will throw my hands in front of someone else sneezing near my kid if I must. I will be the antithesis of all that annoys me of those overly neurotic mothers. Those coddlers.

I don't want the Swine Flu in my house. Oink that.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Perception, Reality and Assholes

I didn't grow up in the Taj Mahal my any means, but I didn't live in squalor. I premise this because since my father's death, and even in the few years leading up to it people who had been in my life growing up, moreover people my parent's considered among their best friends, seemed to fall into the background, and after his death disappear all together. Leaving my mother alone, neglected.

I blame it all on perception and on the abundant shallow nature of other people, and I don't care who disagrees. Read on.

When I was growing up, we lived well. Not over the top mind you, but let's just say nary a Christmas went by where Santa "forgot" anything we had asked him for. Holidays were filled with family and friends. The house was constantly full of people dropping by to say hello, to visit, and phones rang off the hook. That's right phones, plural. We had multiple lines, always someone calling. For business, for pleasure. And often those who went to my father for business became fast friends, that's how he was.

My dad, albeit he had his pitfalls like the rest of us, was a likeable guy. He was small in stature, but larger than life. Big in belly and boisterous. His laugh was contagious and he had one of the firmest handshakes I knew. He always kept his word and he was one of the few honest tradesmen left alive. "Measure twice, cut once", wasn't just his woodworking mantra, he took it to heart in everything he did.

He built my mother her dream home, and we lived in it most of my life. A large Garrison colonial style house with 5 massive bedrooms, giant country kitchen, laundry room, den/office, family room, living room, 3 bathrooms, finished basement, the like. We had it all. Not only were my parents friends around in abundance, my brothers and mine were too. It was the "house" to be at. Even if we kids weren't home. It was welcoming to all, and all were welcome.

And soon the decline of civilization, or civility rather. My parents hit a bumpy road and finances grew tighter and tighter. My older sister and I no longer at home, the house seemed large and expensive. My father's weakening health in spurts was no help in keeping him bread winner a vast majority of the time, so thoughts of selling the house came up, to avoid the doom of foreseeable foreclosure.

And so, two different relatives of "friends" expressed interest in the house, and rightly so as it was beautiful. An amazing neighborhood were your kids could grow up happy, and your pets could wander freely. People smiled and waved at each other, it was one of the few actual "neighborhoods" left. It went from bad to worse.

As bickering bids on the house began, a decline in the outings my parents had also began to happen. The phone rang less from friends, and more from the bank and bill collectors. Maybe they thought debt was contagious, maybe they couldn't bear the stigma that went with having poorer friends, who knows.

So the legal battle waged. These supposed "friends" sat back and watched their relatives put my family through hell. Wage war legally and through real estate agents and lawyers and through a series of liens and holds, eventually not allowing them to even be able to sell their house, forcing the bank to take it. Leaving them with nothing. Leaving them all with nothing. My parents were faced with impending homelessness, and these shallow moguls on to their next kill, ready to wage another war over another property while my family lay in the wake trying to pick up the pieces of what used to be their lives.

Forced from their dream home into a 4 room apartment, their friendships flailed, but my father still somehow held on to a few. They would never come to this house though, no. No more surprise visits to my mom and dad. They went to other's houses, to homes other than their own. But at least at that point, they were still being invited.

The phone would ring and there would be the shared talk of both my parents. My dad often started a call, and then they would gab with my mother for 45 minutes or so. Not just a quick how-do-you-do. They would still call my mother, still gossip about kids and in-laws, and what was for dinner.

Then dad died. Suddenly and horribly. In that wretched 4 room apartment. Battling depression and a bad heart, it finally beat him. It beat all of us and we were lost. My poor mother, now alone. Widowed. Left with nothing but her children, her grandson, her family and her friends. Her friends....right?

The outpouring at his wake and funeral was unbelievable. My father had been a well known man. "The Mayor" they called him. He was what I became, The Kevin Bacon of our community, he somehow knew or was connected to everyone.

And then it was over. The flowers withered, the cards stopped coming. And then phones ceased to ring at my mother’s house. Silence. Lonliness.

All those "friends", those people who so loved my parents, who called and dropped by when things were great for them, they stopped calling. Stopped caring it seemed to me. Not only had my mother the financial stigma of losing it all, she was now a widow. Oh for shame.

As time went on, and my mother's depression got worse and she was more withdrawn, I would get angry. Where were they?? How could they have called themselves friends?? HUMANS for that matter??

I was friendly with their children, who would ask me, ME how she was and I would snap at them. Tell them they should call her to see, that she would have appreciated that, perhaps. Their response?

"It's just too hard to call and not hear your father answer the phone...."


Did they not think it was harder for my poor mother who had been with the man for over 30 years to no longer have him in her life? Did they not think it was harder for her to wake up every morning in the bed he essentially took his last breathe in? Did they not think that telling ME, his daughter, that it would not be harder to think I would never have my father to give me away if I ever got married? That he would never see his grandson grow up?

Did they honestly think that anyone would have sympathy for THEM for not calling my mother in 3 years to see how she was because they felt awkward for my father now answering the phone?

I have tried to reach out certain olive branches, even tried "friending" some of these former people on Facebook and the like, letting it all be water under the bridge. We had all been so close once, and you know what they do? They deny the request. Deny it!

Perception is reality, and the reality is people are self-centered shallow assholes.

Monday, October 5, 2009

Just Can't Hang Like I Used To...

I have discovered I can't quite hang like I used to.

Once upon a time, I would scoff in the face of debauchery. Weekends touted a never-ending stream of bar hopping and binge drinking, because well, I was in my early 20's and frankly that's what we did.

I could shot-gun a beer with finesse, funnel from the top of a banister, take shot upon shot, and still wake up the next morning (well, afternoon) and be ready to do it all again.

Now, 2 days after a class-act wedding, wine sipped and champagne fluted, and I am still in the lingering phases of the Cocktail Flu. Differing greatly from the Swine Flu mind you, the Cocktail variety comes complete with noise induced head-pounded, often worsened by the slightest of movement, nausea over the thought of food or beverage, and the horrific taste or feel of some foreign and unknown substances in the roof of your mouth and on your tongue.

How did I morph from extreme party gal to old fuddy duddy all by 30? Did motherhood suck the life out of my carefree booze-filled days and force me to suffer the consequences with jack-hammering vengeance?

I don't mind per say that I don't live the life I used to, it was mainly in excess I do concur. It was the typical life of the college coed, whether I was still in school or not by tailend is matter for debate. From 19 to 25 I had a pretty steady clip of going out to various clubs and bars, several nights a week. My retail existence had my mornings start no later than 10am so it was perfect. Sleeping in was practically required. Irresponsibility was my lifestyle. I answered only to me.

Then there was Dylan. At 25, a mother and cocooned in a life that left me mostly at home and usually miserable. Not because of him, but with everything else in my life. And maybe as he got a little older and I had my weekends freed up a bit, I went on a sort of reinvention of the old me. Going out with friends, recelebrating my heydays.

And then, with the lulls of the past year, with everything that has happened, it all again got put on the back burner. My social life lay dormant to responsibilities. I'm not complaining mind you, just stating facts.

Obligation after obligation, week after week. Seemingly popular with no life of my own. All plans made to revolve around someone else's life. I was happy to be there sure, but excited to see the light at the end of the tunnel, when it would all be over. The planning, the RSVPing. Waiting until once again I would have a weekend to make my own plans, to go out where I wanted, do what I wanted.

And after this weekend, I think once I get that chance, I may just rent a movie and nap. Shut off the phone, stay away from the computer. Shun the entire outside world and just be left alone, sit silent for one whole day, instead of going out on the town for yet another drink filled encounter.

Nope, I just can't hang like I used to.

Friday, October 2, 2009

The Seasons' A Changin, and I Hate Your Guts

It is officially Fall in New England. And the kicker to me, is people are happy about it.

Leaves are changing from their summery greens to varying shades of reds, oranges and yellows. Mornings are met with frost on windshields and a crispness in the air where you can see your breathe as you exhale.

And I hate every minute of it.

Oh sure the leaves look pretty from a distance, but you know that that means people? Their dying. You sadistic people are traveling from hither and yon to walk and gawk at dead leaves. Yeah. That's a thrill. They fall to the ground in annoying fashion, leaving people to have to rake and make piles upon piles and leave in bags on their lawn.

Until it rains...then they stick to everything. Your tires, your shoes. You traipse them into every entry way from home to your car and to your office and you'll be finding them until next year. Awesome.

Then there is the necessity in changes of attire. No longer are the carefree tanks and sleevelessness of summer ok. No more flowing sundresses or flip-flops. No. Sure your staple jeans are still ok, but now you must stuff your poor feet into closed toed shoes, which will take weeks to get used to again, and after the callusing and blistering subside, maybe you won't feel like you're toes have been stuck in vices after an 8 hour work day.

And of course comes the layering. In the summer you feel svelte in your minimalist clothing. Its like you have nothing on, nothing to hide. You are as you are. But now, you are hidden under layers of clothing, looking unflattering and lumpy. Just what we need, lets add bulk to what may not need adding bulk to. Good plan.

Your once tanned and glowing skin has faded to a paler sallower version of its once dewy summer self, lending way for every blemish and imperfection to stand up and shout "Look at ME!!" You suddenly feel washed out and tired because now of course, the sun has decided to call it a day hours earlier, because it too has had it and wants to be done with the day already.

Fall then leads to winter. And winter and I clearly are not friends.

And mind you, Fall in New England is a creature in and of itself. Like a bipolar schizophrenic in a mental hospital. You never know who you're going to meet when you wake up in the morning. You could wake up to the comforts of a lovely 75 degree day or find yourself cowering under a Nor’easter and suddenly blanketed in snow. Ain't life grand.

The way I see it, every day should be a balmy, sunny, cloudless 80 degrees, not humid, because really, who's hair can handle that? It should only rain at night, so we don't have to deal with it and the plants get everything they need. It should only snow on Christmas Eve and then be gone the day after Christmas, as if some magical hairdryer melted it all away while we slept. Life would be perfect.

What is so wrong with this? And much like Veruca Salt, I want it NOW.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Don't Judge Me, Wii Fit

I may not have the world's highest level's of self esteem, but I have never thought of myself as a fatty. Could I stand to lose a few? Sure. Am I out of shape? Hell yes. However, today the proverbial straw is broken and I am completely disgusted by what is considered fat, overweight, or even obese.

Let me back up. Last Christmas a girlfriend of mine, like so many other doting parents, stood in endless lines for hours to get her kids the much coveted Wii Fit. Writhing in joy they were delighted to hula-hoop and mock-ski to their little hearts content. Well, later that winter, in a wine induced fearlessness, we adults thought for shits and giggles we'd give it a whirl. We too would create our own "Wii Me"s and be young and hip for the night.

You step on and it prompts you height, weight, age etc. Nosy little bugger. Calculating with its supposed precision, it comes back giggling "hehehe you're obese!" Suddenly your Wii Me plumps up like that blueberry gal in Willy Wonka and you are an animated fat little person on the screen.

I have clearly had my weight ups and downs as we all have. I would diligently go to the gym for 2 hours a day when I was laid off, because frankly I had nothing else to do with my time. I would try to eat well, and I looked fabulous. Now back to work and income streaming steady, I have no time for this membership that is laughing at me monthly while it waves goodbye to me as it deducts itself from my bank account each month.

This morning on Ellen, they were featuring plus sized models. All well and good. EXCEPT, they started at size 6. Size 6!! I tend to fluctuate between a size 6 and an 8 and let me tell you, if you can buy clothing in the single digits, you are NOT plus sized. I am short statured. I am 5 feet tall. No more no less. I do not aspire to be a stick. I have curves, I am a woman I am supposed to. I have big boobs and an ass. And if that makes me obese the world has another thing coming!

So then, I calculate my BMI thing on a Facebook Application (because clearly what life tells you according to Facebook quizzes MUST be gospel) and again, I am at least 30lbs over weight. 30lbs? Really? If I lost 30lbs I would look gaunt and disgusting. I can see 10 maybe, 15 if you're picky. But 30? I'd look like a cancer or an AIDS patient. No thanks.

When do we update these ridiculous quotas? When did they originate? Back when everything was drowned in saturated fats and people like that commercial featuring the Buttertons ate things covered in lard. How are children not expected to have body issues when a size 6 is considered plus sized? I am disgusted.

How has it gotten to the point that being so thin you can't tell if you are a boy or a girl with out being able to visibly view genitalia is ok? That showing your clavicle or your ribcage is sexy? I'm sorry but She-ra was way sexier than Skeletor.

How do you explain that to a little girl? How to you tell a teenage girl who isn't Abercrombie and Bitch thin that its ok? That THEY aren't the normal ones??

I'm so glad I have a son.
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Street Cred....Blog Love from Other Bloggers

Street Cred....Blog Love from Other Bloggers