Kankles, muffin tops, Dunlop disease, cottage cheese, saddlebags, side boobs, stretch marks. Nobody wants these things but everyone has them. That is correct. EVERYONE. Every single normal human being struggles with these things. And it was brought to my attention that not everyone is aware of this phenomenon. So I must point out that there are key terms in the sentences beginning this paragraph: normal, human, and weight.
Defining normal, when it comes to size and body type, pertains only to those people who eat. Who really actually eat. You know- things like sandwich meat and real cheese slices. Maybe even a mini Kit-Kat or two. Heck through in the whole caboodle- those who actually eat dessert. Normal does not describe any thing you see in any form of media. These people do not eat. I am convinced they are fed by tubes of water, air, cottony things and my nephew's freeze dried yogurt droppings, penetrating their abdominal wall through surgically implanted ports. There is absolutely no possible way that someone as tall and split-brained crazy as Angelina Jolie can stand like the tattooed tower of Pisa and weigh less than me (which is 120 after the holidays)(OK, really 123). She has to be having hallucinations of flying meat and made of Japanese clock parts instead of vital organs. Cameron Diaz is most definitely made of tampon tubes encompassed by LA Looks hair gel. So to compare ourselves to anything found on a magazine or search engine home page is to compare ourselves to what our second definition is: human. Every human being must produce 443mL of water per day just to rid the body of necessary wastes. I'm fairly certain I have that much clinging to my left saddle bag whereas Rihanna doesn't pee because her body obviously doesn't hold more than a shot glass of water, thus proving, she is not human. Victoria's Secret models? Completely alien. 15 year-old aliens who eat Q-tips and lick stamp glue for sustenance. Because of these definitions, I feel I never have to compare myself to whatever media mogul feels he wants to thrust in my face today.
Our third word: Weight. The definition of weight: earths gravity on your mass. But that definition does not hold true when standing in front of the purely evil, 9 foot mirrors in the aerobics room of the gym. Weight is whether or not you can see your side boobs thrashing from side to side as you awkwardly uppercut at double speed in your martial arts aerobics class. Weight is putting on your favorite tank top and yoga pants only to find something that resembles an uncooked ham sticking out between them. Weight is defined as the moment of self defeat and admittance that the washing machine did not, in fact, shrink every single clothing item you own. Weight is the light headed feeling you have when you know that if you take a breath, your dress buttons will explode open like Mt. Vesuvius in the middle of Christmas Eve service. Weight is feeling like a stuffed sausage. And let me attest- whether you're a 4 or a 14, our definition of weight will find you. I'm a size four and these days, everything between my knees and my belly button seems to officially be made of pineapple chunks and banana pudding. Putting on my skinny jeans actually requires me to stuff my inner thigh down my pant leg. The moral of our little story is that although though a person may be a small tyke, they have fat sink holes just like anyone else. At the gym, I too have to watch as my butt cheeks move in the opposite direction of my body movement. And if you think being small will solve all your body problems, they won't. You still get stretch marks.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Jingle Jangle All the Way
This time every year, I get the same feeling. The feeling that I am in an alternate universe, that I have morphed into another being and am at a loss for how to get back. All the people, the money, the traffic, the schedules. I always end up asking myself, "What happened to Christmas?"
I grew up in a middle class family where our Christmas was a picture you could put on a greeting card and sell in gift packs of ten at Hallmark, covered in glitter, of course. Magically, one day, I would come home from school to find little plastic Santas and votive candles sporadically placed throughout the house that would be a glowing haven for the next month or so. The scent of sugary cookies and pine wafted in the air. In my backpack was a letter with all my hopes and dreams written on that extra-wide ruled manila paper. The cookies on a plate by the fire. The sounds of Nat King Cole crooning from the LP on the console. And the Christmas tree, oh the glorious Christmas tree..... back in the day when people still bought actual Christmas trees. They shed like hell and had sap all over them but by gosh, it was REAL. I was so fascinated with the tree, I once knocked it over while my parents were at the company Christmas party. Oh, but it had all the ornaments I had ever made displayed with pride on the front. In addition to my Yuletide master pieces, each year, we got to pick a new ornament- a total highlight of the Christmas season. Our tree was wrapped superbly in sparkling gold tinsel concluded with a grand, blinking star on top. But best of all- the lights. There were millions of multi-colored, blinking lights all over the place, but my favorite of favorites were the old school bubble lights. They had a medicine dropper on the end of them, full of colored liquid that bubbled once the lights got crispy hot. Looking back as an adult, my parents had to be strictly out of their mind to place cheap, Chinese boiling hot Christmas lights on a dry conifer, knowing that at any second, our house could become an erupting inferno of plastic Santas, all for the sake of child-like wonder. And I thank them wholeheartedly for it.
So the question is, where did I misplace that greeting card? I have recollections of it all the way up until a few years ago and then it just-poof- disappeared. Now Christmas makes me feel like on old-wintry hag who steals children, burns them in her oven and turns their ashes into Christmas cookies to feed to the neighbors. I hate to say it, but I hate Christmas. OK. That was harsh- I really don't hate Christmas, I'm just resentful for being an adult at Christmas time. It all started the Christmas that Santa's thank you note for the cookies contained handwriting that looked oddly akin to my father's.....
There isn't any wonder in Christmas anymore when you're standing in Wal-Mart at 12:30 at night, stumbling because you're fairly certain you lost your feet on aisle 18 and are now walking on the stubs of your tibias. You've been shopping for hours buying cheese-filled cocktail weenies, cookies, booze, more cheese, cartons of microwaveable mashed-potatoes, dinner-plates, a wintry vest for a homeless kid, pantyhose, fake tanner, monkey bread and aspirin for the ninety-five parties you have to attend in the next five days or heaven help-us, someones gonna get their flippin' feelings hurt that you didn't come to THEIR party and contribute. You load up your car after dragging your wares to the horizon of the parking lot just to have Suburban Super Mom stalk you for your spot.
Now I must interject- it's at this point for me when the alternate universe jumps in and I'm fairly certain an exorcism by a devout priest would be most helpful. I have never been a patient driver. In fact, I am a hateful driver. Jesus has a filing cabinet that is dated back from November 28th, 1996 when I began driving that is jam packed with copious sums of spiritual citations due to my driving deviance's. I have never hidden this fact from anyone. It is the sole reason I refuse to put my church's sticker on my car. Rather than curbing my impatience, it will only fuel non-believers to think even more poorly of the Christian nation. ANYWAY... Christmas traffic is the reason I might possibly go to hell. I try so hard to be a very compassionate person, during Christmas especially. But behind the wheel, during the Christmas season, icy black tar begins to flow through my veins and horns birth from my skull because it's like all the Christmas cookie crack and lard filled treats have gone straight to the logical, decision making areas of some people's brains and turned it into mushy, melted, abominable snowman crap. It's complete anarchy out there, folks. Suddenly, one-way street signs no longer matter, much like the gentleman attempting to escape mall traffic in his big, honkin' crimson Infinity mini-bus coming at me at full throttle this afternoon in the wrong lane. Or like the blue Honda pilot that feels the need to drive forty-five through a parking lot full of pedestrians. But even more aggravating- the Christmas traveler who is completely lost in the space-time continuum. You're stuck behind a mini-van only going 24 in a 50 mph zone with your surrounding lanes swamped with cars, warping time only to figure out she's mesmerized by the Christmas lights on the adjacent Blockbuster and Chevy dealership. You try to go around her and she blindly cuts you off and crosses three lanes of traffic in a span of five-feet so she can stop and get some Christmas toffee at the Bohemian Love Bakery, never mind the eighty people who had to slam on their brakes to allow her safe passage. At that point, I begin having an out of body experience where my face contorts to look like mouth of squid, my wings come out and I begin screeching obscenities at a pitch only dogs can hear. I have no idea what my car is doing at this moment in time as my skyrocketing blood pressure as baked my eyeballs into little glowing smoke bombs. I simple cannot handle it.
But I digress..... amidst all the parties, shopping, planning, packing, baking, eating and worrying about the various costs of it all, most of all, I find myself missing Christmas. I miss spending time with my family because I nodded off in exhaustion once I actually go to sit down and talk with them. I miss being able to actually enjoy the gift giving without worrying if it will be enough. I miss getting to watch the clay-mation movies, or really just having to time option to do so. I miss looking forward to going to my grandparents house, now that there is no house to go to. I miss my real tree.
My homesickness for Christmas is a simple reminder to me at how "life" can ruin our lives. So often as an adult, I find myself at the all-to-familiar crossroads of choosing to live simply or running through my life as everyone else says I should. Too habitually I choose the latter, trying to keep everyone happy, or to keep up with some ridiculous standard. Many times I do it to uphold some image that I can do it all. No matter the reason, I always end up paying for it. Like losing my childlike spirit of Christmas. Can I get that back? Some people say I will when I have my own kids. While sitting in my cold car, in a long line of traffic, I wonder if I ever will.
I grew up in a middle class family where our Christmas was a picture you could put on a greeting card and sell in gift packs of ten at Hallmark, covered in glitter, of course. Magically, one day, I would come home from school to find little plastic Santas and votive candles sporadically placed throughout the house that would be a glowing haven for the next month or so. The scent of sugary cookies and pine wafted in the air. In my backpack was a letter with all my hopes and dreams written on that extra-wide ruled manila paper. The cookies on a plate by the fire. The sounds of Nat King Cole crooning from the LP on the console. And the Christmas tree, oh the glorious Christmas tree..... back in the day when people still bought actual Christmas trees. They shed like hell and had sap all over them but by gosh, it was REAL. I was so fascinated with the tree, I once knocked it over while my parents were at the company Christmas party. Oh, but it had all the ornaments I had ever made displayed with pride on the front. In addition to my Yuletide master pieces, each year, we got to pick a new ornament- a total highlight of the Christmas season. Our tree was wrapped superbly in sparkling gold tinsel concluded with a grand, blinking star on top. But best of all- the lights. There were millions of multi-colored, blinking lights all over the place, but my favorite of favorites were the old school bubble lights. They had a medicine dropper on the end of them, full of colored liquid that bubbled once the lights got crispy hot. Looking back as an adult, my parents had to be strictly out of their mind to place cheap, Chinese boiling hot Christmas lights on a dry conifer, knowing that at any second, our house could become an erupting inferno of plastic Santas, all for the sake of child-like wonder. And I thank them wholeheartedly for it.
So the question is, where did I misplace that greeting card? I have recollections of it all the way up until a few years ago and then it just-poof- disappeared. Now Christmas makes me feel like on old-wintry hag who steals children, burns them in her oven and turns their ashes into Christmas cookies to feed to the neighbors. I hate to say it, but I hate Christmas. OK. That was harsh- I really don't hate Christmas, I'm just resentful for being an adult at Christmas time. It all started the Christmas that Santa's thank you note for the cookies contained handwriting that looked oddly akin to my father's.....
There isn't any wonder in Christmas anymore when you're standing in Wal-Mart at 12:30 at night, stumbling because you're fairly certain you lost your feet on aisle 18 and are now walking on the stubs of your tibias. You've been shopping for hours buying cheese-filled cocktail weenies, cookies, booze, more cheese, cartons of microwaveable mashed-potatoes, dinner-plates, a wintry vest for a homeless kid, pantyhose, fake tanner, monkey bread and aspirin for the ninety-five parties you have to attend in the next five days or heaven help-us, someones gonna get their flippin' feelings hurt that you didn't come to THEIR party and contribute. You load up your car after dragging your wares to the horizon of the parking lot just to have Suburban Super Mom stalk you for your spot.
Now I must interject- it's at this point for me when the alternate universe jumps in and I'm fairly certain an exorcism by a devout priest would be most helpful. I have never been a patient driver. In fact, I am a hateful driver. Jesus has a filing cabinet that is dated back from November 28th, 1996 when I began driving that is jam packed with copious sums of spiritual citations due to my driving deviance's. I have never hidden this fact from anyone. It is the sole reason I refuse to put my church's sticker on my car. Rather than curbing my impatience, it will only fuel non-believers to think even more poorly of the Christian nation. ANYWAY... Christmas traffic is the reason I might possibly go to hell. I try so hard to be a very compassionate person, during Christmas especially. But behind the wheel, during the Christmas season, icy black tar begins to flow through my veins and horns birth from my skull because it's like all the Christmas cookie crack and lard filled treats have gone straight to the logical, decision making areas of some people's brains and turned it into mushy, melted, abominable snowman crap. It's complete anarchy out there, folks. Suddenly, one-way street signs no longer matter, much like the gentleman attempting to escape mall traffic in his big, honkin' crimson Infinity mini-bus coming at me at full throttle this afternoon in the wrong lane. Or like the blue Honda pilot that feels the need to drive forty-five through a parking lot full of pedestrians. But even more aggravating- the Christmas traveler who is completely lost in the space-time continuum. You're stuck behind a mini-van only going 24 in a 50 mph zone with your surrounding lanes swamped with cars, warping time only to figure out she's mesmerized by the Christmas lights on the adjacent Blockbuster and Chevy dealership. You try to go around her and she blindly cuts you off and crosses three lanes of traffic in a span of five-feet so she can stop and get some Christmas toffee at the Bohemian Love Bakery, never mind the eighty people who had to slam on their brakes to allow her safe passage. At that point, I begin having an out of body experience where my face contorts to look like mouth of squid, my wings come out and I begin screeching obscenities at a pitch only dogs can hear. I have no idea what my car is doing at this moment in time as my skyrocketing blood pressure as baked my eyeballs into little glowing smoke bombs. I simple cannot handle it.
But I digress..... amidst all the parties, shopping, planning, packing, baking, eating and worrying about the various costs of it all, most of all, I find myself missing Christmas. I miss spending time with my family because I nodded off in exhaustion once I actually go to sit down and talk with them. I miss being able to actually enjoy the gift giving without worrying if it will be enough. I miss getting to watch the clay-mation movies, or really just having to time option to do so. I miss looking forward to going to my grandparents house, now that there is no house to go to. I miss my real tree.
My homesickness for Christmas is a simple reminder to me at how "life" can ruin our lives. So often as an adult, I find myself at the all-to-familiar crossroads of choosing to live simply or running through my life as everyone else says I should. Too habitually I choose the latter, trying to keep everyone happy, or to keep up with some ridiculous standard. Many times I do it to uphold some image that I can do it all. No matter the reason, I always end up paying for it. Like losing my childlike spirit of Christmas. Can I get that back? Some people say I will when I have my own kids. While sitting in my cold car, in a long line of traffic, I wonder if I ever will.
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