Accepting Body Changes

   Do you have a difficult to fit body?  Mine has morphed so much in the last few years that I'm a bit in denial, but learning to cope with change.  I suppose learning to make my own clothes is helping, but when I see the size tag, that's where my (initial) problems begin.
I used to be a 36 C, size 10 pant, size 12 dress, medium, medium, medium!  I liked it.  Granted that was in Jr. High and High School, so I've really nothing to complain about.  It has just been interesting getting to know my body and letting go of clothing that I really love.

   First major change was my bust.  I didn't think my bust would change that  much when I started birth control pills, but it did.  Plus getting pregnant compounded that problem.  The change: 34 DD and a 41" bust.  Uffda.  I've always had a larger torso because my ribcage is nice and roomy, add some shoulders on to that, and you've got problems with arm holes, sleeves being too short, etc.  The list was long to begin with.  Add 5" to the bust and then nothing fits.

   In the last year or so I have finally come to accept and truly embrace this new body.  Yes, there are days when I'm bloated or feeling heavy and I'm not such a great fan.  Despite the "off" days, I work to fill my closet with things that truly fit.  Not sort of fit, not almost fit, not it-really-doesn't-but-if-I-ignore-it-the-problem-will-go-away fit.  They. All. Fit.  It is so liberating.  Knowing that no matter what kind of day I'm having, no matter what, I can reach in and grab anything and it will fit.  I don't have to plan (much, anyway) on wearing one thing because I'm feeling larger or smaller.  I don't want to live my life like that.  "No lunch cause the jeans don't fit days"  I want to eat lunch and wear those jeans.  They might be a size 12 now and a grown-up brand (Lee versus Old Navy) but they all fit.  I also stop myself from buying things that almost fit.  Things that I could morph to fit me, but really?  Do I take the time to do that as often as I should?  Nope.  If it doesn't fit, don't buy it.  Best lesson of this year.

   I am working, sometimes unsuccessfully, at eating differently and exercising more.  It is so easy in the summer when I'm home all the time.  During school it's a little harder to carve out an hour for a walk.  I'm hoping for 30 minutes before I eat lunch, but we shall see.  I don't mind walking or being out in cold, wet, windy weather.  I grew up in Lincoln Park (in West Seattle) year round.  I love being outside in the Fall and Winter.

   Anyway, back to bodies.  I feel that mine is so unique (and, really, whose isn't?) that I dislike shopping for ready made clothes.  I don't want to feel bad for being an XXL at Old Navy nor do I want to shop at Torrid so I can feel better about being a smaller size.  I want to wear clothing and not care.  It's those darn little labels that make it difficult and easy not to care.  That make us think we're all supposed to be a certain size.

   New York photographer Bill Cunningham photographs street fashion as well as going to Paris Fashion Week to report for the NY Times.  He won't photograph clothing that wouldn't fit on a normal woman.  He doesn't care about brands or lines, he cares about how clothing fits.  He dislikes the mentality that some people have about needing to all be the same.  "Cookie-cutters are boring!" he says.  He would rather photograph personality and style than stick-figures with perfect pouts.

   As a woman who doesn't feel that she could ever "fit in" with the society of High Fashion, I appreciate it.  I dislike Fashion because it jumps to affix a label on me, on everyone.  You are skinny, you are fat.  Really?  Who put you in charge of how my label?  I am Anna.  That is my label.  I am Just  Right.  Some girls are naturally skinny, some are naturally larger, some are in between.  It's all OKAY! There are no "Fashion Police" who will plaster a label on your forehead.  No, we do that on our own, like drugged fashion acolytes who don't stop and think outside the box.  Who don't question the pill.  We close our eyes and stick out our tongues for the Wafer of Absolution from the High Priest of Fashion.

   If that is where you want to be, that is fine by me.  I just don't want the label.  I am not fat.  I am not anything but beautiful and myself.  I am Anna.  You are You.  I respect that.
  The greatest thing we can ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return.  Learn to love yourself.  Challenge what you think and believe.  Put love out into the world and it will return to you.
Be Groovy.

Documentary Review: King Corn

I've been on a documentary kick lately, partially because I've run out of Dr. Who episodes to watch and partially because I crave learning something new.

King Corn was made by two guys just out of college who wanted to know what happened to corn?  They planted an acre of corn in Greene, Iowa to see where the corn goes.

What fascinated and astounded me about this documentary was just what America uses corn for.  We put corn in EVERYTHING, primarily because corn is used to make high fructose corn syrup, as well as eating corn fed beef.  We used to eat corn with a greater protein content but after decades of genetic modification we now eat corn that is treated to resist certain weed killers, etc.

What I am taking away from this is a greater awareness of what the beef is fed that I eat.  I'm not going to give up beef, but if I can afford to purchase grass-fed beef I'm going to do that.  Typical, cheap beef is fed cheap feed, which in this day and age, is corn because it is cheaper to produce than say, grass or wheat.  Add into that how quickly farmers want to get their beef to a sale-able weight, so they feed their cattle corn, and you have stationary cattle who will die after being fed corn after 160 days.  Cattle are meant to eat grass and the majority of cattle today is being kept in a pen, quite stationary ("Contained" is the term) and fed corn to get to a weight that is best for slaughter and sale in a short amount of time.

Grass fed cattle are allowed to range thereby using their muscles and producing a better, leaner type of meat.

I already know how much HFCS (high fructose corn syrup) is in things like soda and juice and I made a commitment long ago to choose things that are actually sweetened by sugar or natural fruit juices.  Americans have a diabetes epidemic because of our consumption of HFCS.  Although now many stores and food products are turning away from HFCS, it's still not quite enough to change the problem.

What you should do is watch this documentary.  Think about what your meat has been fed and if you can make a change, do so.  Think about what you drink.  Think about what you are putting into your body and do not eat blindly.  Eat with thought and purpose.

Alright, I'm getting off the corn soap box.  If you have comments or discussion I welcome it gladly.  Please keep remarks polite.  I agree to disagree and I encourage you to do the same.

xoxo,

Anna

The End of Hatred

I have spent a great deal of my youth being angry.  Angry at circumstances I could not change, angry at the past for mucking up the present.  Angry at my perceived imperfections that I could not magically change.

Today I spent time cleaning up my pictures.  Innocuous enough, you think, yes?  I spent several hours looking through photos of myself.  Pictures I took during various stages of life in various degrees of self-hatred and self-love.  And you know what I discovered?

I am who I am.

Oh, yes, I can change a few things about me; keeping up with good diet, regular exercise and all that rot.  But what I found as I looked into my own eyes was that I didn't hate who I am anymore.

I don't secretly hate my curly hair, my near sightnedness that requires glasses, my seemingly oddly shaped body.  For a long time I have lamented my apparent "lack" of curves, my lack of femininity, and it wasn't until I actually sat down and looked at myself that I realised I am precisely who I am meant to be.  This may be a bit "old hat" to some and for those of you who know me, this may sound a little silly.  Truth is, I go about my day worrying about what you all think of me.  I worry about my appearance, I worry about my body shape and how people perceive me.

Today that all stops.  

Today I am tossing worry, self-loathing, self-hatred, self-mutilation out the bloody proverbial window!

I am Anna.  I am Anna More.  

I am 5' 5" tall, I am 170lbs of awesome and I don't care who knows, and FUCK the BMI ratings.  

They are wrong.

I love every inch and ounce of me.

Now, this isn't an instant thing, what happened today was a turning point in my personal thinking, in my personal journey.  I am taking a different path.  Perhaps parallel to the one I was traveling along previously, but even large ships travel in small gradients to make vast turns.  And what is life but one long jumble of turns and jogs? 

This is the woman who my children will know as their mother.  This is the woman who will make a name for herself in the world.  This is me.

thank you for reading this far.  Thank you for loving me this long and this far. xoxo ~Anna

Faces

3 months

11 months

18 months-2 years

3

4

5

Inspired by this project 101-Women, I was curious to see if I couldn't construct a file of my face as it ages.  Granted, I could do this by scanning and scouring my parent's picture albums, but this is what was on my harddrive.  It still strikes me to this day that I have looked in the mirror at least once a day at this same face and have watched myself age.  Not that I could put a movie together in my head, but still.  It kind of makes me want to take a portrait once a year on my birthday, perhaps, to keep track for the rest of my life.

Perhaps this is an apt wrap up for visiting my 90 year old step-grandma today.  She is 90 today!  I can only wonder if I will live that long.  Her journey is not without troubles.  She may be celebrating 90 years, but she cannot recall who she is anymore.  Nor who we are, what year it is, or who is president.  She doesn't remember.  We do though.  We go out to her with a pretty new shirt and sweater and hug and kiss her because we love her.  You can't help it, she's too darn cute.  And I sit, watching my mother spoon feed her bits of cookie soaked in milk-tea, and wonder about life, the universe, and everything.  Hoping I will have a daughter or a daughter-in-law who will love me so much as to spoon feed me cookies and sing old songs on my 90th.

The Dreaded Doldrums. . .

Sometimes I get a crafting "blah". I believe this happens from having too many projects on the plate at any one time, and sometimes a full crafty plate in addition to a full emotional/every day plate. This is the reason for my blah at the moment. I have SO much in my little apartment, SO much in my head, and a lot on my heart it causes me to graze aimlessly from project to project and get frustrated at the minimal production I end up with. So I take a "brain-break" by going for a walk to the art store, the park, just around the block even to clear my head. Usually that does the trick and I can dive, refreshed, back into what I was doing. Right now I feel flat, like soda that has lost it's bubbles and is without that initial zing. I feel listless, like those stick summer nights before the cool breeze comes where all you can do is sit before the fan and moan softly to yourself. That's it! I'm in the mental doldrums. Oh dear.

Julia Cameron would have a solution to this problem. She's snarky like that, as well as being a sort of therapist for artists. (She wrote The Artist's Way, btw) She would probably tell me to go on an artist's date and stop dreading this last week with my job. That's the other thing that's getting to me. I have one more week left with my current job and nothing else has (YET!) fallen into place. Something will, because I'm looking, it's just the waiting until then that gets to a person. The nail biting and floor treading that occurs just before the utter relief of knowing you'll be okay for a while longer.

It's not as if I haven't anything else to go on. If I don't (and it's highly unlikely) get anything I can make things and sell them until school starts. This is the very bohemian answer to my current problem, it's not necessarily practical, but it's optimistic, and one way to beat doldrums is optimism! Or at least that's what I'm shooting for. So now it's off to a cup of tea, and something crafty to comfort me until I have to face my final work week.

Autumn Child

I don't know why, but for some reason I am most pensive in the Fall. Perhaps it's because I was born then, and I've come full circle for another year. I can't say exactly, but I don't mind it. I'm in love with the lush colours, the smells, the crispness of the air. It's all so much that I feel like I want to explode with happiness.
Perhaps it is simply the turning of a season, because I feel in love with the new, upcoming season in the Summer and especially in the Spring. Of all four my two favourite are Fall and Spring. They are the most turbulent, the most alive, full of colour and life and wonder. And rain. I love rain.
In the meantime, I knit away, working on gifts for family and friends, product to sell on my Etsy ( Hibougirl Crafts ) and marvel at the wonders around me.

~ What seasons do you like best, and can you say why?

A novelty and reflections on a life misplaced

First off, my new gnome lights. Yes, I bought novelty lights in the shape of little gnomes. Now my family is saying I love and collect gnomes. Let me set you straight, not really, but it's slowly turning into a minor fetish.




Yesterday I spent most of the day at my grandparents house in West Seattle. My mother's childhood home and the place of many of my childhood memories. I love my mum's room with it's french doors leading out on a little closed balcony. I love the lion's head down in the garden below. His name is Aslan, naturally.





Now it's just my grandpa living in this big house, and it feels kinda lonely without my grandma there. She's still living, but she's at an Adult Family Home where they can take good care of her with her dementia. There's bits and pieces of her still around my grandpa's home. Her perfume, make-up, clothing, jewellery and I often find myself looking through them wondering what she was like as a young girl, mother. She wasn't a milk and cookies grandma, she was strict and hard on my brothers and me. For all that, we respected her as she was and still is our grandma. I just don't know much about her, from her in her own words. On the flip-side of this is my own family who has raised me with tales of my family history. I know what my parents were like a kids, and teen-agers, adults. All the parts I wasn't present for, I've experienced through their words and stories. So I wonder, looking at my grandma's things, what was her life like before I met her? I wish I could know, I wish she could have told me. Taught me how to sew without a pattern, cook by instinct. With each thing I discover about her, I want to learn more only now she barely remembers herself. It's a sad thing, and I pray that some day I might learn more about her so I can tell her story for her, to my children, and they can tell their children in turn.

Lord of the Flies

Not too long ago I made a decision to try and work through all the classical literature you're supposed to read in high school and college, which I never have. It's not that I've been un-exposed to classical literature, just found reading it quite a bore. I've watched a lot of film adaptations of stories; Frankenstein, All Quiet On the Western Front, various Shakespeare and some Dickens. Reading these works is another matter entirely.

On a whim I made my decision and have made it through some of the first chapters of Lord of the Flies. Also on my nightstand is Animal Farm, but I've not had the courage to being that just yet. Oddly enough both of these books are creepy. Simply reading the first few paragraphs of LOTF I was overwhelmed by the underlying sense of something sinister coming to get me. I was afraid of any new things introduced in the book, of the finger-like shadows of palms, of the birdcalls. I believed I was there with the boys, feeling the heat of the jungle island drip off my skin, the temporary relief of the breezes that blew in off the water. Ralph positively terrifies me. He's sinister, and I feel, slowly going crazy. Piggy will die first or be the last to die. I'm not exactly looking forward to delving back into the book but I want to know why they are all there on the island, how they will find food (and kill their food), and if Ralph is going to murder everyone or something equally as strange. So I plod on, suspicious of the crackling of branches beneath my literary feet, and wonder if I'm going to make it till the end.