I did end up spending a pretty penny to get prettier and it was worth it. I know that my boyfriend, who checks his hair in the mirror more than I do, understands the value of a fresh haircut, but I hope other men can understand. If your woman gets in a funk, sponsor a fresh cut, a facial or some other spa treatment.
A cut, color and some hair product and I'm feeling sexy, beautiful and like I want to be nice to the world again. Yes, this is who I am.
Showing posts with label appearance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label appearance. Show all posts
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Loving Our Bodies
I ate too much for lunch. Very little actually feels like too much on a day like today - it's hot and all I seem to manage is laying on the floor, the couch, the bed trying to seek some cool comfort. The fans help, but the hot little dog body that wants to be close is not working for me. I'm sorry, Chibo, but you need to lay over there, maybe even FAR over there.
At any rate, while my body protested my ingestion of any solid food after the hour of 8am when temperatures topped 90, I had a feeling about my body. It's always telling me exactly what it wants. Like people are always telling us exactly who they are. Am I listening? No, because instead of just guzzling the whole pitcher of iced tea like my instincts and any sane person would have advised me, I ate lunch. No, lunch and dinner are not options at this time. A little easily digested fruit in the afternoon might work, but thin liquids are all that is appropriate for consumption in the daylight hours of hellish summer. Solid meals of salad and fresh veggies are to be reserved for sunset and beyond.
Thought I was done with hot flashes? I don't think so. There has to be some medical reason behind my inability to tolerate this weather. I guess Phoenix in the summer is out unless I get some serious AC. Maybe I could live at the mall?
At any rate, thinking about how I'm not listening to my body and wondering how I could turn back time to undo the introduction of stones into my stomach, I also started thinking about weight and weight loss. I've still got to do my "5 Reasons My Trainer is Going to Throw Back In My Face to Keep Me Buying Sessions I Can't Afford" homework for tomorrow, but I'm pretty firmly not interested in continuing along those lines. I'm more interested in pursuing yoga, taiji, qigong and fun forms of cardio like biking, hiking, boating and blading.
But even more than that, I'm just not that dissatisfied with my body. I think it takes a certain level of discontent to maintain motivation for change and I just don't have it. Sure, I'd like to get into clothes more easily, I'd like to move more quickly and be slimmer, but I also think pretty highly of myself as I am. When I look at myself in the mirror, naked or clothed, I see a pretty sexy body. Having lost some pounds in the last year, I recognize that I'm feeling better now, but I also know that losing those pounds didn't actually make shopping and finding hot clothes any easier or increase my self-esteem that much.
Beyond my love of my own body, I also look around and love the bodies of others. I don't know what I would do if my mom, listening to my advise to cut the sugar and start walking, lost her ample figure? What would I do if my lover became harder or otherwise different than the body I love? I don't want to limit anyone from changing, becoming healthier or stronger, but I also recognize that I love the softness in people's bodies as I love the softness in their souls. I have a photographer friend who loves to photograph nudes, but often their feet and especially when the feet are dirty. He describes himself as 'not particularly squeamish' and I think loving people's hair and jiggle are like that. I'm not squeamish about other people's bodies or my own.
At any rate, while my body protested my ingestion of any solid food after the hour of 8am when temperatures topped 90, I had a feeling about my body. It's always telling me exactly what it wants. Like people are always telling us exactly who they are. Am I listening? No, because instead of just guzzling the whole pitcher of iced tea like my instincts and any sane person would have advised me, I ate lunch. No, lunch and dinner are not options at this time. A little easily digested fruit in the afternoon might work, but thin liquids are all that is appropriate for consumption in the daylight hours of hellish summer. Solid meals of salad and fresh veggies are to be reserved for sunset and beyond.
Thought I was done with hot flashes? I don't think so. There has to be some medical reason behind my inability to tolerate this weather. I guess Phoenix in the summer is out unless I get some serious AC. Maybe I could live at the mall?
At any rate, thinking about how I'm not listening to my body and wondering how I could turn back time to undo the introduction of stones into my stomach, I also started thinking about weight and weight loss. I've still got to do my "5 Reasons My Trainer is Going to Throw Back In My Face to Keep Me Buying Sessions I Can't Afford" homework for tomorrow, but I'm pretty firmly not interested in continuing along those lines. I'm more interested in pursuing yoga, taiji, qigong and fun forms of cardio like biking, hiking, boating and blading.
But even more than that, I'm just not that dissatisfied with my body. I think it takes a certain level of discontent to maintain motivation for change and I just don't have it. Sure, I'd like to get into clothes more easily, I'd like to move more quickly and be slimmer, but I also think pretty highly of myself as I am. When I look at myself in the mirror, naked or clothed, I see a pretty sexy body. Having lost some pounds in the last year, I recognize that I'm feeling better now, but I also know that losing those pounds didn't actually make shopping and finding hot clothes any easier or increase my self-esteem that much.
Beyond my love of my own body, I also look around and love the bodies of others. I don't know what I would do if my mom, listening to my advise to cut the sugar and start walking, lost her ample figure? What would I do if my lover became harder or otherwise different than the body I love? I don't want to limit anyone from changing, becoming healthier or stronger, but I also recognize that I love the softness in people's bodies as I love the softness in their souls. I have a photographer friend who loves to photograph nudes, but often their feet and especially when the feet are dirty. He describes himself as 'not particularly squeamish' and I think loving people's hair and jiggle are like that. I'm not squeamish about other people's bodies or my own.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
IPod People
I've started commuting by train. So much for biking to school 5x spring term (per my 101 goals), but as they say, you learn something even in not meeting goals. My friend said I should make my goals more general, so that I could bike to school 5x this summer when I have more time, but that wasn't the point. I did learn that I'm probably not a bike commuter - it's just not a high priority for me, although I do enjoy recreational biking and running errands on my bike. (Please note that I haven't completely given up hope as there are still 7 days left that I have to go to school and I consider riding my bike to the train to count - there's creative math for you.)
On the train, though, I've noticed a disturbing phenomenon: The IPod People. As I listen to my MP3 player (sadly not an IPod, but a perfectly serviceable SanDisc) on the train too, I don't mean to criticize. But I find it disturbing that we're looking away to avoid one anothers' eyes, reading or pretending to so as not to notice the father who really needs a seat for himself and his child and we're listening to our tunes so intently that we fail to hear when a friendly voice says "hello."
As we file up and down the stairs on the way to the train with plugs in our ears and the sounds of ____ filling us with joy/grief/beats/memories/peace, who are we? Who is the handsome big blond man in khakis and a blue shirt that brings out his uncovered eyes? Who is the young harelipped man in a trendy shirt and new sneakers? Who is the black guy with the afro, huge glasses and great belt? Who is the young woman dressed all in black peering out at them from behind sunglasses that cover half her face? And more importantly, what are they listening to?
If we don't speak to one another, can we separate our identities from our appearance?
My friend told me recently that she never thinks of me as someone who wears only black, but I can count the number of days this week that I've worn another color. Okay, I wore other colors everyday - I wore a suit of pale linen to class on Tuesday before putting on my black uniform, I wore pink underwear on Wednesday and I'm wearing an olive green tank top under my black shirt today. I'm glad she doesn't think of me that way, because I'm not making a statement, protesting or even grieving by wearing black. I just like it. I like the neutral feeling and I like the fact that it all goes together without question. In pondering the black clothing issue, it's almost like I use the black as the backdrop so that my personality can be the part that shines, the part that's interesting. Almost, because I never really gave it that much thought or planning. Good thing my earbuds are black, too.
On the train, though, I've noticed a disturbing phenomenon: The IPod People. As I listen to my MP3 player (sadly not an IPod, but a perfectly serviceable SanDisc) on the train too, I don't mean to criticize. But I find it disturbing that we're looking away to avoid one anothers' eyes, reading or pretending to so as not to notice the father who really needs a seat for himself and his child and we're listening to our tunes so intently that we fail to hear when a friendly voice says "hello."
As we file up and down the stairs on the way to the train with plugs in our ears and the sounds of ____ filling us with joy/grief/beats/memories/peace, who are we? Who is the handsome big blond man in khakis and a blue shirt that brings out his uncovered eyes? Who is the young harelipped man in a trendy shirt and new sneakers? Who is the black guy with the afro, huge glasses and great belt? Who is the young woman dressed all in black peering out at them from behind sunglasses that cover half her face? And more importantly, what are they listening to?
If we don't speak to one another, can we separate our identities from our appearance?
My friend told me recently that she never thinks of me as someone who wears only black, but I can count the number of days this week that I've worn another color. Okay, I wore other colors everyday - I wore a suit of pale linen to class on Tuesday before putting on my black uniform, I wore pink underwear on Wednesday and I'm wearing an olive green tank top under my black shirt today. I'm glad she doesn't think of me that way, because I'm not making a statement, protesting or even grieving by wearing black. I just like it. I like the neutral feeling and I like the fact that it all goes together without question. In pondering the black clothing issue, it's almost like I use the black as the backdrop so that my personality can be the part that shines, the part that's interesting. Almost, because I never really gave it that much thought or planning. Good thing my earbuds are black, too.
Friday, June 8, 2007
On Being Interesting
I have an interesting name. Does that make me interesting? I get a lot of comments and compliments about my name. What does it mean? Were your parents Persian? Were your parents hippies? Is that your real name? It's so beautiful.
What can I say about this? Perfect strangers are not entitled to the painful and tragic history that led to my rebirth and rechristening as B___. Nor do they deserve outright lies. My parents were probably hippies since they were teens in the 60's, so I say "No, they aren't Persian, but they probably were hippies." My French last name also draws queries, but it's simple enough to admit that I come from "mutt" blood as a mixture of Prussian, Irish, English, Native American and African American. My aunt swears by the African, my mother prays by the Native and my grandmother denies them both, so who's to say that there wasn't a little Frenchie thrown in somewhere?
At any rate, I didn't start intending to portray my entire genealogy, but rather my dismay at being interesting. It's become a strange sort of ritual in my life that after I introduce myself, I am automatically ready to say "Thank you, I like it, too. It's Persian. No, I'm not." It's almost become my long introduction, such as those given in the south when debs are given (in)to society.
My name is not the only thing publicly but inanely interesting - I also wear vintage glasses admired by all. "Yes, they are prescription. Yes, they are old. I got them at ___." Be careful trying on vintage glasses - wear them around the shop for at least 20 minutes. I bought two lovely pair at once and can only wear one set because the others are too heavy. Although vintage glasses are sized, so once you find a pair you like the fit of, you can easily weed through a stack looking for the same size. My eyeglass size is 5 1/2. My shoes are 38 European or 8 American. My dresses are 12-14 and my earrings are preferably huge.
But I didn't start this post intending to give tips on buying vintage or to elucidate the size of all my body parts. It's about being interesting. I think being interesting is just like being invisible. My invisible friend V once threw a fit in class and flipped everyone off, double handed, while cursing them all vocally. Neither the instructor or any of our 10 classmates noticed. Only I and the person on the other side of her noticed. Not seeing her is their loss because she's really an admirable, gifted and kind person. I wish I could see more of her.
Having these interesting things for people to latch onto, they become you, you become them. I am my interesting name and my funky glasses. And to some, little else, but I know better. I know the really interesting things come at night when I wake up in the middle of the night, when I dream big - win, lose or draw, when I dance, when I sing or when I cry. I just hope to recognize those things that are really interesting in you.
What can I say about this? Perfect strangers are not entitled to the painful and tragic history that led to my rebirth and rechristening as B___. Nor do they deserve outright lies. My parents were probably hippies since they were teens in the 60's, so I say "No, they aren't Persian, but they probably were hippies." My French last name also draws queries, but it's simple enough to admit that I come from "mutt" blood as a mixture of Prussian, Irish, English, Native American and African American. My aunt swears by the African, my mother prays by the Native and my grandmother denies them both, so who's to say that there wasn't a little Frenchie thrown in somewhere?
At any rate, I didn't start intending to portray my entire genealogy, but rather my dismay at being interesting. It's become a strange sort of ritual in my life that after I introduce myself, I am automatically ready to say "Thank you, I like it, too. It's Persian. No, I'm not." It's almost become my long introduction, such as those given in the south when debs are given (in)to society.
My name is not the only thing publicly but inanely interesting - I also wear vintage glasses admired by all. "Yes, they are prescription. Yes, they are old. I got them at ___." Be careful trying on vintage glasses - wear them around the shop for at least 20 minutes. I bought two lovely pair at once and can only wear one set because the others are too heavy. Although vintage glasses are sized, so once you find a pair you like the fit of, you can easily weed through a stack looking for the same size. My eyeglass size is 5 1/2. My shoes are 38 European or 8 American. My dresses are 12-14 and my earrings are preferably huge.
But I didn't start this post intending to give tips on buying vintage or to elucidate the size of all my body parts. It's about being interesting. I think being interesting is just like being invisible. My invisible friend V once threw a fit in class and flipped everyone off, double handed, while cursing them all vocally. Neither the instructor or any of our 10 classmates noticed. Only I and the person on the other side of her noticed. Not seeing her is their loss because she's really an admirable, gifted and kind person. I wish I could see more of her.
Having these interesting things for people to latch onto, they become you, you become them. I am my interesting name and my funky glasses. And to some, little else, but I know better. I know the really interesting things come at night when I wake up in the middle of the night, when I dream big - win, lose or draw, when I dance, when I sing or when I cry. I just hope to recognize those things that are really interesting in you.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Just Being Nice
I was ogling my boyfriend in the car the other day and complimented his profile - he asked, "on MySpace?" [For those others who don't remember the original meaning of the word profile, it means: a representation of something in outline; especially : a human head or face represented or seen in a side view.]
Speaking of profiles, I have an online profile and have even posted a series of photos, despite my many misgivings. My partner complained that he didn't like my photo though because I hid my face behind my dog. It's a cute photo, but he's right, you can't see my face. So I went through my photos searching for a more appropriate photo for my profile - he expressed admiration for many of them, so I picked one and posted it.
The change was noted by many of my friends on that site. I received some compliments, but then a new friend said it made me look older. This was the permission that my partner needed as he then said that he actually didn't like that photo and had just told me so to be nice. It's sweet that he wants to compliment all my photos, but not so nice to allow me to post a not-so-good photo.
So yesterday, I made a drastic but temporary change in my appearance. I LOVE it and sent him a photo on my phone right away and asked if he liked it. He said it looks hot and came over right away, but hesitated when I said I could make this change more permanent. That's the problem with just being nice! Note to self : tactful honesty is the best policy.
Speaking of profiles, I have an online profile and have even posted a series of photos, despite my many misgivings. My partner complained that he didn't like my photo though because I hid my face behind my dog. It's a cute photo, but he's right, you can't see my face. So I went through my photos searching for a more appropriate photo for my profile - he expressed admiration for many of them, so I picked one and posted it.
The change was noted by many of my friends on that site. I received some compliments, but then a new friend said it made me look older. This was the permission that my partner needed as he then said that he actually didn't like that photo and had just told me so to be nice. It's sweet that he wants to compliment all my photos, but not so nice to allow me to post a not-so-good photo.
So yesterday, I made a drastic but temporary change in my appearance. I LOVE it and sent him a photo on my phone right away and asked if he liked it. He said it looks hot and came over right away, but hesitated when I said I could make this change more permanent. That's the problem with just being nice! Note to self : tactful honesty is the best policy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)