I went shopping today. Of my own free will.
I subbed today, and after the school day was over, I hopped (and "hopped" is almost literal in this case) in the car at the first available moment and pointed my car in the direction of Park City Mall. I was really excited to go.
I've recently shopped in the junior's department at Boscov's (because we had a gift card to use. I ended up with nothing because what I REALLY wanted was jeans. Every pair of jeans I founded seemed to be tainted with spandex) and with Katie on a consignment shop hunt in honor of her birthday (her birthday was actually in November). Both were really positive experiences.
This is why.
When I go shopping, I pick up everything that appeals to me and is also in my price range. This usually ends up being quite an upper body workout for me until I can unload my findings in the dressing room. I try everything on and only buy those things that I really feel good in. Usually this is only a few things, and sometimes it is nothing.
Somewhere along the way, I have learned that the pair of pants that I love and doesn't fit doesn't reflect whether my body is "ok" or not. There are many times that a pair of pants in one size looks like it is clinging to my thighs for dear life, but the next size up is reminiscent of a slimfast ad. Short legs and full thighs will do that. It could be frustrating, but...
My girls have taught me a lot.
I hear them say things about their bodies that I know are false. That I want them to know are false. But the truth is, I'm not very credible if I'm preaching the fact that all bodies are made differently and they are beautiful if I'm picking apart my own body and berating myself for the fact that I can't fit into the pair of pants I wanted to buy.
I am healthy, and I am strong. I haven't gotten any of the sickness that have been going around, and I can carry heavy things. I am comfortable in my skin.
Now, I don't let the cut of a piece of clothing determine how I feel. I feel good. So I find the clothes that fit my body, that I feel good in, that reflect me, and I wear those.
It's only a few things because my body is unique.
Everybody's body is unique. Did you know that your body is not completely symmetrical? Not even one side of your body is the same as the other. How much does that speak to the fact that we are all individually created by God? Different sets of everything.
Seeing God's creation in everyone, in me, lets me know that he wasn't being mean or thoughtless when he gave me bigger thighs than I might have wanted. I think he was thinking of the fact that I am more of an endurance type of girl, I'm a processor, I take my time. I was born two weeks late after over 24 hours of labor. It's who I am.
So I bought two dresses today that I feel pretty in. I bought a cute and dressy shirt that shows off my arms. I put most of the things that I tried on back.
And I thoroughly enjoyed myself.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Haunting
[Sigh.]
I was going to write this in my little notebook. The one that goes with me everywhere and contains my lists. The one that no one else is every curious enough to ask me what it is or what I'm writing.
I love that freedom. I love the freedom of writing my thoughts down on paper, without fear of being judged by anyone else, and without the need to have my thoughts fully formed before I write.
However, a) I just proclaimed the need for Christians to be honest if we're going to be Christians at all to my girls two days ago, and b) this really is a low-risk endeavor because I'm pretty sure very few people read my blog.
Here it is.
Years ago, I went through the entire gamut of eat disorder-like behavior. I starved. I binged. I (sometimes) purged. The problem came in several forms. I was a chubby child (I much prefered the crazy adventures I had while reading books or playing imagination games to running around outside). I didn't know it until I was 11, my first year at a new school. I thinned out by the time I was 14, partly due to the regular exercise I got, and partly due to puberty's graces.
When you're chubby, people feel free to make comments about your body or the foods you are eating. "Look, Sarah, you can eat this!" Actually, it doesn't stop when you're no longer chubby. I felt uncomfortable when anyone referenced my new body shape. Like who I was was wrapped up in my pants size.
Somewhere along the way, I gained a couple of pounds. Probably because I was gaining hips. I'm 5'4" and have been since I was in sixth or seventh grade, and while my new looks got me attention then, I'm not quite sure I would look so good at 107-114 pounds at the age of 22.
I didn't get that. I didn't understand hips and curves, and that they're ok. They're good, even desirable.
And one day, I climbed on my Grandma's scale (one of the few times I was able to weigh myself because my family didn't own a scale), and the number was higher than expected.
I freaked out.
I was irrational.
I started counting calories, and then cutting down on them. Until I was eating too few calories to live on, to think on. But my legs didn't touch, and I felt skinny.
Skinny meant something to me. It said something about me. I had begun to believe the lies that my body shape was about who I was.
I was in my poetry phase at the time, and I remember writing about this terrible box and I created for myself, about the lock I put on it, and the trapped feeling that went with all of that.
And then one day, with some trepidation,I ate one of my favorite Christmas treats. I was so hungry, and they were sitting out. And it felt so good.
And before I knew it, I was stuffing them in my face, I was pushing open the box, jumping out, and sticking my chocolate-covered tongue out at it.
After that, I gave some effort to normalcy. But truth be told, I didn't know how to eat normally. For years, I had not eaten normally. I had eaten in fear of fat, I had eaten too few calories, I had eaten with somebody else's expectations in mind.
There I was, out of the box, without any clues as to where to go from there.
So I ate.
It didn't matter what or how much I liked it. I didn't feel any insecurity, any disappointments, I felt nothing bad while I was eating. But afterwards, I felt horrible. Stuffed. Disappointed and disgusted with myself.
It's been quite some time since my binging days.
I couldn't tell you exactly when I stopped or how.
I know the process vaguely, and it was painful.
And there was a time when I thought the urge to binge would NEVER come back. That I would not feel that desire to just fill my body with food, any food, but preferably peanut butter, sweets, or carbs. For no reason, other than the fact that I feel the emotional need for it.
Tonight I felt it.
[Ugh.]
I no longer hold the solo food-fests that I used to.
The urge came with a sugar craving, so I did indulge that. But I felt like I could just eat and eat and never feel satisfied.
Which is when I know it really wasn't the sugar I was craving.
For whatever reason, I was satisfied with putting pen to paper, either. Nothing would suffice, but a "hand" typed story, written for the "masses."
Here it is.
A little bit of Truth.
I was going to write this in my little notebook. The one that goes with me everywhere and contains my lists. The one that no one else is every curious enough to ask me what it is or what I'm writing.
I love that freedom. I love the freedom of writing my thoughts down on paper, without fear of being judged by anyone else, and without the need to have my thoughts fully formed before I write.
However, a) I just proclaimed the need for Christians to be honest if we're going to be Christians at all to my girls two days ago, and b) this really is a low-risk endeavor because I'm pretty sure very few people read my blog.
Here it is.
Years ago, I went through the entire gamut of eat disorder-like behavior. I starved. I binged. I (sometimes) purged. The problem came in several forms. I was a chubby child (I much prefered the crazy adventures I had while reading books or playing imagination games to running around outside). I didn't know it until I was 11, my first year at a new school. I thinned out by the time I was 14, partly due to the regular exercise I got, and partly due to puberty's graces.
When you're chubby, people feel free to make comments about your body or the foods you are eating. "Look, Sarah, you can eat this!" Actually, it doesn't stop when you're no longer chubby. I felt uncomfortable when anyone referenced my new body shape. Like who I was was wrapped up in my pants size.
Somewhere along the way, I gained a couple of pounds. Probably because I was gaining hips. I'm 5'4" and have been since I was in sixth or seventh grade, and while my new looks got me attention then, I'm not quite sure I would look so good at 107-114 pounds at the age of 22.
I didn't get that. I didn't understand hips and curves, and that they're ok. They're good, even desirable.
And one day, I climbed on my Grandma's scale (one of the few times I was able to weigh myself because my family didn't own a scale), and the number was higher than expected.
I freaked out.
I was irrational.
I started counting calories, and then cutting down on them. Until I was eating too few calories to live on, to think on. But my legs didn't touch, and I felt skinny.
Skinny meant something to me. It said something about me. I had begun to believe the lies that my body shape was about who I was.
I was in my poetry phase at the time, and I remember writing about this terrible box and I created for myself, about the lock I put on it, and the trapped feeling that went with all of that.
And then one day, with some trepidation,I ate one of my favorite Christmas treats. I was so hungry, and they were sitting out. And it felt so good.
And before I knew it, I was stuffing them in my face, I was pushing open the box, jumping out, and sticking my chocolate-covered tongue out at it.
After that, I gave some effort to normalcy. But truth be told, I didn't know how to eat normally. For years, I had not eaten normally. I had eaten in fear of fat, I had eaten too few calories, I had eaten with somebody else's expectations in mind.
There I was, out of the box, without any clues as to where to go from there.
So I ate.
It didn't matter what or how much I liked it. I didn't feel any insecurity, any disappointments, I felt nothing bad while I was eating. But afterwards, I felt horrible. Stuffed. Disappointed and disgusted with myself.
It's been quite some time since my binging days.
I couldn't tell you exactly when I stopped or how.
I know the process vaguely, and it was painful.
And there was a time when I thought the urge to binge would NEVER come back. That I would not feel that desire to just fill my body with food, any food, but preferably peanut butter, sweets, or carbs. For no reason, other than the fact that I feel the emotional need for it.
Tonight I felt it.
[Ugh.]
I no longer hold the solo food-fests that I used to.
The urge came with a sugar craving, so I did indulge that. But I felt like I could just eat and eat and never feel satisfied.
Which is when I know it really wasn't the sugar I was craving.
For whatever reason, I was satisfied with putting pen to paper, either. Nothing would suffice, but a "hand" typed story, written for the "masses."
Here it is.
A little bit of Truth.
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