Filed under: self-work | Tags: attirance, body image, FDR, self-work, sexuality
That line comes from my favorite Jane Austen novel, Persuasion.
I don’t want to take the focus off my previous post, since that one is much more important. But I’ve had a block on writing in this blog for a while, and I’m disposed to be loquacious tonight.
I’ve never been what anyone could consider to be a “well-dressing woman” – by any stretch of the imagination. This has come from a variety of factors… but most of these factors stem from being uncomfortable (and having that uncomfortableness encouraged and reinforced) with my body – and, more broadly, anything that could be considered healthy sexuality.
I was dressed by mother and grandmother in early childhood, so we’ll skip over that – except to say that I hated dresses with a fiery passion. I had one particularly hated dress of white chiffon with tiers of lace and pink satin rosebuds, and a cap of white lace that tied with a pink ribbon under my chin. Mother loved to dress me in that when I was 5 and 6, because – with my curly, golden-blonde hair, white skin, and blue eyes – the dress made me look like a china doll. Like a fucking plaything to be dressed up and put on display in a shop window.
Suffice to say, I took from that a real antipathy to looking “girly” – I suppose (but I hesitate to assign a single reason for it) because looking like a girl always equated with being exploited or being used for someone’s self-aggrandizement, or being the center of attention, which made me damned uncomfortable.
From the age of 12, I began to choose my own clothes. Frankly, this means that I began to steal my own clothes, because mother wouldn’t buy any. (This was in the days when RFID was just coming into widespread use.) I stole tents. For about 2 or 3 years – from age 12 to age 14 or 15 – I wore mostly men’s clothes, and those mostly 2 sizes to big for me. My everyday uniform was a man’s grey t-shirt with some Old Navy slogan on it, size xxl, and a pair of too-big men’s carpenter-style jeans. Oh, and beaten up Birkenstock sandals. My hair was cropped short like a man’s and dyed black. (I was never into the “goth” thing, but I remember thinking how the black hair really showed off Trinity’s blue eyes in The Matrix, and so I copied that.)
I was fat – measurement-wise, the same as I am now, but since I was about 2 inches shorter I looked much fatter – and unkempt. I never wore makeup… and, frankly, I was frightened. Frightened to death of having people look at me, and judge me. I was in a new school, a stranger amongst people who had grown up together. I was teased – lonely and isolated – and I isolated myself even further. I had a great model of this in mother. And… isolation is the pre-requisite for abuse, is it not? I was abused. Badly, during this time period. In a way that… it really pains me even to think about. Even mother didn’t look at me. I didn’t want her to – and yet I did. I needed her to see me, and she didn’t. She never did, or ever will.
I gradually began to stop dressing in too-big men’s clothes when I found a hobby – and a group of supportive (or more supportive than I had theretofore ever encountered) people that got me out of mother’s house frequently and encouraged my talents – and excited my admiration. I met a woman who became a sort of surrogate mother, and who taught me many arts and crafts, and how to keep house and entertain and all those “womanly” things which I had really lacked, and wanted to learn. Lissa had her faults (among them was that she was a devout – though not a fundamentalist – Christian), but she was better to me and showed more interest in me than in my own family. I began – very slowly – to take better care of myself.
Once I moved out on my own, I sort of stalled. I was no longer wearing men’s clothes or clothes that were too big, but I definitely wasn’t comfortable in my own skin or with my own sexuality. My clothes still reflected my desire to hide my body. I was in a destructive relationship at this point – one in which I felt (and it was true) that the only value I brought (or the only value that was desired of me) was my ability in bed. Tom didn’t care how I dressed, because I was generally nude around him anyway. (It was very stressful to be so. Even though he said he found me very attractive nude, I was always uncomfortable being so around him when there was a light on. I’d undress quickly and wrap up in a sheet while he was in the bathroom. I always tried to undress and get into bed quickly before he finished his ablutions.)
It makes me really sad to think about that. It was an impossible situation. I only had value to Tom through having sex with him, but I felt myself so unworthy of that and so unattractive that it was impossible for me to convince myself from moment to moment of my value. GOD, how sick it all was. Not even the mutually exploitive relationship we were in… but what preceded it. What possessed him to use women in that way, and what possessed me to step right up (knowingly, willingly) and let myself be used in that way. To welcome it – and to tell myself, consciously, that I could do no better. It makes me SO angry – but not even really at Tom.
Anyhow… fast forward several years. It is January of last year and I’ve been at FDR for 3 months or so. I begin to go to the gym. I begin to dress a bit better – not in revealing clothes, necessarily, but in clothes that don’t try to disguise or hide my shape. I lose a bit of weight.
Fast forward to August. I’m standing on a beach in Brighton with a friend. We’re speaking of a mutual friend, and of his appearance. My friend mentions a fact I’d been thinking of for a long time: that losing weight or bettering your appearance doesn’t have to be for others. And doesn’t have to be vain. That it can be for you. That it can show – not vanity – but that you care for yourself. You care enough about yourself to make an effort to be healthy and present yourself well. This friend names all the things that I had been unconsciously grasping for months, but had not been able to name in words. He inspires me to re-dedicate myself to fitness. I begin running, and buy some nicer clothes. One night, we go to the theatre. He tells me I look nice. Without any ulterior motive – we established very early on, thank god, that we were not going to “go there” for even an instant – and… I felt pretty. It’s brought tears to my eyes even thinking of it. Someone, for the first time in my life, complimenting me with no ulterior motive – and going out to see a play that I want to see because he enjoys my company and maybe even trusts my judgment of the play. And, frankly, something he wouldn’t have said if he thought I’d take it the wrong way. Maybe I’m reading too much into it… but it seemed like a compliment or a sanction on more than just my clothes. My god… I have worth outside of being an object for someone to exploit for their own pleasure. Worth that I – I! – have earned through my own work and virtue. I don’t think he knew how much it meant, that he said that.
And… now.
That’s how I kept myself in baggy clothes for years. I told myself that it was “vain” or “stupid” to dress for others or to lose weight for others. I thought of losing weight only in terms of being attractive to others. But really… what that self-talk was hiding was a low opinion of myself. It was hiding my uncomfortableness with my own sexuality. It was hiding my fear of being looked at, of being thought attractive… and it was hiding the fact that I didn’t think I was worth taking care of. The fact that I didn’t think it was worth trying to be healthy or keeping myself up.
Was it me who thought or felt those things? It was ingrained into me from day 1 – you are worthless. You only have value insofar as others want you. Sexuality is a sin. You’re always going to be fat anyway, so why bother.
I’m still loath to spend money on my appearance. Still, the most makeup I’ll wear is tinted lipgloss. It’s REALLY hard to crawl, pulling myself along by my fingernails, out of this abyss of… I can’t even describe it. This self-abnegation. This feeling of essential worthlessness. And, of course, clothes are the outward sign and semblance of that. Losing weight is an outward sign and semblance of that. The real change is taking place within, and I mustn’t (and won’t) forget it.
I have to remind myself all the time that I have worth outside of whether someone wants to sleep with me or not. It’s odd because there are some men I can’t even think about that with – can’t even think about being “valuable” in that way to them. What differentiates those men from others? They usually have an essential “innocence” about them… but I have to think more about that.
It’s not just about the clothes.
Filed under: self-work | Tags: body image, life story, philosophizing, self-work
Several odd dreams last night. The first involved the World Trade Center somehow, and the second involved women doing very interesting things as they rode bicycles around a park.
I’ve not done anything at all, really. Today there’s the call, obviously, and I need to get some laundry done. But what I really need, now that I’ve processed a lot of things, is to go back over all the conversations I’ve had from Friday morning until this morning and write it all out. Put the final verdict, as it were, on paper.
I’m supposed to write a paper on Elisabeth Vigee-Lebrun sometime within the next week. I also have a programming project due tomorrow, which I’ve decided not to do. Decided more by default than anything else, as I’ve not done it, and I won’t cheat.
Speaking of cheating, my MEs kicked in yesterday as I was about to do something rather dishonest. Funny how that works. I’m immensely glad they did. That’s another artifact, I think, of processing all of this.
Instead of doing laundry this instant, I think I’m going to take a walk. Despite the forecast, it’s turned out to be a lovely day.
Oh, and I got some new clothes yesterday. Most of my clothes are winter clothes, or now too big for me. Good problem to have. I find myself gravitating towards lighter colors… and girly stuff. Not as a reaction to anyone, I don’t think… but when I was much younger (12-17) I wore men’s clothes all the time and kept my hair very short because I had less than no self esteem, was afraid of my body, and thought myself ugly. I wanted to cover up – to be intentionally ugly… so that if anyone called me ugly I could tell myself that it was just the fault of the clothes and my man-ish hair. (This is one of the reasons, incidentally, why that insult cut so deep.) In a perverted sort of way… that was actually very vain of me to do.
Now that I’ve begun to feel much better about myself – this has been coming on for the past year or so – I’m also feeling more free to wear more feminine clothes. Losing some weight doesn’t hurt, as the only clothes they make for large girls look either like something my grandmother would wear, or like something the corner prostitute would wear. Not much in between.
I’m not talking about wearing frills and lace, mind you – it doesn’t sort well with my personality. But something besides the normal, quasi-lesbo uniform of boy-cut jeans and t-shirt. Like… a skirt! Just one. No frills. And… a sweater. Cashmere (no, it was on sale very cheaply – I have not come into money). Light green. A spring color! What am I thinking?!?! And… a pink shirt. Yes, my god, the world is coming to an end. Pink!!
I’m still pants deficient. Am still deciding whether I can wear white pants. (Talk about something that’s hard to carry off!) Am… still wondering that I’m no longer afraid of my body, or ashamed of it.
Filed under: vie quotidienne | Tags: body image, philosophizing, vie quotidienne
On my way to the subway. Almost the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met (Eleanor being the most beautiful).
She was – is – beautiful in a different way than Eleanor. This girl was of middle height (she wore crimson wedge heels so she was almost as tall as me) and thin. She had high cheekbones and very short, dark-brown hair. These two things combined to give her the look of some sort of wood elf. She was robed from neck to calf in an exquisitely-tailored black coat, and her houndstooth (black and white) skirt peeped out from beneath the hem of it. Her eyes were large and very well-shaped, and she wore little makeup. A multi-hued scarf was wound around her neck and she carried a dark blue bag with white paisley shapes all over it.
I can’t do justice to her beauty. But what I can do justice to are my feelings. Normally, I start comparing myself to beautiful women that I meet. I’ll say “Dear me, she’s thin. I could never be so” or “My eyes are prettier than hers” or “I wonder what she has to do to look like that” or “Lord, I’d like to have my brain in her body” or somesuch thing. But not today. Not this morning. I passed her on the street, thought “My god, what a beautiful woman!” and went on walking.
I was going to lie and say that it was only when I got underground that I realized what happened. But that’s not so. I realized as I passed her and smiled. That I didn’t compare her with me. Or wish to look like her. Or, conversely, tear her down, thinking “Oh, as soon as she opens her mouth, I wouldn’t think her so beautiful.”
It was weird. And meta. Because I thought about not having thought those things. And I thought about saying them or thinking them then, but it didn’t apply. And I realized… even if it’s only this morning, is that what freedom is?
So I was reading a personal finance blog that I like the other day, and a question came up to the writer (a man) how he felt about makeup on women – and the costs associated therewith. He said that he didn’t find makeup to be necessary, except in business situations where every other woman in the office wore makeup, and then some might be required.
I heartily agree with him. I, myself, don’t wear makeup. I never have. And here’s why:
1. It feels GROSS. – Whenever I put makeup on (anything from drugstore Maybelline to $50 mineral makeup) it feels… gross. Like I have a mile-thick layer of grease on my face, and I can’t close my eyes for fear of getting my eyelashes stuck together. The only difference between the drugstore stuff and the horribly expensive stuff is the amount of time it takes for me to need desperately to rush to the washroom and scrub the offending crap off my face. The more expensive the makeup, the longer I can wear it. Some brands I can even wear for an hour before I’m clawing at my face in my desperation to get the damned stuff off!
2. It’s expensive. – See above for makeup cost vs. the length of time I can actually wear it. And, of course, you can’t keep makeup forever. It eventually goes off, spoils, what have you. And of course since you put it on your face, it’s best to keep it fresh.
3. It doesn’t look very good. – How many women have you seen walking around with 3 inches of powder caked on their face and their lashes all stuck together from too much mascara? I’ll bet you that these beldames look even worse with the makeup on than they do with the makeup off. Invariably, women use foundation to even out their skin tone, and then they put blush on to put the ruddiness back in their cheeks. Why? Unless your skin tone is really horrid, why would you do any such thing? Now, even I must agree that very small amounts of makeup which are very tastefully and skillfully applied can sometimes make a woman look better, especially if she has skin problems. However, such stuff is almost invariably too much and ill-applied. Even when I’ve gotten makeup done professionally, I’ve always felt that I’ve looked worse after the makeup artist was done with me.
4. Self-esteem. – Every woman I’ve ever met who was one of those that felt that they absolutely needed makeup to look good had pitifully poor self-esteem. These are women who don’t feel human until they smear crap on their face. They seem to need makeup as a self-esteem crutch – or maybe they think that they wouldn’t be pretty without it? Folks, if you didn’t win the genetic lottery and you’re not pretty… makeup ain’t gonna help. I have no problem with makeup use by people who don’t need it as a self-esteem crutch to make them feel better about themselves. That’s fine – and in certain social situations such as job interviews or gala dinners, makeup is useful socially and should be worn. But the every day dependency… really scares me.
5. I look good without it. – Fortunately, I did at least in part win the genetic lottery. My skin has always been fairly clear, and its tone has almost always been even. It’s generally soft (hence no need for heavy moisturizers – I really can’t stand putting anything, not just makeup, on my face) and… pretty nice looking even without makeup. I generally don’t wear anything on my face, or if I do, it’s some chapstick. This does, in fact, have a tendency to make me look younger, but that’s ok. I do, of course, wear makeup to job interviews and such – any place where it’s socially necessary. And the moment I can, I dash to the washroom and scrub the offending crap off my face.
I’m not sure which if any of these are valid arguments against makeup use. I suppose it all comes down to personal preference. I’m always well-groomed – clean clothes, combed hair, pleasant fragrance, trimmed nails – but always without makeup. I think the former is the more important. :)
