Playing the Game

I've never loved conflict. At least not outside the walls of my home. I tend to value keeping the peace over getting my own way when I'm out in public. Okay, let's be honest. It's not necessarily peace I'm after. It's my standing with others. I would rather know that others like me than assert my rights and get what I'm entitled to. At least, that's how I was until I lived in Chicago for a few years. I started getting a little more, shall we say, demanding. Come to think of it, maybe I changed after I became a mom. Or maybe it's because I married a lawyer. Whatever the reason, I learned to be quite assertive and use very gentle threats to accomplish what I needed if I found myself being given a runaround. You know, threats to get an employee's superiors involved or take legal action. Nothing criminal. I could do that because I knew my rights and I knew there were these publicly recognized standards for service that I could cite in any complaint I might have. And it worked for me in Chicago. I had many proud moments. As a foreigner in another country, I really have no ideas what my rights are. I don't know what the standards of service are. I have no idea what the rules are. All I know is that the language here reflects a culture of politeness and pandering. I've heard more instances of "sir" and "ma'am" in seven months in the Philippines than I did in thirty-three years living in the US. So in all the confusing public encounters I've been part of here, I've held my tongue. I don't want to assume a position of superiority and entitlement. But I do find myself getting a little comfortable here, comfortable enough to hint that my needs aren't being met. And it backfires. Case in point: last week I took my son to a playground inside a memorial garden, which is accessible through the campus of a private school near my house. My husband has been taking the kids on weekends, and the last time I had tried it was closed. So I was really happy when I approached the guardhouse of the private school and the guards told me the playground was open and waved me in. We played for about 45 minutes before I saw a guard come to the gate and close it. I almost called out to him, but it was pretty far from where we were playing, and I figured the guard would be there at the gate to let us out when it was time to go. I saw a car pull up to the gate, honk, and go through after the guard opened it. We played for another half hour or so, but we were absolutely melting in the intense, tropical summer heat. We got to the gate and it was locked. I knocked and called out, and no one answered. We were locked in. The only other way out was on the other side of the memorial garden, which would put us out so far down the road that we would no longer be within walking distance of our house. I had no money with me, because we had just popped over from right across the street. The memorial garden had a sign at the gate with phone numbers. The first one, of course, was not a working number. The second number put me in touch with an employee of the memorial garden who very politely informed me that they had no control of this particular gate. It was controlled by the school. And no, they didn't have a phone number for anyone at the school. So I looked online on my phone for ten minutes or so and finally found a phone number for the school. (My son is in the background, re-faced and thirsty, crying because we can't get out.) I told the man on the phone that we had come into the memorial garden to use the playground and now we were locked inside. Could he send someone to open the gate? "I'm sorry ma'am, we have a procedure for opening the gate." Okay...I understand that. But when I came in no one said there was a closing time. I was on foot with my son and I just needed someone to please let us out real quick. "I'm sorry ma'am, there is a procedure." Umm...what did he expect me to do? I got a little heated. Moms do when a problem involves their kids. I insisted that someone come and let me out. Sure enough, a guard came over on a scooter and let us out. It only took one minute. He was on a bike. It was really not a big deal. But I committed the ultimate social sin of interrupting the lunch break. I was very polite to the guard who came. I asked him politely about the garden's open hours, for future reference. Fine. We walked through the campus and got back to the main gate of the school, where we entered. The guard there stopped me and accused me of falsely identifying myself as an employee of the school, which I laughingly denied as ridiculous. He said this entrance that we have been using for weeks is only open to employees and I would no longer be permitted to pass. I gave him a snarky response and went on my way, disgusted with the whole experience. So because I got a little heated and insistent with the guy on the phone, I got banned from coming to this really nice park that we had been so elated to find so close to home. I called the memorial garden and they assured me I can come anytime if I use their main gate. I just can't use the school gate anymore. The point is, I guess I should have played the game. I should have been more apologetic that I was stupid enough to get myself locked inside the garden. I should have told the man on the phone that I would wait inside until after the lunch break. I should have been more profusely grateful for being let out. I've heard from locals and expats alike that this strategy is much more effective here, even when getting a traffic ticket. So now, after growing into a healthy assertiveness, I need to go back to my conflict-avoidance skills. Turn them on in the Philippines, put them aside in Chicago. Ah, the beauty of cross-cultural navigation.

Circus lady

I'm about to make you jealous. Ready? Imagine this: a peaceful drive through beautiful green palm trees, the ocean at your side; sipping an iced latte poolside as you gaze out over a crystal clear ocean reef; the sun beaming down as you close your eyes and hear the sounds of kids laughing and splashing. Sound relaxing? It should have been. And I should be accustomed to people staring at my bald head by now. But I've never experienced the staring like I did this past weekend when I was on a mini-vacation. First, there was the drive. It's summer here in the Philippines, our car is black, I want absolutely nothing covering my head when I'm out. So there I am, sitting in the passenger seat, in the privacy of my own car, bald. We pull up behind a small pickup truck with half a dozen girls riding in the back. One is awake, the rest are sleeping. I already know she will see me and stare, but I'm not prepared for her to actually wake everyone else up by shaking them, just so they can all get a glimpse of me, the "freak". I ask my husband to pass the truck illegally just so I can get away from the gawking. Then we find ourselves at this great hotel with beautiful ocean views. I am ready to read a book, relax, and watch my kids have the time of their life on the water slide...but first I have to walk through the grounds and find a place by the pool. This is a picture of that day: I have never felt so conspicuous. People stopped what they were doing to stare at me. They were out swimming in the ocean and they grouped together, pointing and coming closer. And here, people don't look away if you catch them staring. They hold that gaze. I tried not to let it bother me, but I ended up hiding in my room more than I wanted to. My husband told me they were staring because I'm so beautiful. (Nice one, honey.) And that's what friends and family tell me. But there is this element of abnormality that people are taken by, and I can't pretend it isn't there. I myself have stared at people who have lost limbs or have skin conditions, not thinking they are "freaks" but just captivated by something so different than what I experience in my own body. And now I am one of those people. I can't hold it against anyone who stares. Of course they will stare. I am not normal. I know this will make many of you question "What is normal, anyway?" But we have to admit that there are norms when it comes to human appearance. There are healthy bodies, and there are bodies that have obviously gone awry. When we see something that testifies to un-health, we are bothered by that. It's a normal human reaction. Maybe with increased exposure we can come to a place of peace about the variations we see in bodies. But in a place where appearances really matter, like the place I find myself living in now, it really just stinks to be the freak. Again, my well-intentioned husband tells me to strut when I see people staring. But I want to crumple up and disappear. It's ironic, because in high school I felt so plain and unnoticed that I would sit at home and daydream for hours about being in the spotlight somehow. Well, I made it into the spotlight, like it or not. So I know I need to move from a place of wounded pride to a placed of weathered pride, the kind of pride that says "I have learned that I am beautiful because I was created and I am known by my Creator". But how to react to the stares? Sometimes I want to make a face at people who are staring. Sometimes I want to act more distraught than I am, just to shame them. These are honest, gut-level reactions I'm confessing. Usually, I pretend I don't see people staring. I just feel the heat rise in my face and quietly suffer from embarrassment. But maybe I should learn to smile graciously and welcome the stares. Maybe then people will see past the bald head to the character being formed. Maybe then the next time they see someone else with a stare-worthy feature they will be gentle, remembering that they once saw a bald woman whose "abnormality" made her tender, not bitter. This journey is a long one.

Let's Talk About Sweat, Baby!

Among the many aspects of tropical life that I find incredibly hard to adjust to is this issue of sweat. Living in Chicago, I can safely say there were only two situations in which an observer would say I was sweaty: on the sandy beaches of Lake Michigan on a rare hot day, and in my Zumba class.

Here in the Philippines, I am sweaty 90% of the time. Sweaty when I sit in traffic in my big, black car; sweaty when I sleep; sweaty when I water the plants in the front yard; sweaty when I sit in an outdoor café. And for some reason, my sweat stinks here. Maybe I was in denial back when I only got sweaty for good reason. Here, it just feels gross--especially because I don't feel like I'm earning the amount of sweat pouring forth.

One of the natural outcomes is that my clothes are getting ruined. My scarves are turning yellow underneath, for one thing. (If only I were brave enough to go bald all the time...still not there yet.) And my clothes go in the hamper after only a half-day's use. Since my helper washes my clothes by hand in really hard water, they are literally coming apart at the seams.  Wearing out before my eyes.

The Filipinos have a way of preventing this. Actually, I think what I'm going to describe has more to do with the social inappropriateness of sweat than saving their clothes--but I've decided to adopt this particular custom purely for the financial benefit. See, they wear towels under their shirts to absorb the sweat! Ingenious idea. I first saw it among children--some boys selling food on the street had rags sticking out the back of their shirts up at the neckline. At first I thought it was to protect their skin from the sun. But then I saw people in the mall with the same thing. I once saw a guy fixing his wife's collar on the back of her shirt. "Aw, sweet", I thought. Then he stuck his hand further down her shirt, and I confess I started staring at that point. "What?" Turns out he was fixing the towel under her shirt.

So last week the air conditioner went out in our car, and I found myself a sopping wet mess everywhere I went. Black leather seats, not good in heat. Yesterday I decided to go ahead and try it: stick a towel down my shirt and get over it. Here's what I came up with:

 

Before you laugh too hard....no, go ahead and laugh. It is hilarious. I was trying to use a bath towel. I had to choose between it sticking out the bottom of my shirt like a tail, or this. Not quite the Filipino way, but through trial and error I'm learning what size, color, thickness and position are just right.

Here's the good thing: once you've seen some of the tings people do around here to keep sun and sweat off their skin, you don't really feel all that foolish stepping out like this. Oh, and here's another good thing: my shirt is hanging up in the closet, still fragrant and ready for another day's use!

Now, I will take my towel, walk down to the corner to get some street food, and pat myself on the back for attempting in some small way the resourcefulness Filipinos are famous for.

The New Standard

It's been so long since I've written anything here, I don't know where to begin catching up. So let's just jump right in to where I'm at now, shall we? Thanks for understanding. I've been busy...figuring out how to live in a foreign country on the other side of the world from everything and everyone I know and love. Forgive me.

Actually I had almost decided to call it quits on this blog. I don't have a wide readership, I don't often have large chunks of time when I can write, and, frankly, the subject matter is beginning to bore me. Maybe it's because I have moved out of my small, safe corner of the world and into a great big cultural enigma. Maybe it's because I see a lot of posts about true beauty and I think "Yeah, people get it. I don't have anything new to say."

But I recognize that writing is something that makes me happy, despite the effort it takes. I know this because I am constantly composing in my head. So I've decided to keep writing. After all, this overseas experience is turning out to be of immense importance to the very core of who I am. It might be nice to look back someday and remember how the process went. So the title remains "Beauty Redefined" for now, but be warned: the subject matter is shifting to reflect my experience adjusting to a new culture.

And this adjustment, by the way, actually has a lot to do with beauty, appearance, and self confidence. I have found that appearances matter even more in the Philippines than they do in the US. This really irked me at first, and often still does. Later, I'll get to why it doesn't constantly get to me anymore, but for now let me give some examples.

Cars. Cars here are always clean. Everyone's car is spotless. As I drive out of my neighborhood at 6 am every morning on the way to my kids' schools, I see professional drivers and household helpers out on the street, washing the cars. Here's what mine looks like:

 

Okay, I wrote that. No one would write "shame" on my car. But I have had people write "Princess" an make little drawings. The point is, my car is the only one on the road that is dirty enough to write on. As I drive behind the little buses with people sitting in the open back, I actually get laughed at...and even glared at. I once had a guy look me in the eye, look down at my hood, and look back at me, shaking his head slowly back and forth. I was shamed. This is a real thing. I get to my son's school and the teachers comment on the car. Washing the car is the first thing my helper asks to do when she comes to the house and sees it. (I have a helper who comes twice a week, so there is plenty of time in between for the car to get dirty.) And to make things worse, I scraped the front corner of the car against a wall one day (trying to turn this big beast into a teeny little driveway to get to a store, which I can't go back to because the guard still laughs at me when he sees me). I haven't had time to get the bumper fixed, so I boldly drive around in a dented, scraped, dirty car. And believe me, I feel the eyes on me. I feel the heat come to my cheeks as I drive around and see the looks people give my car.

 

 

The same goes for stains on clothing, trimmed trees in the yard, costumes for school programs, etc. Everything needs to be clean, shiny, spot-free, wrinkle-free...perfect.

 

Well. That is not how I roll. Especially in the kind of heat and humidity we deal with here. Who has the time and energy to maintain appearances? Filipinos do, somehow. They know how to look immaculate in any setting.

 

 

But I'm starting to understand why, I think. I mean, aside from the obvious historical fact that the Pinoy are a subjugated people with a self-esteem crisis. They were occupied by the Spanish for hundreds of years, and then came the Americans. When you've been occupied for so long, independence brings with it a need to prove yourself, I would imagine. One thing a clean, shiny car says is "I can afford to have a helper and/or driver take care of my car for me". I get that.

 

But there are also more practical reasons. If you have stains on your clothes, it means you let food drop at some point and didn't take care of it right away. I know from experience that if you have food on your clothes and they sit in a laundry basket because you don't have a helper to hand wash them, when you take them out they will be swarming with ants. You need to keep things much cleaner around here in the land of lightning-fast bugs.

 

Bugs actually contribute a lot to the lifestyle here. But that's another post for another time.

 

Anyway, I guess what I'm learning is that there are reasons to keep up appearances sometimes. I'm not used to feeling so inferior and sloppy so much of the time, but I can't let that turn my heart toward an attitude of judgment. I actually have a lot of respect for Filipinos--they are striving for beauty in a place where daily living is just not easy. I think their sense of pride is a thing to admire.

 

But...I also think it might be important for me to continue driving my dirty car and letting people confront their own stereotypes and judgments when they see it. What do you think? Should I be myself and be happy with what I'm capable of, or should I make more of an effort to assimilate and show respect for the community I'm in?



Hostess with the Mostess

I have turned into quite the hostess. In the past couple months I have hosted Christmas dinner, a major game night, a Valentine's Day fundraiser party, a Saint Patrick's Day product party, and I have an eight-year-old's Disney-themed birthday coming up very soon. And each time I host, my stress level about being prepared has gone down. In the past when I have hosted parties, I have driven myself crazy trying to get food, decorations, activities, and even my outfit "just right". (It never worked, by the way.) But now I'm learning that taking on too much stress (well, any stress, really) has a profound effect on my mental and physical health.


So, being a hostess has increasingly become less about trying to turn my life into something I think other people will enjoy, and more about inviting people in to my life as it is (with a few little touch-ups).

Throwing a great party used to mean that I had to be the perfect hostess. That included looking the part. Red dress, hair in place (which means I had to agonize over whether to wear a wig), holding out a tray of little cucumber sandwiches. Now, I wear jeans and let the dirty dishes stay in the sink, as long as they are not peeking up over the edge. If I run out of time to make the dessert I was planning, I find some M&Ms in the cupboard and put those out. I have stopped apologizing for my odd-looking appetizers that didn't turn out like the ones on Pinterest.

And with summer coming, hopefully bringing heat with it, I intend on hosting bald. After all, hospitality is about creating shared space where real people can interact with real people, not creating a fantasy land where reality is deemed unsuitable. I have redefined hospitality and have discovered that I can be a great hostess just as I am. And people enjoy my parties, if I do say so myself. : )

Someone Else's Shoes

So, hopefully you've noticed that it's been awhile since my last post. Final exams and the grading that goes with it, holidays, school closures...writing hasn't exactly been a priority. Truthfully, I haven't known what to write about. How much can I really write about my life with alopecia and my journey toward a greater appreciation of my own unique beauty?

But, as happens every so often, I have entered a new phase of self-exploration. This new step was actually precipitated by the approach of another winter with bone-deep cold settling in to my body. More than anything, I truly dislike having a cold head and neck. Alopecia is a blessing in the summer, but a bane in the winter.

This year, I invested in some pashminas. Never heard of them? Apparently, they can be worn in twenty different ways:

I discovered that these thick, extra-long wraps keep my head warm, my neck covered...and people guessing about my background even more than usual!

Here is my new winter look:

I've gotten a few more "As-Salaam-Alaikum"s than usual. I feel like an intruder when I tell my greeters that I'm not Muslim. I have been questioning whether it's alright to wear the traditional garb of a culture and religion that I don't belong to. I don't mean to co-opt a symbol of the values of this culture, but it interesting what has happened since I started covering my head this way. First of all, I think this covered look is truly beautiful. There's something about a wrapping that signifies a special gift underneath that deserves to be hidden until it's intended recipient gets to discover it. Second, I feel that I might have a role to play in bridging a gap between my culture of origin and the culture I now look to be a part of. There is nothing to fear in the way people dress. As obvious as that sounds, I now know that the things which divide people are often simple ways of everyday living that look unfamiliar. I hope in this post to reflect my appreciation of a look that many people judge to be oppressive, or forced upon the women who wear it.

At any rate, this is my winter look this year, but when it warms up I will go back to baring my neck. Somehow I know I will feel much more exposed than I ever did before. Funny how stepping into someone else's shoes for a bit doesn't just change your opinion of them. It changes you, too.

What A Mess

I had a mommy moment tonight. I had to run out to the pharmacy this evening, and as I was strutting along in my electric blue scarf and T-shirt (my best color), I was feeling pretty good about the looks I was getting. Yes, I thought, I'm one hot momma.

Well, I didn't think that exactly. But I did feel pretty, confident, and young.

Then I happened to look down at my shirt (okay, I was trying to gauge how much I needed to suck in my chili-and-cornbread-belly so people wouldn't think it was a baby bump)--and I had to laugh.

I had big splatters of chili all over it. No wonder I was getting looks....

I have had more of those moments recently. I will be feeling good about how I look, and then I'll go into the bathroom and see that my scarf has gotten all crooked, or I accidentally rubbed the eyeliner off half of one eye, or I only have one earring...or, worst of all, I have some little tiny crust of something right at the tip of my nostril. And then I'm deflated.

But I think moments like these are incredibly important. When I saw what a mess I was tonight, I was reminded of the evening I spent watching my kids try something new for them (but an old family tradition I grew up with--cornbread in a glass of milk), and I knew where my place was. My place is not out in a singles bar or turning heads at a grocery store. It's in my home, eating chili and cornbread with my kids after a day of apple picking and wagon rides.

My place is walking along the lake shore on a blustery fall day, even if it means walking into work with a crooked scarf and crusty leftovers in my nostril.

We are real people. We are not poster images. When we walk to the pharmacy, we are telling the world a story about who we are and how we lived our lives that day. Tonight, I told people that I ate a big meal and didn't feel the need to change my messy clothes in order to please them. I told people that I spent the day outside and got a funny tan line from my scarf and sunglasses.

I bet people envied me.

What story will you tell when you walk out the door tomorrow?

Poor Miley

Okay, I have to say something about Disney Princesses.

Not these:



...these:



...and this one in particular:



I just get so sad looking at her.

Why do Disney child actors, girls in particular, "grow up" by becoming icons of sexual indulgence? They inevitably go to the extreme when it comes to proving their emergence from innocent childhood and appealing to an older audience...although I'm afraid this audience is getting younger and younger.

Growing up means so much more than opening yourself up to sexual activity. Why can't these actors and pop singers prove that they are "all grown up" by demonstrating mature decision-making and intellectual development? I get so disturbed watching the latest performances by Miley Cyrus and Selena Gomez. They are nothing but objects of the media. It's a sick kind of social slavery. They (the singers and the media) know what sells, and unfortunately this ends up perpetuating male-dominant/female-abused behaviors.

I can't place all the blame on the celebrities themselves. We, the consumers, demand the supply of racy, shocking, disturbing, and outright sick displays we see. And the agents working with the stars tell them what to do in order to sell albums and get publicity. Sadly, that's what "talent" means these days--doing whatever is necessary to keep your face in the Twittersphere. (For an even darker explanation, check out this article ("MTV VMAs 2013: It Was About Miley Cyrus Taking the Fall")--but read it critically. I don't actually buy into the specifics of what the author says in this or other works, but I do think the general trend is true.)

I know I'm not saying anything new, and I know there is a lot behind this issue that I haven't addressed. I just want to do a small part to further the counter-cultural message that we, the consumers, don't have to buy this crap. Set Miley free.

Impressions

If you are not a fan of impressionism as an art form, I suggest you go back and take another look. The effect of color, lines, boundaries, shape, light, etc. on our senses is fascinating. It's especially fascinating to discover how different people respond to the same painting or photograph. We often come away with these different impressions because of past experiences, desires, moods, or even distractions. When I look at the works of impressionist painters, I always wonder if the impression I'm getting is the one the artist was hoping to produce.

What impression do you get from the picture above?

It's an edited photograph. It's one of my favorite pictures that I have ever produced. I took it with my iPhone and edited the colors a bit, but the impressionist feel was produced by the mere fact of looking out a rainy window.

I want to tell you the effect I hope this picture has on people, but I won't. Because in the end, it doesn't matter. I enjoy this picture in a particular way, but who am I to impose that on someone else? Neither would I want someone to tell me how a particular song is supposed to make me feel.

You know, I have been thinking of myself as an impressionist lately. I often ask myself, "What impression are you hoping to make on people today?" I might choose a more severe and dramatic set of eyebrows for the day, or a certain pair of shoes. There are countless ways I construct my "look" to produce some kind of overall impression of who I am...or who I want to be. At work, I like to give the impression that I am composed and mature. I find that the clothes best suited for this are buttoned blouses, turtlenecks, shoes with low heels and pointed toes, bracelets, and my scarf in a bun. When I am walking in my neighborhood and want to give off the impression that I belong in the 'hood, I like anklets, a scarf with a long tail down the back, big earrings, maybe a cap over my scarf, and a fairly tight T-shirt.

The gist is, I try to arrange colors and textures in such a way as to give an onlooker a certain impression of reality. I don't have one "look"; I have as many styles as I have moods, fears, hopes, or purposes.

The thing is, I can't totally control what impression people have of me at any given moment. I may try to give off a certain vibe, but it often backfires. I might go into work thinking I look professional, when coworkers end up making comments about how "fashionable" I look, as if I valued that. I might try to look like the consummate sports fan at a Cubs game, but the die-hards around me probably sense my boredom and ignorance as the game goes on.

The lesson in all of this, if there has to be one, is that impressionism is about the artist as much as it is about the onlookers. It is about reflecting some sense of reality that is true for the artist and may find resonance with some viewers. If not, then a new sense of reality can be constructed between and among differing impressions. Not to philosophize fashion, but perhaps we should consider that the act of choosing how we will dress and arrange ourselves every morning is an act of impressionism. And impressionism is simply (or brilliantly) a way to boil details down into the most important sensory experiences.

If you want to make an impression on someone, give them something to experience. Let them see colors that reflect how you see yourself that day. Let your impressionist art be about communicating the core aspects of your "person" rather than the stereotype you are actually trying to stuff yourself into. Allow yourself to be released into a community of onlookers (who are also artists themselves, don't forget) whose impressions of you, no matter how varied or deviant from your intentions, will enrich your human reality and produce empathic responses all around.

So, what impression are you trying to make today? I challenge you to ask that question every day this week.

Life's (not) a Beach

I've spent a lot of time at the beach since moving to Chicago. I feel I absolutely must write something about "beach culture", because much of my time at the beach is spent gawking, giggling, and wondering at the absurdity of what I see around me.

For example: When I got to the beach today with my son, I pulled off my shirt and shorts, revealing my bathing suit underneath. Now, I have a tankini:



Not this one, obviously (or this body), but this is the idea. Tummy covered.

And it struck me that I was stripping down for all the world to see. I began walking around in underwear, basically. Why is it that I can strut around in bikini bottoms as long as they are made of Spandex and not cotton? I could even answer my front door this way, as long as it was obvious that I was wearing a bathing suit.

As I looked around, I had to laugh at the ridiculous amount of skin I saw. Butt cheeks hanging out, cleavage front and center, bellies bare and hairy in all their glory. Don't try to tell me it's all okay because we are going in the water. These people were also going in the water:



They look like they're having fun regardless of how much fabric they're wearing!

I'm not a Puritan. I just think it's interesting how location and purpose can totally flip social norms on their heads. Although, like "dry" society, beach culture is a culture of "haves" and "have nots"--those who have bikini-worthy bodies, and those who do not (or, for guys, beach volleyball-worthy bodies...or not).

(For a fun history lesson on the bikini, check out Time's novel photo gallery!)

I wonder how many people at the beach are actually paying attention to others' bodies. With all that skin showing, are men still turning their heads every time they see a hot bikini bod? Or are women snickering and laughing at another, larger woman's attempts to fit into a cute swimsuit? The answer is...yes. The "haves", I think, look at the "have nots" and pass a quick judgment (or "haves" look at other "haves" with either desire or jealousy), while the "have nots" are at the beach to have all kinds of fun.

I find this to be true in Chicago, but I didn't feel the same way on a recent trip to California. There, life on the beach is much more an integral part of daily life in general.

Just observations. I love going to the beach, and I have actually become much more free with my swimwear. The biggest change is that I am able to go completely bald without feeling self-conscious! Which is, of course, much more cool. Interestingly, I have become much more concerned with getting a tan...but that's a topic for another post.

How do you feel when you go to the beach? Do normal rules of modesty and appropriate bodily displays go out the window? Are beachgoers somehow exempt from scrutiny? Or have we simply designated a place where it's socially acceptable to be naked?

Lastly--I found this great speech about swimwear, which some of you may have already seen, and I think it's really important to think about in terms of how we define beauty...at the beach.

YourSpace

We all take up space. We are privileged to live and move within a personal bubble, able to exercise control over at least our immediate surroundings. Many people take full advantage of this "right". They strut, they argue, they flirt.

Me? I don't like to assert my space. I prefer to pretend that I don't really take up any space. I step aside, I lower my eyes, I back off. I don't loathe myself--I just think other people would be put off if I were to privilege my space, and all that goes on within, over theirs. I am, essentially, a people-pleaser. I never want to be the cause of strife. But this is not truly about wanting the best for others. I think it's more about wanting others to think highly of me. Always.

But lately...

I have had to let others know, sometimes rather assertively, that I have just as much "right" to be in my space as they do in theirs. I suppose it's for my growth that I have increasingly been thrust into conflict, but it's actually really draining for me. For some divinely ordained purpose, I have a family made up of strong-willed lawyers and lawyers-in-training. My husband and kids are incredibly bright lights. They are fierce, smart, and loud! They are not ashamed of the space they occupy. They don't just breathe in its air; they suck it down like lemonade. They dance, they laugh, they shout. They argue. They don't look back.

But as their personal bubbles stretch and expand with so much life inside, they bump into other bubbles. And walls. And rules.

And I have to patch up the other bubbles, or at least stop them from quivering in the wake of...okay, my poetic analogy has fallen apart. You get the idea. I now find myself regularly facing conflict with the very people I have spent my life trying to appease: neighbors, counselors, teachers, babysitters.

My husband told me recently that maybe the purpose of these conflicts is to set me free from the need to have people like me. I don't need to be everyone's friend, he told me. And I have to wonder.

Is it so wrong to want to keep the boat still? When the boat rocks, people fall overboard. And I hate getting wet.

But, for better or worse, I do have to grow up and toughen up. I have to stand in my space and raise my voice without fearing that someone will question my right to be where I am.

Yeah...I'll let you know how that goes.

Princess Overload

The obsession with Disney Princesses in our society is becoming more and more evident to me as I look for topics to write about on my blog. They are ubiquitous, both on the web and on store shelves. I get it. I mean, who wouldn’t want to wear extravagant, colorful gowns and have adventures with talking animals and roguish men all the time?!

What is really fascinating about the Princesses is how many people have tried to reimagine them. By that, I suppose I really mean “re-image” them. As in, give them a new image. I have seen the Princesses bald. Fat. Old. Bespectacled. Depicted as suburban moms. Dressed in historically accurate costumes. Placed in dark settings of human suffering.

Why are so many people spending so much time trying to insert the Princesses into so many different contexts?


(lookmatic.com)


(deviantart.com)


(weheartit.com)


(fanpop.com)


(Dina Goldstein)

No wonder it's so hard to get my daughter to think about something else--anything else--besides Princesses. They are no longer one-dimensional, fairy tale characters. Now, they have walked in our shoes. Or at least we like to think so. We like to imagine the Princesses in less-than-perfect situations--maybe because we so desperately want to believe that the perfection they exude in their original context is really unattainable. If we could see from all other angles, maybe we would realize that we don't have to keep hoping to escape into the world of a Disney Princess.

We want them to step into our lives for awhile, if we can't step into theirs.

Are these re-imaginings helpful? I don't think so. I think they only serve to keep us fixated on these "characters". I appreciate the idea behind all these efforts to humanize the Princesses. Just as I appreciate how the latest Princesses have starred in stories which are about more than just love and marriage. Still, these stories and these new images are all pointing to a particular definition of "beauty"--whether by modeling it or depicting its antithesis.

Lately, I have heard some words coming out of my seven-year-old daughter's mouth that disgust me. I'll just be honest. And I have threatened to take Princesses completely out of the picture for her if I feel they are distorting her perception of others around her. I have allowed Princesses to be part of her life to a certain extent, but I'm discovering how quickly they can become an obsession. An obsession promoted and capitalized on by our culture.

Instead of reimagining the Princesses, I would like to refocus the lens on women (men too, but women in particular) who need to feel a little more brave, beautiful, deserving, talented, adventurous, and all the wonderful qualities celebrated in the Princess archetype. Let's get over the Princesses and the efforts to give them more and more "original" or "realistic" looks, and let's focus on actual reality.

I want my daughter to spend her time appreciating what she sees in real people, not surfing the web to see how many different kinds of Princesses she can see.

I want my daughter to see different body shapes, sizes, colors and ages as equally beautiful parts of a spectrum, not as novelty affectations on a Princesses body that make her giggle and/or sneer.

Most of all, I want my daughter to believe that life is valuable because it is given by God, not because the Princesses have endorsed certain aspects of it.

To Tatt or Not To Tatt...or Too Tatt?

Well, another birthday has come and gone without me getting a tattoo. I've wanted one for years. I had decided to get one for my thirtieth birthday, but two years later my skin has yet to be touched by a needle. I still want one, but there are so many factors to consider:

~~What if I turn out to be allergic to the ink? I would so not be surprised.

~~I work with international students. What if having a tattoo offends them and compromises the trusting relationship I try to hard to build with them?

~~The designs I am considering will not fit anywhere where I would be able to see them. Do I rethink the design, or the location?

~~My husband is not crazy about this idea. Do I respect his preferences, or go ahead and do something to my body that he will have to confront every day?

~~How will I explain to my kids why I can get a tattoo but they can't draw on their hands with magic marker? More to the point, how will I explain the healing process without scaring them and revealing that I will actually go through pain in order to look a certain way?

~~Is this really something I want to spend money on? Does it really reflect my spending values?

~~Not knowing any tattoo artists personally, and not having a design on paper to go in with, how can I be sure I'll be happy with what I get?

~~The big one--why do I want a tattoo so badly? Am I trying for a personality upgrade? Do I want people to think I'm edgy? Do I want to mark a significant revelation and/or period in my life?


I have to be at peace before I get this done. And yet, there is no way to know how I will feel about it until I do it. Irrevocably.

Although I know this is ultimately my decision, I would love reader response on this one.

(Check out my new Pinterest board: Tattoo Ideas!)

The 10-Day Redefining Challenge--Day 9

I hate the thought of being loud. Of disturbing anyone. To the point where, more often than not, I get ignored because no one thinks I'm talking to them. I talk a lot, but people can't seem to hear me. Literally, people can't hear my soft voice.

I'm so afraid of being a loudmouth. Loud sounds tend to grate on my nerves, so I assume they do for everyone else. I like to whisper in restaurants, on planes, and in line for theater tickets. When I am with a person who speaks louder than I do, I squirm every time they open their mouth.

I also like to stay out of everyone's way. I hug the fence when I walk along the sidewalk, constantly turning around to make sure I'm not blocking anyone's path. I am offended on behalf of people behind us when I am walking with someone who is oblivious to the fact that other people might be sharing the sidewalk.

In short, I value my place in society to the extent that I am able to hide myself in it.

But today I brought my kids to Target, and the three of us were criticized by another mom there with her baby. My kids were actually not being too bad; they were each pushing a little cart, and I had to remind them that other people were trying to get by in the aisles (for some odd reason, 4 pm was like Happy Hour at Target today--every aisle was crowded), but they never actually ran into anybody. And they weren't being loud until we were in the checkout line. My son started crying when I told him he had to stop pushing his cart. I only had to tell him because the woman in front of me, the same woman we kept bumping into throughout the store, was frowning at my kids and rolling her eyes. I finally apologized, and she muttered something under her breath to me.

We continued:

Me: "Well, I sure hope you don't have to deal with any of these issues when your little one (the baby in the cart throwing his bottle on the floor) grows up."

Her: "Don't even start with me. You are out of control."

Me: "...Wow."

I felt so sad that my kids and I were not, and are not, free to move and speak at will without constantly bothering someone. The general public has no tolerance for my kids, and it hurts to realize that the sentiment which breaks my heart also resides there often. I often can't stand to be around my kids in public.

But they, and I, live here and play here and have just as much claim here as anyone else. Why should I care how loud my voice is when I'm in a grocery store? In a library, I get it. Believe me, libraries are sacred places to me. But in Target?

And how hard is it to step around a child who is blocking your path, in blissful oblivion (as children know how to enjoy much better than adults)? Is it really so hard to share this world with other people?

I would like to redefine what it means to be part of the crowd. I'd like to discover the beauty of my own voice rising above all other noise. I'd like to bump into someone and find joy in the fact that we share a space which connects us.

My challenge for the day is to turn up the volume and take up more space! I will consciously raise my voice a little louder today. I will walk where I need to walk and hope that others will accommodate me, as I will for them.

Some of you may not struggle with this; your problem may be the opposite. But that's another challenge for another day. Today we celebrate being free in our personal space.

Here I come!

The 10-Day Redefining Challenge--Day 7

I think I take myself too seriously. Seriously.

I try to be very put together and composed in social settings. I am self-conscious about my smile and laugh, so I minimize all expression when I'm with anyone other than my mom and sister. I also check and double check to make sure my appearance is impeccable; because heaven forbid I let anyone see me with a bit of food in my teeth or a drip at the end of my nose (the wonderful by-product of a sinus procedure I had done a few years ago).

But I miss the freedom of being myself, without all the rehearsal and performance. I really do feel like I am putting on an act much of the time. I try to keep myself looking classy, when I'm really kind of a mess. I stumble, I cough at odd times, I fall off piano benches at church, I pass gas every now and then, my voice cracks when I sing--in other words, I'm like all of you! And I'd like to do more than just know that in my head. I'd like to laugh at myself in a way that brings joy rather than self-deprecation. I'd like to be silly without being self-conscious.

Now, I understand there are times when being silly will get you nowhere--or may even get you fired. But most of the time, I think we could all do with a little less performance and a little more natural expression.

My challenge today is to get over ourselves. Being goofy, messy, clumsy, annoying, ditsy, or one of countless other less-than-perfect qualities is actually beautiful. These qualities speak to our common humanity and vitality. The occasional gaffe does not define us, nor does it change how people see us--at least not in the long term.

The best way I can think of to pull off this challenge is to make silly faces at myself in the mirror before I walk out the door. So I challenge you to do the same! Smile, laugh, frown, stretch, open, scrunch, skew--and see the beauty inherent in expression of all kinds. Set yourself free from the need to be perfectly composed. The less seriously you take yourself, the more you will begin to redefine your beauty in terms of your inner beauty rather than your outer "perfection".

The 10-Day Redefining Challenge--Day 6

Straighten up!

Today's challenge is to walk, sit, stand and move as straight as possible.


(Image from http://coreconnexxions.wordpress.com/2012/01/30/straighten-up/)

For me, good posture is a confidence issue. I never wanted to stand straight it felt like I was trying to stick my chest out. I saw those girls at school, walking around with sway backs because they wanted everyone to notice their female endowments. I didn't want to be like that. Well, actually I did...I just didn't have the proper equipment. So I slouched. I didn't want to draw attention to the fact that my figure was anything but girlish.

I also slouch when I'm with people who are shorter than me. I do this, I think, to make sure they don't feel bad about not having the height I do. It's also awkward for me to talk down to people.

The problem with slouching is two-fold. First, it creates actual physical problems. Any chiropractor will tell you that. Second, and this is where the challenge comes in, it affects how you see yourself. When I see a picture of myself slouching, I feel old and bent. I look frumpy, tired, and sloppy. When I walk with a slouch, I actually have less energy to move around with.

When I catch myself slouching and straighten up my back, I suddenly feel empowered and confident. At least, I'm aware that I look that way to other people. I still have to deal with the issue of looking like those girls in my high school, but all in all I think I've realized that my posture really affects the image I have of myself. It feels good to walk tall.

Try to notice your posture a little more today than usual. Walk with your head high, your shoulders back, and chest unabashedly out. See how the world looks from a few inches higher.

The 10-Day Redefining Challenge--Day 4

Part of my routine every morning as I get dressed is to find a color thread and match it to as many aspects of my exterior as possible. If I wear a blue and brown shirt (one of my favorite color combinations), I have to line my eyelids with blue and brown. I have to find a pair of earrings that matches the shade of blue on my eyes and a pair of shoes with the exact brown hue I need. My head scarf…well, that’s the element that takes me the most time. I have to find a scarf that incorporates the colors I am already wearing. With the many prints I have, I often end up wearing a plain blue or basic brown. I don’t often get to wear my prints because they clash with my outfit. Occasionally, I choose the scarf first and an outfit to match!

My challenge for today is to choose articles of clothing, makeup, jewelry and other accessories that look and feel good…without matching each other. Mix it up. Wear two different patterns. Combine colors you would normally not put together. Wear your favorite pair of earrings regardless of whether or not they complement the outfit. Show off what you really have in your closet!
Have fun.

Send pictures to redefinelabelleza@gmail.com if you feel like sharing and inspiring others.

PS--I'm writing this post on Thursday night, so by mid-morning I will have posted a picture of my choice of expression for the day.

The 10-Day Redefining Challenge--Day 3

Before I issue today's challenge, I need to admit something. I totally failed yesterday's. Looking in mirrors and windows is such a habit for me! I need to work on that. I don't mean that my goal is to never look in a mirror again; I just mean that I need to stop taking every opportunity to glance at myself. I mean, how much can my appearance really change in half an hour?

So one of the times I looked my reflection in a window today was at work. I was wearing high heels, and for some reason today they kept slipping off the backs of my heels. I had to develop a strange sort of waddle in order to keep them on without rubbing my skin raw on the outside of my big toes. I glanced in a window at work to make sure I didn't look like I was walking with a twisted ankle. I ended up taking my shoes off as soon as I got outside and walking barefoot through campus to the parking garage (outside of which I slipped them back on--I want to be comfortable, but I also want to be tetanus-free as long as I can).

Yep, there I was in a white ruffle blouse and khaki slacks...and bare feet. It felt amazing. This may be a new routine for me--waling to and from class with no shoes! I made a choice based on comfort rather than the reactions of society at large (or at least the students and construction workers whom I passed on my shoeless journey). It reminded me of a day last week when I had to apologize to my students for being unprofessional as I donned my jacket in class. It was just so frickin' cold in the classroom!

Today's challenge is to be comfortable. Take those heels off and walk flat-footed for awhile, no matter who's looking. Wear something frumpy to work (nothing that will get you fired, of course). Don't wear eye makeup if it makes your eyes itch. Wear comfy pants, shoes that fit, shorts that don't ride up, and bras that let you breathe. And relish the feeling of freedom that comes with making a choice for YOU!


(Image taken from www.shape.com)

The 10-Day Redefining Challenge--Day 1

Today begins a 10-day challenge of redefining how we project our identity and recognize our unique beauty. Every day I will offer an experiment for you to try as you head out into a world where we live in a dichotomy made up of airbrushed magazine images on one side and the face we see in the mirror on the other. Hopefully this will be the beginning of determining our own standards of beauty and refusing to be victims of the war being waged on our hearts and minds by the media.

Today's challenge: Improvise!

You don't have to look like the Target models. You don't have to wear only what is "in style", according to whatever magazine you read or reality show you watch. One positive thing about being bald is that I literally can't worry about how to fix my hair to look like celebrities. But I do struggle with wanting to look fashionable. So, I improvise--not to be confused with compromise. I don't want to give up the style I'm comfortable in just to gain acceptance from some imagined panel of viewers whose opinion will define me. Instead, I put together a "look" using what I have, and I go flaunt it!



I am wearing a lace cap, a scarf, a ribbon, and a scrunchie all at the same time! I don't know what "look" this is, but it works for me. I dug around in my scarf basket and put together what I had. It's a mix between Bohemian, urban, and homemaker. And I think it fits me perfectly.

I challenge you to improvise a "look". Put clothes and accessories together that you have never seen on TV. Do what feels good and fun in the moment--be creative! It will work for you, I promise.

(For inspiration, check out the "Hel Looks" link on my sidebar.)

My Kind of Character

Today I heard a fun program on my local talk radio. The hosts were talking about colorful characters who lived in and around Chicago. You know, those free spirited, eccentric oddballs whom everyone knew and had nicknames for. In the Windy City, apparently, we have had Racetrack Rosie, Kilt Man, Chicken Man, the Black Lone Ranger, among others.



I loved one of the host's insights that these "characters" are usually assumed to have mental illnesses, when in actuality they are often healthy, fully functioning individuals who are doing what they want do and indulging in what brings them joy. I've seen some characters in this fair city. This post will be the first time I've given them nicknames. I hope I do them justice:

--"Smiley Walker": The man walks everywhere. I only ever see him walking, and I see him absolutely everywhere within the 5-mile radius around my home. He always carries a medium-sized white plastic shopping bag at his side and he is always wearing the same clothes, but he is clean and groomed. This wouldn't necessarily qualify him as a "character", except for the fact that he smiles to himself. I always wonder what he's thinking.

--"Troll King": This guy rides his bike north around 8:30 in the morning, wearing a black kilt, black combat boots, a black T-shirt, and a white helmet. Why the nickname? Well...he's got long neon orange hair coming out the back of his helmet, and even longer neon pink hair sticking out of the top of his helmet, à la Troll Doll. I can't tell if it's his hair or some synthetic extension.

He would always ride alongside the car as I was taking my daughter to preschool. She called him the "crazy guy". I thought he had moved on, but a few weeks ago I saw him at an intersection, sans bike.

--"Singing Guy": This young African guy would walk around the neighborhood singing at the top of his lungs, wearing sandals. In the summer, in the winter, sandals all year round. In the winter he topped them off with an overcoat and a pork pie hat:


I haven't seen him in so long, I'm sure his family moved out of the area. I miss his exuberance.

Actually, we have several other "singing guys" in this neighborhood. You can hear them coming for blocks.

--"Crim": As in, criminal. But not really. This guy just wandered around muttering and grinning, always in a black leather jacket and Bulls cap, looking for locks to pick. I saw him picking our front gate lock outside my window when I first moved into my building. The cops said he's harmless, he does it to everyone. I guess it was our initiation into the neighborhood. I see him around, and truthfully I have a soft spot for him.

Does your city/town/neighborhood have any "characters"? Are you one of them??!!

I'd like to be one. Maybe I could be "Bald Lady". Get a cool tattoo on my head, a great wardrobe complete with huge earrings and long skirts, and some amazing shades. I should probably sing, too.

If not that, I can get a long hot pink wig that I've had my eye on and be "Wig Lady". I could walk around with a book in my hand and stand on corners reading. Everyone would wonder. So I guess I'd be "Pink Book Lady".

Who would you be?