LaurieWrites

Dressing Room Texts and What Really Matters

Cross-posted at BlogHer. I'm fond of this one so I'll put it here too. It's a good thing I have people around who give me stuff to write about. May you have similarly inspiring friends. 

There is so much I wanted to tell you, my friend, when you texted me from the dressing room.

Everything I wanted to say was way more than my phone could hold, it turns out, and more than I could at the time because I happened to be in a meeting that was way less important than you are.

I wanted to tell you that bridesmaid dresses are instruments of torture in a rainbow of colors and that their sizes are lies. I'd add that spaghetti straps are pointless and possibly even worse than strapless in some cases, and I'd like to have a word with whoever decided these are strong design choices for most of us, anyway. Really, I mean this especially on marathon days of dancing and drinking and endless photos, climbing into and out of limos we almost never ride in otherwise and standing in awkward positions defying physics to help our best friends go to the ladies room in complicated formal wear.

I would like to tell you that I consider wearing one of these get-ups and also telling someone that she doesn't have to and can stand up for you on one of the most important days of your life in a garment of her choosing to be equal and opposite acts of love.

And I want you to know that I know that no amount of telling you this may matter when the 14 won't zip, when you think like you do and like I do, too. Positive reinforcement and empathy do little to contend with a roll of fat at the waist or one that pokes out from where sleeves would normally be. And yes, the numbers suck, these inflated sizes ingrained in our mind as assessments of self-worth rather than seemingly random measurements made by some pre-fab mass-producers. It was not a banner day for me when -- at my most solid 14 at all other stores in the universe -- I had to pay 20 extra dollars for an 18 dress in bridesmaid land.

Most of these dresses aren't really made for you.

They surely aren't made for me.

I don't know who they are made for -- in terms of personal style and cost alone -- but in size, too.

And even though I know it may not have mattered at the moment you texted, it's just true that where you see flaws, I only see one of the best people I know. Someone who would tell me the same things, someone for whom I want self-forgiveness almost as much as I want it for myself. The parts of your sum are what they are, and you will rip them to shreds as many of us have learned to do -- but I won't, because I can't, and because I won't. That's not why I'm here. It's my job as your friend to do the opposite of that, and it turns out that that job is really easy.

It's not like I can lie, though. Back fat is real. Rolls are real, sure. I look at my arms sideways in sleeveless things and you'd think I'd committed a felony, the trash I talk about myself in my head. We are the sizes we are for whatever confluence of genetics and lifestyle we represent. Sometimes it's upsetting if it doesn't match up with our expectations or the woman standing next to us or the pretty dress we really hoped would fit (especially if there is a bridal store saleswoman or a friend-of-a-friend or an in-law outside the door asking, maddeningly, "How does it look?") but instead, unfortunately, does not. And there are worse problems, yes. I'm under no illusion that this is a life-or-death situation, the ticking up of a size or three in ridiculous formal wear anything less than a first-world problem, but the self-loathing it can cause is insidious and saying that it shouldn't exist doesn't make it any less real. When it relates to the body we carry with us every day, it's really damaging, and I don't want that for you. I don't want it for me. I don't want it for any well-meaning woman trying nothing more than to do the right things.

I especially don't want it because it circles back to the beauty and the curse in the design that you can technically do what you want to in response. Control is implied. Diet. Eat with abandon. Exercise. Drink. End up where a lot of us do who have been on this train for many years and find no sense of balance or moderation between deprivation and overindulgence, self-righteousness and self-hatred. But at some point you have to decide -- for the hundredth or maybe even the final time -- what you can take in order to look like you think you may want to look.

How much it's worth to fit into this or that dress.

And I'll support you in that, too, as long as you aren't hurting yourself, because I can't support that at all. Not when what I really hope, what I really want is at some point for you to stop kicking your own ass, because I know how much it hurts, what a misuse of energy it is.

And this is why we need each other, why we need friends, because left to our own devices we face a lifetime of being alone in small, harshly-lit rooms with too many hangers and three-way mirrors and also our most raging insecurities and self-hatred. In the dressing room, we feel it more than we feel it in most places. We should never have to be in places like that alone. We should always have someone there, just outside, anyway, who loves us, who will tell us the truth, who knows that spaghetti straps can be really, really wrong and that strapless -- on many of us -- makes no sense.

That is why the next time -- any time -- you are in there, more than anything it's important that you know that you can call me or text me and tell me it sucks all over again, if you're having that kind of experience. And I won't think you're crazy or neurotic (well, maybe a little, but who can help it?) or vain, because I know you're (mostly) not, and I understand. Because I've been in there, too.

Really all that's important I tell you in the end is the usual: I love you, you're great and real, true things should matter most. And in this case, size isn't one of those things even when it sucks when clothes don't fit. And regardless of numbers, when the time comes to put whatever on that you choose or is chosen for you, you will be beautiful. Because you always are, no matter what anyone thinks. Especially you.

December views from here.

Karen finds beautiful things every day, and I am not shy about telling her that through her words and images I find inspiration.

I stumbled a little post-NaBloPoMo, not sure what to do for December quite yet, and since I've been away from home for a couple of weeks I've been a little more uncentered. This is scary because I'm in a largely uncentered period to begin with. She shared Hippy Urban Girl's December Views project, and I immediately decided to join in. I have a few days to catch up on but I think I can do it. I like the idea of an image a day anyway. I've been doing pretty well with posting photos more consistently and it's more fun to do it with other people.

I'm off to Charlotte to see my other Laurie, another person whose eye I admire and from whom you see all sorts of pretty and just plain awesome things every day. I'm sure I'll share a view or two from there, too.

December 2, catching up:

Surfside Beach, dunes, sunset

I was going to write today, I swear.

But then I didn't feel very well when I woke up.

And then I spent too much time catching up with people when I told myself I should be working instead of working.

And then I felt better and I knew I was going to go out tonight to a place with great food, and then another event with copious shellfish, award-winning shellfish, even, and significant amounts of wine. White wine, because it's shellfish, but wine, all the same. So I thought I should walk, or do some kind of physical activity because I appear to have almost attained my late summer falling-off-the-wagon weight and that pleases me.

So I did that, and now I have two minutes before my last possible time I was going to allow myself to start getting ready, and I have nothing. Nothing except more pictures.

Laura Mayes came to town to add some color to D.C.'s gray, verysuperserious landscape with, well, herself, and the Kirtsy Takes a Bow book.

It's beautiful. You should get one.

The love part was totally my idea, by the way.

Joanne signed mine, and then did unspeakable things to it.

There were hydrangeas, which I love, and chocolate-covered pretzels, which I love more.

Amie and Sarah were there too, because they are Kirtsy editors and book contributors and also it appears that whither they goest lately, there goest I, or some similar horrifying and archaic grammatical construction.

It was fun. And that part I'm SO not phoning in.

On my mind.

Today was not good with the exception of one good thing, which although it was good was offset with some irritating things and an upsetting thing or two. I'm ready to get out of here for awhile. Although there are a few very fun things coming up this week and I'm happy to see some good friends, I'm more ready to head south and hit the reset button, and see some people who make me smile.

The music of what happens.

The most beautiful music of all is the music of what happens. - Irish proverb

I don't know about that across the board because sometimes what happens is a freaking dirge or annoying as shit like Chumbawumba ("I GET KNOCKED DOWN BUT I GET UP AGAIN YOU'RE NEVER GONNA GET ME DOWN," oh dude, shut. up.) but sometimes it's true and since this was one of the first quotes I found that I liked on a "beautiful" quote binge earlier today it got me thinking.

Sidebar: it was pretty here today, it really was. The light as it changes into late summer and then into fall is an obsession of mine, such that I wanted to call any friends I had locally who I know take pictures with any seriousness and/or regularity and tell them to get outside, GET OUTSIDE AND SHOOT because I am trapped inside, except I've been a little bossy lately (ha, lately) and I'm trying to cut down. It's crazy how the colors change. It can push me over into some kind of weird melancholy in a second because I'm weird but I still like it.

Anyway. Music. Of what happens. I don't know what you think is beautiful music. I have some strange preferences, some pretty standard. One of my favorite beautiful songs is "Heavenly Day" by Patty Griffin, which actually started off my day. It's on a mix cd I made for the people who came to a little party I threw in June for my half-birthday, which I've mentioned before on here I celebrate from time to time. I blipped it. I don't blip anything, because I always forget, but this time I did. Everybody should listen to Patty, every now and then at least. She wrote this for her dog (which she said when I saw her at the Warner Theatre, one of the best shows I've ever seen by anyone, anywhere, and I believe her.)

This and the sunshine and some very cool clouds and things it made me think about altogether made me cry but not in a bad way. Trying subconsciously and at the same time very hard not to feel things means sometimes I need help and I guess that's why music therapy exists as a profession.

It got me thinking of other musical things I think are beautiful, and did you know you can wile away an entire meeting thinking of them and writing them down off the top of your head while still mostly paying attention?

*The guitar outro in Layla (that plays over the Goodfellas credits, which I can't ever separate it from in my head.)
*"In My Life," the Beatles
*The guitar bridge in "Master of Puppets"
*"Over the Rainbow," Eva Cassidy
*"Redemption Song," Bob Marley
*"Climb Every Mountain," Peggy Wood, Sound of Music
*"Impossible Germany" guitar solo, Wilco
*Everything Sally Ellyson from Hem sings, ever
*Same for Neko Case (See "Star Witness" and "Deep Red Bells")
*"Are We the Waiting," Green Day
*To Live is to Fly," Cowboy Junkies
*"Thunder Road," Bruce Springsteen
* YoYo Ma, anything
*"Paradise City" until the whistle
*"To Make You Feel My Love," Adele
*"I Know Where You Are," Girlyman

I got carried away. There are a lot more. I could do this all day. Also it turns out that a lot of things I think are beautiful walk a very fine line between joyful and despondent. Explains a lot.

Speaking of beautiful and music that is not, last night I was in the wine store where they always have a radio on, and a terrible song was playing.

Wait, boxed wine break. Are you aware that the boxed wine aisle is expanding? It is. In addition to the Franzia and the more upscale Black Box stuff, there's a Harley-Davidson style line called Killer Juice. And also there is a Web site called Boxwines.org wherein I acquired more information about it because I was that interested. A .org extension implies a nonprofit organization so the boxed wines have their own association. I'm filing that under stuff I needed to know on Wednesday.

Favorite quote from Chowhound: "I absolutely love the idea of having a box of Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinot Grigio in the fridge at all times. (If you want to have a glass but not open a bottle (or when you want another glass after the bottle is gone), for cooking...)" Wisdom, preach it.

And besides the fact that while wine continues to exist in bottles that is the vessel in which I will purchase it, because, well, BECAUSE, that is what one should do, I do have to admit to an ironic purchase of Bandit boxed Cabernet in Myrtle Beach last month, because that's basically my "what happens here stays here" place, screw Vegas. I'm pretty open about what went down there, which wasn't much. Maybe next time. (As it happens I didn't drink it until I got home and was driven to it by the dreaded "there is no wine in the house" situation that occurs on a semi-regular basis around here. I didn't hate it as much as the people at the link above did, but please see "there is no wine in the house" as a motivator.)

Anyway, I was in the wine store at the checkout and I have no idea what the terrible song was except it had lyrics like "I'm WASTED, I'm dragging it OUT, I'll FAKE IT," something something, and maybe something like "stuck in the middle where you don't belong." The funny man who works there gestured towards the radio.

Wine Store Man: Clearly we put on the wrong channel. That's some head banging music.
Me (channeling elderly 80s nostalgia freak persona): Nah, that's not head banging. Because I can show them head banging. That sounds like something else, something I don't care for at all.
Wine Store Man: Not your generation's head banging?
Me: No, not quite. It still holds up.
Wine Store Man: My kind of head banging in school was different. It involved me hitting myself in the head with a pencil box and falling over hoping girls would look at me. They did, but not for the right reasons. That'll be $17.57.

He also demonstrated hitting himself in the head with his pencil box. I have a sushi man and a wine store man and it is a total tie as to which one makes my day on a more regular basis because whereas only the sushi man knows my name they're both pure comedy. And I think that's beautiful, in its own peculiar way.

Beautiful - September

I've decided to try the NaBloPoMo challenge, which is to produce something every day based on September's theme of "beautiful." I could use a little beautiful right now, honestly, and it's a word that popped up throughout my summer, for reasons I'll probably write about soon, because now I have a prompt that compels me to.

I do well with structure sometimes, yes.

I just found the e-mail announcing the theme and of course I've got six minutes to get in under the first day of the month wire, so I'm thinking maybe just pictures to kick things off.

These are the two that came to mind when I asked myself what the two most beautiful images were that I'd taken in recent memory.

Sunset Cliffs, just outside of San Diego, May, 2009.

Rose on my porch, July, 2009

Beauty is relative, really, and also for the most part completely subjective. That's the marginally deep thought I'll start with here.