#NEDAweek2018, fat girl, NEDA, self image, Women

Yo. Fat Girl.

 

How appropriate that this is NEDA week — National Eating Disorder Awareness week.  February in Seattle has me brushing hail off the jonquils and bundled in sweaters, prevented from long walks and sunshine infusions by an unrelenting steel gray and dripping sky. Premier weather for writing. And being depressed. And therefore, eating.

I crave mac&cheese and chocolates for breakfast and bread, bread, bread. So a few gal cousins and I began a sugar and alcohol cleanse the day after Valentine’s day (trust me, this weather has called for a lot of Bourbon). The headaches we endured the first week reminded us that sugar begets the craving for more sugar. This has been a good idea, though painful. But it also reminded me of the old days, the extreme dieting, the endless carb-starves and calorie counting.

I have made references along the way in my writing and on this blog that my body weight and self image took a hit for most of my life. I believe that my degree of eating disorder was instilled in me very early on because of how others thought I should look. And even when I initially shed some of the weight in eighth grade by growing five inches, the person in the mirror will always be fat. That is what happens when family, friends and peers — not to mention the media — sets standards that the average young girl cannot meet.

Every time I think I have gotten beyond this self-image issue the fat girl stands up: I had a series of abdominal surgeries ten months ago, right before my oldest daughter’s wedding. The dress I had purchased barely zipped on her wedding day. Spanx (never actually wear them) were out of the question due to my incision areas. I felt sick for days in anticipation of what those pictures would look like. The fat girl wanted to hide in the bathroom when the dress went over my head. She never leaves me, logically or illogically.

Today I seek transparency, like the warrior survivor #positively.kate who writes the most amazing truth every day on her blog and instagram. The NEDA website is an incredible resource for support or information: I took the quiz, and learned I could use some help. I know. I always will. But I also know after fifty-nine years that I am spectacular in many ways and eating disorders do not define me anymore. Hey, I was tumor-free for the wedding and I WAS THERE, saggy stomach and all.

Once that girl lives in you, you just have to call her out. I looked in the bathroom mirror, my daughter waiting on the other side of the door in her wedding dress and said,

“Yo, Fat Girl. I love you.”

Olive2:18Seattle

Olive, February, 2018. Seattle, WA.

 

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Feminism, Women, writing

Kick Butt.

I remember the day my grandmother taught me how to curtsey. She was somehow in charge of me on bridge day and I was dressed to be shown off, squeezed into an uncomfortable wool jumper, the white blouse underneath bunching up around my middle. I knew I fell short on many levels, but determined, she gave me a quick how-to before her guests arrived. Holding my plump hands in hers she positioned me in front of her and demonstrated: slide one foot behind the other, dip my knees together, look her in the eye.

I remember feeling a little sick to my stomach. At home I ran barefoot in the wheat fields. Why am I learning this I wondered. The year was 1965 and I had personally witnessed my mother throwing away her bra. “You can do EVERYTHING I couldn’t” my mother told me as she dropped it in the bin with a flourish. But I also knew, like my grandmother’s even, back-slanted handwriting, that today’s lesson held the key to being a lady, a term my mother scorned but the little fat girl secretly worshipped. I stood by the front door with my grandmother that day and executed a perfect curtsey to each guest. They cooed in admiration. This felt just fine.

So began my conflicted relationship with being a woman that frankly has not abated fifty-two years later. Does it ever abate with any woman my age? I write my essays on being white, middle aged and full of words. I question retiring from life when the kids leave for theirs. My essays and blog posts are sprinkled on the internet weekly and after publication I am full of heavy dread each time I turn on my laptop. Who will be offended? Can I live what I say and say what I mean?

But then we have the elections of 2016 and I face that I have been coasting along, letting other women do the heavy lifting. How to hone feminism and fifty and language to shape the next generation now keeps me awake at night.

“Look what we did for you!” was my mother’s favorite line when she pushed me to college, graduate school, begged me to get a PHD. This year I assure my oldest daughter as she plans her wedding, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” and I know my mother would be proud. Then I order my daughter monogrammed stationary. Because, honestly, I am still doing a little curtsey with a pen in my hand, bridging the worlds that raised me.

If I want my daughter to keep the path for equality and feminism open despite the elections of 2016, for her to be the next female president (why not?) or know her, I need to trample the have to’s and remind myself and other women daily that women can do anything. So here goes another blog, and some more words, and the choice of honesty.

You will still be a lady if you kick butt. Even more of one now in 2016. And you need to.

Thanks for cutting the path, Mom. Stomping on it right now for you and all of us.

lilacs1964

Gathering lilacs at Moose Hill. Alexandra Dane, 1965

 

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Hillary Clinton, Not Okay, Vote, Women

Not Okay. Again.

Last week I was making a return at a Nordstrom’s store situated in the northern suburbs of Seattle. All was very quiet on Thursday afternoon at 4:30 PM on the third floor. I was the only customer in sight. My back was to the escalators and while exchanging information with a very young saleswoman I heard it. Right behind me.

“In my day we didn’t stack women’s underwear on tables for everyone to see,” he growled. I could feel him a few feet away. Those little hairs on our neck? They really do prickle when adrenalin flows.

I smiled at the gal, got very still then heard closer behind me,

“Seriously, you bitches need to do something about this.”

I looked her in the eye, did not turn around and said, “Does he come here often?”

She continued to smile and said without missing a beat,

“Oh, thanks goodness, I thought he was with you. No. Never seen him before.”

I laughed too loudly and said “Ah. No.”

And that’s when I felt a very new feeling. I wasn’t scared. I was completely enraged. Expansively enraged.

He moved next to me, fiddled with some pamphlets, commented on our vaginas. I folded my hands around my bag and turned to face him. I was seriously sweating and ready to deck him. This was not ok. Again. The language, the attitude, coming into our space — ladies lingerie for god’s sake. Like a bad movie rerun after all the news, the endless pussy jokes, the locker room talk from Donald Trump. Not. Okay. At. All.

Then he swiveled, circled the sales counter, got very close to another saleswoman and started to talk in a low voice. Not breaking her smile, my saleswoman asked for my signature, then answered a phone call.

“Yes, I did. White male, pony tail, white shirt, back of the lingerie department. Thank you.”

I looked at her in total respect.

“What did you do? I asked, keeping an eye on him.

“No need for phone calls,” she smiled. “We just have to press a button.”

I was flooded for love for this young woman, her professionalism, her smile, her calm. And deeply saddened that standing in our women’s sanctuary we had to protect ourselves. Again.

I looked her in the eye and said,

You are awesome.”

As I headed to the escalator two men took got off and split to either side of me and headed to the back.

Not ok. Again. But here’s what is happening since Donald Trump opened his mouth: Women are not scared, we are really, really angry. We are people, not objects of filth, voyeurism, sexual predatory behavior and let me emphasize, this behavior is not acceptable anywhere. Not in a bus, not in a house, not in the street, not at my feet.

Know the difference between OKAY and NOT OKAY. Or you might get smacked by a sweating writer with a bag full of books and bras. And I guarantee it will hurt.

pussy

 

 

 

 

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