Above Average

Buenos Diaz, lovers! 

Earlier this week, I did a teary-eyed fist-pump when browsing through my Facebook timeline. I was pleased - no, ecstatic to learn that the beautiful Ashley Graham was named a Sports Illustrated Magazine cover model. Ashley has made history as the first plus-sized model to nab this coveted spot and I could not be any happier for her. Watching her reaction to the grand reveal gave me all of the feels; the tears, the incredulity, the jumping up and down in her inability to contain her excitement… it felt like a win for all of the curvy girls out there fighting the daily battle to have their beauty validated.

Photo by Jamie McCarthy/Getty Images Entertainment / Getty Images

Stunning!!

In the same week, I accompanied my soon-to-be sister-in-law along with both of our mothers and the rest of her bridesmaids to pick out her dress and be fitted for ours. The appointment started out perfectly – the bride had already narrowed the choice down to two dresses, so we helped her make the final choice then finalized a few of the color and veil-related details.

Next it was time to pick out the bridesmaids’ dresses. We were given a few choices to pick between and came to an agreement quite easily. The gown is quite lovely if I do say so myself, long and somewhat ethereal in a great shade of purple. The gathered waist and sweetheart neckline each feature some delicate crystal beading that adds a sophisticated level of sparkle to the dress. All in all, a great pick across the board.

With the hard part behind us, we each waited to have our measurements taken. The bride went first and remarked how surprised she was at the sizing schematic, which can absolutely come as a shock if you’ve never purchased a bridal gown before. For whatever reason, your wedding/bridesmaid dress size is, in a word: bullshit. It’s your regular size all hopped up on steroids. I don’t know who decided that it was a good idea to make you feel like a cow during what is supposed to be a positive and memorable experience, but that’s precisely how I felt the first time I was part of a bridal party. My brother’s fiancé, for example, is regularly a size three or four; her wedding dress, rounding one size up to play it safe, was ordered at a size 10.

Now, as any of my faithful readers or social media followers undoubtedly know by now, this is not my first rodeo, or second or third or seventh. I’m a frequent flyer at this damn rodeo, I should have a punch card for a free dress at this point. So I was more or less prepared to have to order a dress in a size that would stir up visions of a circus tent. Whatever, I thought. It is what it is.

Note: not all weddings pictured here. Side Note: No, I'm not kidding.

Then I was measured. I was advised that my bust, waist and hip measurements each corresponded with a different dress size. To err on the safe side, I should go with the size dictated by the largest of the measurements; no surprise here, that meant my hips. Fine, bring on the larger size. Better to have to alter a dress to make it smaller in places than to get one too small and be screwed. I still instinctively cringed a tiny bit when she told me the size I’d have to order, but told myself to brush it off. That was until the sales consultant said the following: “So, we’re going to order the larger size. And just so you know, that’s a plus size and has to be custom made. So you have to pay extra and there’s nothing I can do about that. Ok! Did you want to prepay for the entire thing or just leave the deposit?”

My previously cheery demeanor immediately evaporated, making way for the resting bitch face for which I’m apparently well known. I handed over my debit card for the payment of the deposit only, embittered enough to find, however irrationally, some sort of victory in a partial payment. Sensing my palpable mood shift, the sales girl attempted to make bubbly chatter. She asked if I was married yet, feigned shock that I wasn’t and expressed most enthusiastically her hopes that I’d come back to the bridal shop to get my dress when it was my turn. I couldn’t stop myself from issuing a snarky “Not if you’re going to tack on a premium for my hips, but thanks!” It was bordering on rude in tone and I know it.

I quickly corrected my mood as soon as the bride, who with the possible exception of my mother is the sweetest person I’ve ever met, looked at me with big brown eyes full of consternation. I smiled big and wide and assured her that all was fine. Inwardly though, I was not only upset but embarrassed. I work hard to be healthy – I eat right, I exercise. It was disheartening to be made to feel like a giant red buzzer was going to be pressed as soon as my order hit the manifest, like sirens would blare all across the factory, sending seamstresses whose overtime I was paying for into a frenzy to make my epic-sized gown. “THIS IS NOT A DRILL! GET OUT THE REALLY BIG SCISSORS AND GIANT SEWING MACHINE, WE'RE GONNA NEED THE HEAVY DUTY THREAD FOR THIS ONE!!!”

Later that evening at home with a glass of wine in my hand, I took a break from writing to read up on Ashley Graham and perhaps give myself a little ego boost. I was highly annoyed to learn of the barrage of hateful comments being leveled at Ashley and at Sports Illustrated for choosing her. One idiot called the cover a disgusting effort to shove obesity and laziness down our throats, another said curves aren’t anything to be proud of and said you too could look like Ashley if you just eat cheesecake all day. One troll commented, “Eww, another fat Adele. Wouldn’t want to pay for that grocery bill! What a whale!” and picked fights with anyone who called him out for his cruelty. Ironically, lots of the vitriol I read seemed to be coming from folks who were in no position to call anyone unattractive. I hope they all step barefoot on tiny Legos.

I was quite astonished at a different kind of negative feedback. Many plus-sized women expressed their distaste for the cover because they felt like Ashley wasn’t plus-sized enough. So skinny people are calling Ashley a whale, and bigger folk are giving her the Gretchen Wieners you-can’t-sit-with-us because she’s not plus enough to kick it. What the bloody hell?

So let’s go deeper here. I have never been a big fan of the term Plus Sized, in the assigning of certain sizes as normal and any outliers as not so. It is bothersome to me for a few reasons:

Plus, but No Minus: Only the outliers on the higher end of the spectrum get a special label. While I’m glad someone went with Plus Size rather than Too Big, Super Size, or Biggie, Biggie Biggie, Can’t You See These Clothes Aren’t Meant to Fit You, You See?, I resent the fact that no one went out of their way then to assign a label to the sizes on the lower end of the spectrum. If I’m a Plus Size, why aren’t the size 0 girls of the world a Minus Size? And don’t give me Petites, because that’s more about height.

Law of Averages: I have read and heard for as long as I can remember that the average woman is actually a size 14 or 16. Honestly, I don’t know if this is the case or not. It’s a confusing statistic. For one thing, sizing has changed drastically over the years (a size 8 in the 1950s is now a 16 according to an article I read in the Washington Post last year). Size also varies significantly depending on where you shop (some places I’m a size 12, others a 14 or 16. Blah – there, I said it). If it’s true though, the whole concept of what’s plus-sized relative to what's "average" or "normal" is seriously out of whack.

Who Decides What’s Normal?  As far as what’s “normal,” what the hell does that mean anyway? In my family, for example, wide hips are common. One of my aunts and I often wear a pant size that matches exactly or is within one size of each other. She’s rail thin, I am clearly not. Who’s the normal one and who's the circus attraction? Are we both abnormal because we’re not a smaller size? Am I the abnormal one because I see a larger number on the scale though our hip circumference is similar? I get that clothing obviously has to be bigger if your measurements are larger – that’s called math, and I get it. But why normalize one size range and not another when they encompass so many different body types? It leaves a lot out of the equation.

This all brings me back to why I’m perplexed over the divisiveness of Ashley Graham. I love that she’s breaking new ground but hate that this particular ground was there to break in the first place. For everyone calling her a cow because she’s a double-digit size, shut the hell up. Quit trying to marginalize her success with your “stop trying to make fat people beautiful, they’re all unhealthy and have diabetes” nonsense. I get what you're trying to do here, and yes: I do believe that there is a fine line between body positivity and glorifying unhealthy habits. But sweetie, the girl isn’t sitting around shoveling spoons of lard into her mouth in between shots of insulin and begging you to love her. It is absolutely possible to be of a larger size and be in excellent health, as is Ashley. For those saying she isn’t big enough to truly represent plus-sized women, you too may sit down. It all has to start somewhere, and I think she is a perfectly stunning place to start.   

Where I’m choosing to focus, as I’m sure are Ashley and countless other women, is the positive response. For every hatred-spewing troglodyte likening Ashley to a barnyard mammal or aquatic beast, there appears to an exponential number of light-bearing, love-touting supporters in Ashley’s corner. It gives me hope that the tide may indeed be turning, that healthy, not necessarily skinny, will be the new goal; it’s like I’ve said before – beauty comes in all sizes and real women have mitochondria.  I am still pretty bothered at being told that my bridesmaids dress is going to cost me more because I’m not a certain size. Then again, my waist size is cool enough to grace the cover of a swimsuit magazine.

So maybe I’m just above average, and maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

Bookishly Yours,

Vanessa

This is 30.

Buenos Diaz, readers! And how are you all doing on this fine day? As for me, life is pretty good right now. I’ve got some more freelance work coming in, I’m making good contacts, I’m sleeping an average of 7 hours a night and I have a tan from spending so much time outdoors! Many of you are familiar with my usual Alabaster Cream skin tone; please join me then in a collective prayer of thanks to the Almighty, for it is only May and I have graduated to Toasted Eggshell.

In addition to allowing me the time to take my workouts outdoors, this period of funemployment has given me time to write, and not just for a living but in my beloved journal. I recently reflected on some lessons I’ve learned in the first six months of my thirties and thought I would share. They speak to my current frame of mind, which I imagine will resonate with many of you. Here we go: 5 Vanessaisms from me to you with love.  

1.       PUT THE F*CKING CAKE FOUNDATION DOWN AND WALK AWAY SLOWLY.  I confess that I used to be one of those girls who would sooner be caught dead than be seen in public without makeup. It didn’t matter where I was going: class, the grocery store, the library, Del Taco, the ATM and yes, even the gym meant throwing on at least a quick layer of base, eyeliner and mascara. My foundation coverage was full, my setting powder strong, my lashes were chola-thin and my entire lash line was rimmed to the max in black kohl eyeliner.

Thirty-Year-Old Vanessa believes that while it's absolutely ok to enjoy putting makeup on, everyday makeup though shouldn't make you look unlike yourself.  I still love me some winged eyeliner and bright lipstick, but I've softened my overall look and have stopped hiding behind a makeup mask. I often skip the makeup entirely or else opt for medium coverage or tinted moisturizer because at age 30, I’m done trying to hide my freckles and have chosen to embrace them instead. I also let myself have real eyebrows again and have given my waterline a break; I guess I decided that I don’t need to look like a drag version of Amy Winehouse or Cleopatra. 

I don't want my makeup to change what I look like. I still want to look like me.

...Let's just focus on the photo on the right. 

2.       LOVE IT, OWN IT, ROCK IT. There’s probably at least one thing you were born with that people would pay good money for. For some it’s the boobs, or the butt or the lips (p.s. - Kylie Jenner needs to knock it off). For me, it’s the hair- but I didn't always feel that way.  

See, I had a crown of sleek, shiny hair with big, pretty curls at the ends as a toddler, but those curls went the way of the dodo bird after my first haircut. My hair stayed stick-straight for years and wouldn't hold a curl at all. Then around age nine, puberty attacked me hard and fast, bringing with it the very tragic poofy-fication of my once easily-managed mane. I kept on brushing it like I always had but it just wouldn't cooperate. I thought cutting it short might help, so I chopped it off. Jesucristo. If I only knew then what I know now.   

My mom used to love twisting the curls into spirals.... then it went straight. And also- BANGS. 

It turns out my hair was a hot mess because puberty had brought back the curl unbeknownst to me. I discovered this by accident several years later when I had to wash out a horrible updo minutes before a wedding. I had zero time left to do anything but put some mousse in it, and it dried into curly-ish waves to everyone’s amazement. Here I’d been brushing my shit to death all this time not knowing that it was wavy. If there’s one thing you don’t do to curly or wavy hair, its brush it into submission. Yikes.  

I didn't want the wavy hair though. At first, I used gel and hairspray to keep the volume in check, which is why I refer to high school as “the crunchy years.” In college, I wanted straight hair like all of the pretty girls on campus, so I flattened it to death with a blow dryer and gold-plated straightener. Sometime in my late twenties though, I finally got it. I accepted that I was blessed with a pretty cool feature and not one that I need to subdue, so I decided to own it and rock it for all that its worth. Don’t get me wrong: some days I still take the time to blow it out all smooth and bouncy. Mostly though, I keep the routine to a minimal 10 minutes with some hair oil, styling cream and a diffuser, leaving it wild and wavy like it was meant to be.

Crunch, crunch, crunch with a *pinch* of Sun-In. And nooooo eyebrows

Smooth and bouncy, and "boho chic" 

3.       BODY POSITIVITY STARTS WITH YOU. I write a lot about body image and body positivity, issues that are especially relevant today and particularly important to me personally. When I’m writing, I feel all-powerful and super confident, especially when I’m armed with all the positivity coming from social media. Take Tess Munster’s recent modeling contract news and the Eff Your Beauty Standards movement or Lane Bryant’s “We’re no angels!” campaign. I get so pumped reading about acceptance of all female figures out there in the world and not just those that are “traditionally” attractive. However, I admit that it’s sometimes hard to stay positive in my real, personal life. I have the easiest time in the world telling other women that they are beautiful but have a hard time seeing it in myself. It’s just so easy to be critical when I don’t fit a certain size or see a certain number on the scale.

Having all this time to myself has helped me home in on this fact: it’s not enough to have all these outside forces telling you that you’re gorgeous just the way you are- you have to see it and believe it for yourself, period. Personally, I’m working harder than ever on not looking at so many numbers and figures as a measure of my attractiveness, and more importantly on being really and truly confident- not just on paper. It’s an uphill battle that I've waged before, but this time I have the wisdom that comes with age and experience to hopefully keep me on track.  

4.      SINGLE OR NOT, YOU SHOULD KNOW HOW TO BE ALONE. My aunt once told me that her son, my teenage cousin, told her that he hates seeing people eating alone at restaurants. When she asked him why, he said it made him so sad- why are  they all alone?!! I laughed. I've heard this same story many times before.

I love spending time with loved ones. Who doesn't? But you know what I also love? Being by myself. No really, I like- no, I relish- my alone time. When I say this, people often ask if I’m just saying that because I’m single (insert glare here), then follow up with, “Well what do you do then?” Well… live! I go shopping. I eat. I go to the library. I read in the park. I stop at a brewery. I cruise to the Farmers Market. I hike at sunset then stop somewhere scenic to write. I go to the bay and just float in the water because I loooove that sensation of weightlessness. I go where I want and do what I want, just me, myself and I.

Being alone does not mean I’m lonely; in fact, knowing how to be alone, comfortably and unapologetically so, is a skill that I think everyone should possess. It is empowering to know how to be by yourself, and not just in a relationship sense, and like it. It makes you more confident and aware of how complete you are on your own, which (I think) is an indispensable quality.

5.       YOU DON'T NEED TO PLEASE OR EXPLAIN YOURSELF TO EVERYONE.  Not everyone understands or supports my career decision, for example. Recently, I found myself hurt when I was questioned (not for the first time) about my success in finding a "regular job." I re-asserted my desire to take a risk in the name of creativity and my ultimate fulfillment, but had to hear that I’m seen as a disappointment to someone I love very much in choosing this path for myself. That of course led to all those other questions I love- when am I going to buy a home? Can I even afford a mortgage? Have I thought about getting married? Aren't I getting a little old not to have kids? What was all that schooling for? I cried like hell and vented to my best friend, feeling like such an outsider and like I was seen as a failure. He talked me off the ledge and reminded me that the concern comes from a place of love, and hat I have to do this for myself and no one else. He was right. It does me no good to put the world’s opinions first if I’m left miserable at the end of the day. I just have to give it hell, try my best and remember that sometimes support hides in a costume of criticism. 

I’m learning that it really is impossible to please everyone, and that doing so shouldn't even really rank very high on your list of priorities. It’s perfectly OK to not have all the answers; to want to take risks; to have goals, values, tastes, opinions, plans and even measures of success that differ from the people you love and who love you. If the love is real, and hopefully it is, then it will still be there when all is said and done. I say as long as you aren't causing any harm or inconvenience to yourself or others, do what you need to do for yourself and don’t make tons of concessions just to assuage all the naysayers.

---------

As I’m sure you've picked up on, the theme of my thirties is pretty much, “Be who you really are.” Do what you want. Chase your dreams. Take that risk. Love who you love. Love what you love. Feel what you need to feel. Say what you need to say- and confidently! Own your look. Embrace your flaws. Play up your strengths. Live with integrity. Act with intention. Speak with purpose. Have faith. Love hard. Be fearless. Always Compete, and Fight On.

Thanks for reading, folks. Your support is everything.

Bookishly yours,

Vanessa

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Guilt, Be Gone

Buenos Diaz, peoples!

It's been awhile- my usual excuse is that I've been busy (which I undoubtedly have been). I've been adding to my book more than my blog lately- I've got to tell you, it is no easy task figuring out what to put where. In my daily life, every element of the world around me sparks a topic for me to write about. I'm constantly jotting things down and snapping pictures like a maniac, then I sit down to write when I get off work and I'm stumped. Do I blog it, do I book it, do I do both? This is when I start to fantasize that I will be the next Carrie Bradshaw in that some random publisher will approach me in a fortnight or two to impart the good news that he or she would like to turn my blog into a book. Except Carrie had a column, not a blog, and she had an editor, and lived in New York City where she was getting paid to write in the New York star and could afford Roberto Cavallli and Manolo Blahnik on said writer's salary. Sooooooo... I'm thinking this will NOT happen for me. I'll keep working on that book separately though. The good news is I have a title and a good chunk of material! I'm excited. I think I'll need to give myself until the end of the year to wrap it up though.

Today's blog follows a lovely trip to Northern California to visit one of my best friends Carlos. It was a quick Friday-to-Sunday trip filled with chit chat and libations with a little bit of nature thrown in for goos measure, or as I like to think: because I'm obsessed with gorgeous tree-filled places. Honestly, we could have sat in his place all day eating pizza and playing video games. I would have been happy just to see this guy (ok that's not entirely true, but you get what I mean). It was great to catch up with him and get a dose of his unique brand of humor and sarcasm. I'm very proud of him as well- he's about to start his second year at Santa Clara Law. Go Carlos! You're doing us all proud. #certified

When I started this post, it was Monday morning and I was sitting back in San Diego doing laundry and unpacking & such. I decided to also indulge in my guilty pleasure: reruns of Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Some of you will chime in here going, "OMG! I watch that toooooo!!!" while the rest of you will come at me like torch-wielding villagers for this silly obsession. To you, I say: leave it alone! Put down your opinions and judgement for 6.7 seconds, this portion of the story is really more of a segue.

I wasn't paying attention to the first part of the episode, truthfully, since I was absorbed in the Nordstrom anniversary sale catalog and obsessing over a Vince Camuto skirt that I would never buy if it wasn't on sale and don't really need, but then again NEED. It's that awesome. I tuned in towards the end though, right when Kris Jenner had staged a semi-nude photoshoot for herself in her backyard- like with professional photographers and lighting, the whole shebang. Kim, Khloe and Kourtney then stepped into the scene mid-shoot to find Kris in the pool wearing nothing but a sheer cover-up and six or seven pounds of makeup, then proceeded to immediately attack her for not "acting her age." They heckled her a good deal and poked fun at her nudity until Kris, evidently hurt by their judgment, lashed back- she just wanted to show her daughters that "being 50 you don’t have to curl up and disappear, you can feel vibrant and sexy at any age." This got me thinking...

At first listen, I liked the positivity of that message (though I perhaps would not have chosen to express it via a Glamour Shots solo sesh in a pool with my goods being clung to by a flimsy wet fabric). After all, I like to think that in 20 years when I'm knocking on 50s door, I'll not be doing so as a mullet-permed hunchback wearing sweatpants with my cat posse in tow. I'd like to be a hot old lady, but classy. Think Helen Mirren, but Mexican.

Theeeeeeeeen I had a change of heart. When Kris Jenner dished that line about being sexy at any age, I quickly went from "good for you!" to "hold up a cotton pickin' minute, Kris" (and yes, I did say "cotton pickin." I watched a LOT of Looney Tunes as a kid). My reaction changed so quickly because I remembered that this same woman has had multiple face lifts and breast implants. So when she sat there touting "beauty at any age" as a lesson to her daughters, I thought to myself, "That is really easy to preach when your 'beauty' has been adjusted, added to and restored via a trusted plastic surgeon and your boundless checkbook." It angered me because in the end, the message there is a good one; the source is just not the most shining example of its veracity.

Then, because I play devil's advocate with myself all the time, I asked myself whether I was being a bit of a hypocrite. This is what lead me to want to blog- it's not a brand new topic, it's one we've likely all discussed before: what is beauty? Is it natural, or can it be arrived at through some creative measures and still count? Where do you draw the line between sensible enhancement and superficial modification? I dye my hair, even if it is close to my own natural color, and I style it to either enhance my curls or straighten & sexy them up. I wear makeup daily, and what's more: I can admit that I like wearing it. I don't honestly know whether I would feel the same if I was some beautiful, natural beauty, but as it stands now I find it rather fun. It's an element of fashion, an accessory. Now, I know better than to put makeup and hair under the same category as going under the knife; the former is temporary and is used to bring out what you've already theoretically got, the latter is permanent and adds or removes what your genetic code did or did not manifest in you. Still- both are used to "change" you. So am I any better than the Kardashian matriarch?

I started to think a lot about body image. Me, for example: I get up at 4:15-4:30 am five days a week to hit the gym before work. I'm no CrossFit champion, but I get in a good 30-40 minutes of cardio then add in weights, calisthenics or TRX work for another 30. I avoid carbs, not altogether by any means, but I do limit my intake and try to stick to lean protein. I juice daily, and beyond that my liquid intake is limited to regular water, coconut water, nut milks or regular milk. I'll have a soda once or twice every couple of months and while I enjoy my wine, I keep it to one glass every few nights. I'm not saying I never indulge in an unhealthy morsel- we all do sometimes. But I generally feel guilty about it afterwards and vow to add an extra circuit to my next workout.

The kicker here is that I am not as fit-looking as that regimen above would lead you to believe. I'm curvy, and no: I don't mean I have a tiny waist with big boobs and a butt to match, which seems to be what most people mean when they use that word. I don't know how to describe my body, honestly. I've got a decent cup size and wider hips that might be more enticing if my waist would listen and get smaller. Some days I like my legs, some days I don't. So I keep on hitting the gym and torturing myself to be smaller, fitter, thinner.

Pero, I'm healthy. Then in theory, I should be happy with my figure and call it a day, right? Well- I'm not. And this is the utterly vicious cycle I find myself in daily- the cognitive dissonance of wanting to appreciate my body the way God made it while also wanting to be thinner. I want, like any woman, to feel beautiful. I want to feel like I'm every bit as appealing and sexy and desirable as a girl half my size. As such, I've come to really appreciate the Honor My Curves movement for championing the expansion of the definition of beauty to include all shapes and sizes- not just the ones that you might find on the cover of LowRyder magazine, you know? My kind of curvy isn't the kind of curvy that I feel is traditionally labeled as attractive, and I'd like to think that maybe that could change.

You know what else? I'd be a bold-faced liar if I said I wouldn't be mother-flipping ecstatic if I could lose 20 pounds. I'd love to just pick clothes off a rack and be confident that they'll fit. I'd love to do a pull-up, or wear a bikini and *own* it. I'd love to know what it's like to turn heads. And sometimes I feel like this makes me a traitor to my "kind." I'm content to sit here on the board of the Girls with Curves Club but would rip up my membership card and run like I stole something if I could qualify for the Fit Girl Coalition.This is a confusing space to live in, my friends.

Many will argue that you can appreciate a fuller figure and still want to be more fit, and I suppose this is true. It's just hard to really embrace that fact if you're mid-struggle. I live in Southern California, and in San Diego at that. GEESUS PEOPLE, the pressure! The world would have me believe that in order to be my most beautiful self, I need to be lead a gluten free, dairy free, sugar free, calorie free lifestyle; I need to be a vegan and run in marathons and do pilates, all in between yoga sessions and organic food shopping. I do partake in some of these lifestyle mantras and activities, I enjoy them in fact. But sometimes I just want an effing burger. Not a soy burger, not a turkey burger- a buurrrrrgerrrr. Meat. Cow. And with cheese. Sometimes I want fries, or ice cream! I want more cheese! Sometimes I want to skip the gym. Maybe even for two days in a row. Still, I want to be thinner. I really do. I want to say I'm comfortable in my own skin, and I sometimes am... until one of those Kim Kardashian types walks by me, then I want to throw myself in front of a moving vehicle. Here we go again.

There's that guilt. The guilt is palpable. The guilt that maybe I've gained five pounds if I did have that cheeseburger or that stupid, sexy Salted Caramel gelato by Talenti (my kingdom for a scoop!). The guilt that I didn't get in enough cardio. Or there's the reverse guilt if I did eat super lean and hit the gym hard this week: am I taking myself too seriously? Am I forgetting to relax and enjoy myself a little? Am I becoming one of those annoying people who talks about their awesome workout every morning when the gal next to me just wants to enjoy her donut in peace (the answer here is yes, in case you were wondering)?

Where is the happy medium?!? Where do you find the confidence to live in your own body and just be, to know you're doing what you can and giving it your best effort? Because let's face it- we don't all have to work as hard to look a certain way. My brother can eat Doritos, pizza, garlic bread and chicken wings all day but has to lift weights and drink protein shakes to keep his weight up. He does 15 minutes of cardio at best and keeps his figure. I'm over here eating lean and running for miles just to fit in my jeans. And I ask myself daily- am I supposed to just accept that we're built differently but be ok with my fuller size, or am I supposed to dig deep and work three times as hard to try and ourtun my metabolism? I don't quite know the answer. Some days I feel like I've done enough. Other I wonder if I'm supposed to try harder. Again- the guilt.

Interestingly enough, I was really thinking hard about this topic and was on a writing roll when I had to stop and save this entry for later completion: I was off to a book signing for one of my favorite authors as of late, Jojo Moyes, who made an appearance at Warwick's Independent Bookstore in La Jolla in promotion of her latest work, One Plus One. She was absolutely, genuinely charming- witty, dynamic, warm and passionate. She spoke of the book of course and obliged the substantially sized crown in patiently answering all of it's questions, touching on everything from her writing process, sources of inspiration, her experinces as a writer over the years and her family life as well. Something she said really stuck with me: when asked how she is able to juggle being a writer with being a mother of three, she spoke of the difficulties in setting aside time to write. She said, "I try really hard not to feel guilty, I've always found guilt to be a useless emotion. So of course I feel guilty every day."

There it is, guilt. The very topic I'd just been writing about. I thought about that statement all the way on my thirty-minute drive home. The guilt she referenced was a different type of guilt, yes, but what she said about it was peculiar and interesting in it beinf described as a useless emotion. There are clearly instances where guilt probably does us all some good, perhaps when we're in the wrong and need to make amends. Still, if you stop to think about it, how often do you feel guilty for reasons that truly are of no good use to you? If you can honeslty say "not often at all," mazel tov. Send me your contact info as I should probably be paying you to be my life coach. I suspect thought that for more than a few of you, as with me, guilt creeps its way into your life and not only complicates it uncecesarily but also just makes you bloody miserable. In my own life, guilt has often been my reason for overthinking, the source of relentless indecision, the foundation of stress and anxiety, the cause of self-loathing and dangerous behavior. I.e., a certified pain in my ass.

So I'm going to trying this on for size- I will try to feel less guilt. I will aim to be healthy, I will aim to be strong. I will accept that my healthy and my strong may look different than yours. I will have cookiedough or a piece of manchego if I want to, and I'll enjoy it. Some days I'll make tofu and roasted veggies, but sometimes I'll allow myself a grilled cheese. I'll be the first one to yell from the rooftops if I ever fit into the freak-em' dress hiding in the back of my closet. I'll just try really hard not to obsess about it, which,if you know me, will be no easy feat. Still, I'm putting it out there in the universe where it's real and can't be unsaid: I'll strive each day to give up the guilt. Who needs it anyway?

-V-