Five Crazy Things: Body Parts

Barbara: I’m going off-schedule this week—Five Crazy Things for today, longer blog post for tomorrow. Long story, but suffice to say, it’s better this way!

Okay, so body parts. I want to know what 5 things you love about your physical self today. Yes, 5! This may be super-easy for some of you (and we want to learn from you), but we all know now that confidence is more attractive than actual “perfection”. Let’s adopt some confidence today. And no provisos! (ie I love my nose, but it’s really long and pointy, so maybe I shouldn’t, or whatever). Today, we are all gorgeous!

1. My nose.

2. My feet (this probably would never have a proviso attached. Even on a bad day, I’ve always loved my feet).

3. My lower back dimples.

4. My lips.

5. My softer tummy (I used to covet the flat, flat tummy, and even while naturally thin, of course, could never achieve it. Today, I truly love the soft roundness of my older tummy. And, yes, I said “today”.)

Deb:

1. My eyes. Whenever my face is looking sleepy, I just look in my eyes and am happy.

2. My feet. I should have been a ballerina. My feet are great and I love them.

3. My eyelashes and eyebrows—Dark, long, dependable.

4. My hands—My mom's hands.

5. My knees—My Dad's knees. 

Talking The Talk: How I Look/How I Feel

Barbara: We’ve talked a lot here how we look and feel best, but since we’re focusing on The Conversation, I want to open it up a bit further. Where does the line hover for why we feel best at any give moment?

When I was thirteen I had just begun to wear makeup. I don’t remember it being a big deal, or my parents being against it. My mother was an active arts student at the time and relied on my independence, my dad probably teased me gently about the fact that I was growing up. What I do remember very clearly was my immediate sense that, as far as the big picture goes, I was somehow less when I wasn’t wearing it. It got so bad that I actually refused to be seen in public without it!

One particularly strong memory from that 13th year: my family was driving home from our cottage one lazy Sunday afternoon and my parents decided to stop at a roadside chips’ truck for a snack. I refused to get out of the car—because I WASN’T WEARING MAKEUP!! What did I think would happen? That the chip truck attendants would scoff at my slovenliness? That the teaming throng of hot young 13-year-olds would condemn me on sight because … I was wearing no mascara???!!! My parents, as you can imagine, were aghast. I huddled in the car, determined to keep up the bargain I had made with my self-slash-the devil.

It took many years of growing up to develop a sense that I was okay without makeup. Interestingly, I get as many compliments for my fresh-scrubbed look (“so natural!”) as I do for my makeupped version (“so nice!”). Rather more interesting, these compliments often come from two different sets of people. Hence, the certain sense that one man/woman’s idea of beauty is another man/woman’s “yeah, whatevs”.  To this day, I go without a second thought to the gym without a stitch of makeup, but when I get ready for my day—which is often midday!—I don’t think twice about applying my routine look: under-eye concealer, mascara, eyeliner (on inside of upper lashes), brow brush. If I’m getting more dressed up, say for an audition or a night out: the same, plus eye shadow, blush and lipstick (I never wear foundation).

I—get this—just feel better with that little bit of makeup. Even if I’m the exact same person. I want to know that if I catch my reflection somewhere—in a window, in a mirror—I look a certain way (ie a bit of pop in the eyes, not as much of a dark circle underneath). But the question remains: why do I feel better? Is it because I feel brighter? Or is it because of this engrained notion that my looks must be amplified in order for me to be valued?

I doubt my mind-set will ever change vis a vis my face and its adornments. I will always love a special outfit or a pretty necklace or a lovely fragrance. These things will always make me feel better, even if they don’t exactly “make me”. But why?

These are 2 photos from my files (I'd wanted to do a little session for you, but lost track of time). Sorry for the poor quality: they're with my computer camera, but they are reasonably similar in composition and timing. The first is not a stitch of makeup, at work at my computer, the second is my "day look" (but also showing off the gorgeous necklace a friend gave me).

PS As another point of interest, someone once asked Deb and I how we could dare show our non-makeupped faces on the blog. Not like an insult, but like a truly perplexed, couldn't-undestand-the-logic question. Obviously there was a time when I would NOT! But no more. This is me, baby.

Deb: When I think of makeup it always amuses me that it was men who first started wearing it and women who ended up getting stuck with it! :-) As for me, I am not an obsessed makeup gal either. Like Barb, I will go out without it. When I am in my ‘hood, just shopping around and doing chores, I more than often go out without any at all. I am fine with my naked face and quite comfortable with it. When I am in the house for the day doing house chores, I never wear makeup, but I certainly do my face for events and for anything social. Like Barb, I do not dramatically change my look. It does help to have long black eyelashes and that makes it easy when I am sporting the natural look. As to why we feel better with makeup, I don’t know. I guess it’s because we sat at our mother’s dressing tables as tots while they put on their faces and thought how glamourous it was and how pretty they looked. It was a right of passage, this makeup. Made us feel grown up. And when I am getting ready to go out on a date with my husband and I see a little colour on my cheeks and lips and the depth of my eyes popping, I feel pretty. Can’t help it. I like the naked faced Deb in the mirror, but I also love to see my “Sunday go to meeting face”. 

Talking The Talk In The Conversation: Miss Representation

Barbara: This is an extended version of the impressive video about how women are portrayed in the media in North America. I saw the shorter version on FB a few months ago and then Sean’a sent around the extended trailer. This is definitely apropos here this week. Take a look. Let us know what you think.

Talking the Talk In The Conversation: Calling Our Men!

Barbara: I was talking to my dad the other day. My dad is awesome. He’s always been my biggest fan and reads the blog religiously. If he goes away on a trip, then he reads the ones he missed when he was gone. At the very beginning, and once he got the hang of it, he commented a couple of times, but then he got a bit self-conscious: not because he was a man commenting on our blog, but because he was my father and it might be deemed … inappropriate. You know, like when your parents find your diary or something. Funnily, this is the same feeling I’ve sometimes felt from other random people. We’ll get to talking and they’ll mention the blog and they’ll look a bit sheepish, really as though they’ve seen something they maybe shouldn’t have. But, hey, we blog because we think. We want you to peek inside. And so I’ve always shushed my father and told him to go ahead and post comments. And besides we love men over here, fathers especially, and we want them to feel they belong here too. Middle age is for everyone (sorry if that’s a shock), and middle-aged women affect everyone. It’s a fact of life.

So my father challenged me to call out our men. We know you’re reading because sometimes you’ll pop in, or you might message us privately, or you might mention it at a get-together. And here’s the thing: this isn’t a private girls’ club. I know those exist (and maybe must) as do the boys’ clubs (again, no judgment: we sometimes need the safety of private forums). But here we THRIVE on discourse. We love to skew a point of view this way and that until we get a broader sense of things. You guys might have different prisms through which we can look, or you can remind us that we ALL worry about the same things, not just those of us in the female orbit. We value our men. We count on your wisdom, your support, your sense of things.

So the question is: would you stand up here and be counted? Would you let us know what you think—even if you don’t agree with us? We know if you’re reading this that you are compassionate and temperate. If you don’t agree with something, or if you have a slightly different take, we won’t be offended (we only get offended at rudeness).

But most importantly, if over these next few weeks we are taking on The Conversation, if we’re examining how women are being portrayed in the media and how women’s sense of self is compromised or diminished because of it, if we want to change that, and even if we women are to blame for much of it, don’t you think you guys deserve a place at the table, a voice in the discussion?

We want to hear what you think about this stuff. We want your ideas and thoughts. Even if it means we’re forced to accept a “difficult truth” (yes, men do look at “shiny objects”), it helps get us all closer to the real truth (but they usually don’t mistake that for love, or even lust).

So I hope you’ll speak up today. I hope you’ll join us in our search for balance.

I’ll start off by throwing out a specific question—that of course, I’m still hoping our female readers will weigh in on. What do you think of the pervasive sexualization of women in the media? Does it have a subtle, shifting impact on how boys and men (and girls and women) look at women? Or is it harmless fun that doesn’t actually filter into our private expectations or our bedrooms? This isn’t a trick question, I swear! In its simplest sense, many men I know truly prefer their beloved woman fresh-faced, no makeup, no fancy clothes, despite the fact that it’s the rare media image that portrays a woman like that. So what do you think?

Deb: There was an article yesterday in the Globe and Mail entitled “Thinking Outside the Boxers” and it was basically raising this question: “with so much porn and negative portrayals of women in the media, does it affect a young boy’s view of sex and relationships?”. Are these young boys poised to treat women like objects? I was thinking about it from both sides, this very interesting question. I also wondered if some young women start to act the way they think is expected of them, which is why everywhere I turn, in television and the media at large, the skank meter is up to 11. I got to thinking about my own son and his friends and cousins that I know well. They are, of course, exposed to these things but I think a greater force is at work which prevents them from painting all women with the same glitter body paint. I think they see by example in their homes and the homes of their friends how a real man treats a real women and how a real woman treats a real man. They learn by example, respect, and equality. This way they are able to see porn for exactly what it is, and whether or not they engage in watching this type of thing, they are aware of its place in the grand scheme of things. It is not a real way of life. To a degree, it is theatre. Smart boys know this. So do smart girls. 

Walking The Walk In The Conversation: Annette Shares Her Adventure With Cosmetic Treatments

Annette posted this message to a bunch of us on Facebook the other day (after, btw, she’d linked us to the Ashley Judd article—talk about going from the sublime to the ridiculous ;-) ) and we asked her if we could post it here. Always generous, Annette (“gredican” in our comments section) couldn’t wait for us to laugh at her pain. This is the next of our series of posts about women as part of The Conversation.

Annette: O.K. ... as I have the most disconcerting habit of inadvertently scheduling "medical” stuff back to back, I followed up Monday's awful mammogram—that left me bruised and sore after I was twisted and pulled well beyond my range of mobility—with another appointment  yesterday. This one saw me forgoing mindfulness about my health for an encounter with a Doctor that was cosmetically-motivated.

We have an extended vacation in San Diego and Las Vegas approaching and I had determined that I needed to tackle the spider veins that have begun to map themselves on my thighs. I don't have a lot of them but my considerable vanity over what independent sources have deemed my well-turned ankles saw the offending veins bother me in a manner disproportionate to their appearance. Hence, I decided, after mulling it over on and off forever, to have them removed via the injection of a solution that causes them to collapse and fade away.

I checked the cost on the U.S. side of the border and learned that a treatment was about $400.00 and that you need several. (Full disclosure: I had this done after my son was born—22 years ago—and had not been troubled until the last couple of years with their reappearance. But suffice to say, I know the drill.) Put off by the significant expense, I decided to research what it would cost in Canada and was thrilled to learn it would only be $70.00 per session plus $50.00 for the original consultation as I no longer have Ontario health insurance.

Which is how I came to find myself laying face-down, trying not to put weight on my still-smarting and bruised right breast, on an examining table with an ever-so-capable, twenty-five-years-experienced, Niagara Falls, Ontario-based Doctor administering the first treatment of 50 injections to my less-than-toned thighs...

Now I need to digress here for a minute and explain that prior to the appointment I grabbed a late lunch in Ontario by way of killing time before the encounter with our capable practitioner. If you've known me for any length of time, you may recall that men who are down on their luck are inflamed by the sight of me. Ever since I was a little girl, I've had them go off ... totally off ... whenever I've so much as crossed their line of sight. Long ago I gave up trying to understand it.

So yesterday, I was in a Tim Horton's, a phenomenally popular chain of doughnut shops and as innocuous a location as you can imagine, when I heard a commotion. I looked up from my egg salad sandwich and my clearly provocative copy of the new Woman's Day and just had time to think "Oh here we go!" before a homeless guy barged in shouting the odds, modified with tons of profanity, having spotted the irritant that is me through the plate glass. I was gathering my wits to shut him down when he spewed, "You effin' little wh*re of sex toy!" So impressed was I with his dazzling imagery, I almost bought him a coffee rather than giving him a taste of his own verbal abuse but just made a quick escape instead.

But I return us now to the examining table ... I had failed to recall that while most of the injections sting rather than hurt, a number of them proved painful indeed. I tried unsuccessfully to keep count so I could gauge when the unpleasantness might end while giving distracted thought as to whether the ordeal would ultimately be worth it. I was musing over the whole “getting older, expectations for women thing, our female reluctance to go gently-into-that-good-night and its attendant pressure” while the Doctor meanwhile busied himself ripping off huge strips of surgical tape which he used to adhere a giant cotton ball, applied with considerable pressure, to each injection site. When this, the first of three or four treatments ended, he wrapped my now pulsating thighs in thick tensor band-aids leaving my legs, under my trousers, looking as if one of Hollywood's best had fashioned me a fat suit.

It was then I realized two things ... the tensor bandages made it all but impossible to bend my knees, and also that surgical tape is called that because it has a scalpel-like edge which will slice flesh quite handily if you attempt to crook knees when they are wrapped in it. Now all of this could have been put down to a painful lesson learned ... save for the yet-to-come drive home which included a crossing at an International Border heavily manned with people trained to look for the out-of-the ordinary ... say … just as a for instance ... a woman wearing a from-the-waist-down fat suit who can't bend her knees.

Swinging my legs the way you did when playing Monster with a gleeful child, that is say tossing them in an arc to complete a step, I made my way to my car. I have to tell you as I awkwardly endeavored to hoist myself into my crossover vehicle, encumbered by my somewhat useless limbs, I did not bear any resemblance to an "effin little wh*re of sex toy"! Nope ... I did not! Further, I quickly realized that driving while unable to bend one's knees is a challenge indeed.  I had to push the seat all the way back which left my arms completely straight. Picture a stuffed animal with its permanent arms and legs extended pose and you'll get the idea ... In addition to the disconcerting visuals and obvious safety concerns, every depression of the gas pedal or brake caused the surgical tape to behave like Christina on Grey's Anatomy and slice with unencumbered delight deeply and decisively into my punctured flesh.

 At this point, the offending veins, in what I took to be some sort of an objection to the solution pulsing through them, began to burn as if gasoline was flowing through my circulatory system. And so it was that when I approached the border, my face was contorted in a combination mask of pain/feigned normalcy. (It had occurred to me upon approach that should the guards’ suspicions be raised, they would likely make me remove the bandages and that the fresh 'tracks'  from fifty hypodermics would not win me any dispensation with those charged with protecting our borders.)

Sure enough, you'll be pleased to know that our tax dollars have been spent such that the official took one look at me and, his expensive training artfully serving him, asked me to exit the vehicle. "F*ck", I whispered under my breath as I swung my tree trunks to the side and awkwardly hopped out. I saw the young man cast a sidelong glance as he took in my misshapen thighs and, after a moment's indecision, he did the kind thing and searched the vehicle believing, I'm certain, that I had the worst case of cellulite ever seen in Niagara county.

Finally, after hitting every red light therefore finding it necessary to depress the brake constantly, I made it home where I just had to kill time till 10 p.m. when I could remove the offending tensors. After some experimentation, I found the least uncomfortable position was lying flat out on the floor, which is how I spent the five hours, watching the clock the way you do when you are in labor, until the bandaging could be removed. The removal of that tape, with its glue that would probably hold stuff firm in a Level 4 hurricane, is yet another story, but allow me to say I hacked at it with abandon using garden-shear sized scissors such was my desire to get it off me.

So ... what have we learned about vanity and the suffering that we are willing to endure for it? Well, I can't speak for any of you … but I might just start paying a bit more attention to Jamie Lee Curtis and her frequent rants about her abhorrence for the artificial things women do in pursuit of looking good as we age... “Might,” I say ... at least after my next three treatments. Whatever thoughtful consideration I entertain though, I’ll certainly be careful not to cross my milky-white, unlined thighs and risk causing fresh spider veins while I do it!

To your days I leave you ... Fondly, Annette

Adding To The Conversation: Women And Media

Barbara: So last week Ashley Judd asked us (and by “us” I don’t mean The Middle Ages specifically, but wouldn’t that’ve been cool???) to “join in—and change—the Conversation” about women and how we’re seen and represented in the media. In case you missed it, she wrote this biting piece for the Daily Beast in response to the overwhelming attention she’s received lately based SOLELY on her looks. She’d wanted to ignore it at first, but then she got mad. And then she knew she couldn’t sit back anymore and “take it”. She needed to speak out.

Now Ashley isn’t the first person to speak out against this kind of thing, but I really believe one of the reasons themes keep repeating themselves in our blogs here or in our conversations in life or in society in general is that we need to keep remembering—and reminding each other—to adjust. Because adjustment is so incremental (another common theme here!), we need to practice working and re-working our gears toward the truer and clearest path toward compassion and acceptance.

Why was Ashley lambasted? Because she’d “had work done” … or because she hadn’t. No one (in these articles) talked about how she’d scored a strong lead role in a new TV show, that she was setting a great example for strong female characters, one which didn’t need to be overtly sexualized to be interesting. No, the articles were all about her looks. And the mean-spirited writers of these pieces were usually (maybe exclusively) women! She calls it a misogynistic attitude. Not anti-male, but anti-female. That we are so conditioned to deconstruct each other that this is the only conversation worth having in our media right now: the insulting speculation goes viral, the nasty comments pile up, the media jumps in to ride this next wave of escalating vitriol. Ooh, we love to hate each other!

Now, I almost didn’t talk about this here because I know we’re not of this ilk. I’ve seen it over and over in how we support each other and celebrate our spiritual wellbeing. But then I also realized that if we don’t talk about it here, we’re missing a chance to spread the consciousness of a really important issue. We can put our feelings into words here—and everyone will have slightly different words—and we can make a difference in how women and men talk about women.

As an actor, I obviously have had to give my looks a lot of thought. But I was almost never cast as the “beautiful” girl, was almost always as the sweet mom. And so I didn’t really feel the onus of needing to look a perfect way. That said, the “beautiful” girl roles are usually the most exciting. And I do remember the whole “is she fuckable” question that was applied to who would eventually be cast in any given role. And, yes, this question gets applied to male actors too. But I’ve never been in a position where my looks have been scrutinized, picked apart, and spit upon like Ashley Judd has. People say Ashley was “asking for it” because she chose a career that puts her in the public eye. I have news for you: people who want to be actors are almost never in it for the fame. Is fame seductive, can it twist you around? Most certainly. But fame is really only part of the equation for an actor because if you’re famous, well, then you get to work—and actors want nothing more than to work (you can’t perform a little show by yourself, for yourself, the way you can, say keep a writing or drawing journal or dance or sing). People become actors because they have a deep-seated need to communicate with other people, to help share the human experience by showing you yourself. We’ve needed actors as story-tellers since the beginning of Man. Why would we excoriate them for not looking like some increasingly bizarre notion of "perfect"?

As a now “middle-aged” woman, I see my role in society shifting, my looks changing. Of course, I ask myself from time to time if I would ever get “work done”.  Funnily, this is probably the one instance when I have been guilty of deconstructing a woman’s looks: when she’s had so much work done, her face looks like an unnatural mask. I don’t know where to look; I blurt out how “great” she looks because I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. And what am I doing when I do that? Implying that in her natural state, the one where she looked utterly like herself, she was somehow not lovely?

I had lunch with an acquaintance a little while ago. I had only met her once when we’d had an amazing dinner together years before. When we got together the second time, I was delighted to see her again. She asked if she looked different; I said no, she looked exactly the same! It was just so great to see her! But she was disappointed. She’d lost a lot of weight, changed her hair colour, and felt like she’d shed some old unhappy, unhealthy version of herself. I was gobsmacked. I swear, my connection with her had been through her eyes, through her spirit that one night, through her stories. I guess how she looked hadn’t made as strong an impression on me as how she WAS. Sure, she looked great the second time, but she’d also looked great—to me—the first.

I think, like with health and wellness issues, how we look is only important as far as how it makes us FEEL. And we all need different things to make us feel good, don’t we? But we’re also making it harder to FEEL good about ourselves when so much focus seems to be on how we LOOK.

By reading or passing around the nasty garbage about how this person has cellulite and that one has wrinkles and the other one is “puffy-faced”, we are giving this kind of discussion weight. We need to stop valuing each other and ourselves for how good we look (or not). It’s not “innocent banter” or “silly gossip”. It insinuates. It snowballs. It corrupts. It undermines. And it is so IRRELEVANT.

Think about it: the people we really admire, the ones we really love, the deepest, realest connections in our lives have nothing to do with appearances.

Maybe if we practice believing it, we might actually one day believe it.

Deb: This is a subject I have wanted to tackle for some time and have had in my notes and on my mind.  Thank you, Barbara, for bringing it up. I have continued to marvel these last years about the continued and growing attack on woman—by women. I have much more to say on it, but it will be for another time. Right now and for this post, you have nailed it. But I must say, I think the conversation should continue at The Middle Ages. I think we have just landed on a theme that deserves some length of time. I might even suggest a spring theme if you will. I will build on what you have written if you like and you do the same. A great dialogue will ensue, I am sure. For women and for men, we MUST start setting new ground rules. We must. It has lost its way ... mostly, but not entirely. Not by a long shot.

Barbara: Yes, let’s do it!!! 

PS Tomorrow, Annette is going to guest-blog here about her own hilarious encounter with trying to walk this delicate line!

Self-Esteem: How Low Can You Go?

Barbara: I met the most lovely young woman the other night. She was stunningly beautiful, but in such a natural way it seemed she never even thought about it: no makeup, long loose hair down to her butt, and comfortable, simple, and as a result sexy clothes and jewelry. But also all the fixings of a real beauty: excellent bone structure, perfect olive skin, and bright intelligent eyes. You coulda knocked me over with a sable makeup brush when she announced a few glasses of wine into the evening that she suffered terribly from low self-esteem.

And as the rest of us women also began to consider self-esteem that night it became clear—and maybe obvious—that this seems to be a universal issue for we women of the first world problems. But why? I know I ask “why” a lot—I’m like that annoying 3-year-old kid who’s just learned the word. But again, it just niggles, doesn’t it? Whhhhhyyyyy?

Okay, so why does it matter that there are more beautiful women out there, thinner ones, or smarter ones? Why do we need to measure ourselves against them—and when we do, why do we consider the comparatives as “shortcomings” and not “differences”? When I was younger, I was always drawn to bitches—and why? Because they made me feel absolutely sure of my place as someone dumber, less sophisticated, and less capable. And mostly because I deemed it so, not because that’s what they out-and-out said to me. Did that sense of my being less-than invade my every waking moment? Not consciously, but I know it manifested in all kinds of ways. I always used to worry that my husband would find someone more attractive and then leave me, devastating my very being. It never occurred to me that if our marriage were to end, it would be because we’d fallen out of love and couldn’t find our way back, and not because of some random, slight, and natural observation that there were, oh my god, yes, some women prettier and smarter than I (again, those bitches I was “attracted to” were also the ones I was most sure would be my marriage-nemeses: naturally Phil would leave me for the opposite of me, right? Naturally I would want them in my life.).

Image (yup, that's me) by Michele.

The thing is, we don’t make our problems better by sassing ourselves and preparing for the worst (i.e.: loss of love). No, that’s how we make our problems. That’s right. We. Make. Our. Problems.

That beauty I met the other night, her self-esteem issues attracted the worst kinds of assholes. And I’m gonna guess that if she were lucky enough to meet Mr. Right, she might actually drive him away by being more wrapped up in how “horrible” she is than in how wonderful he is. I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her how amazing she is and how much she deserves the very best (okay, I did tell her all that, short of taking her in my arms). But the truth is, she is surrounded by numerous people who trumpet her wondrousness. She’s not one of those people who’s alone with no one to love her. But it didn't seem to make a difference to her love of self. In other words, despite every apparent gift and advantage, there are still some issues that have such insidious power … they manage to trump all else.

Hello, low self-esteem. Now fuck off.

I want us to fight back. I want us to tell ourselves how amazing we are. I mean, what have we got to lose? That would be one (more) voice on the planet that’s got it right. And don’t worry about getting all hoity on conceit—conceit has its roots in other problems, namely lack of compassion and dearth of awareness. No, no, self-love is something beautiful and generous and expansive. It swells up your heart and gives it more space to love other people.

I begged that young woman to tell herself every morning how amazing she is until she maybe finally believed it, and suddenly one of our fellow diners shared her story with us: in order to land her dream job, she spent every morning looking at her reflection in the mirror and telling herself she was great and smart and the best one for the job. And you know what? She felt so relaxed and confident by the time she got to her interview that she nailed it. And you know what else? Cutest, sweetest, least conceited person I ever met.

By not looking into that distorted mirror anymore, we free ourselves up to really look outward and see the wonderful world.

Deb: Beautifully said, Barb. This subject continues to amaze and shock me. Not only from the point of view of my own insecurities, but from those whom I deem wonderful and “worthy” of self-love.

Lately when I let thoughts of self-doubt and insecurity take up space in my brain, I say out loud, “Enough. Stop this, poison thought. Get out of my head.” If I do not say it out loud, for some reason it looms large in my psyche all day. So I totally get why the cute sweet gal did that. It works! And some days/weeks I don’t say it once and some days I say it ten times. I think my brain is shocked when I say it and it lays off.

My biggest surprise of late, much like the beautiful insecure stranger you met, was when I read Diane Keaton’s book. Oh my God, she is so insecure. I mean, soooooo insecure. And I thought, Really? YOU are Diane Friggin Keaton! But then I thought, “Yeah, but we see her from the outside and she sees herself from the in.”


Barbara: And here's another look at one of the best expressions of confident self-nurturing. Which, with its amazing spirit, made us all stop and watch and cheer.

I’ve Won The Battle With Cellulite

Deb: Got your attention, didn’t I?

Yes, it is true what you heard, I have won that battle. And I didn’t win it with creams, machines, or plastic surgery. I have been looking for five years to find a way to conquer this bodily bubble wrap. It’s too bad it’s not like the shipping bubble wrap, although if it were I would never leave the house, all day pop pop popping.

So it’s with a teensy bit of smug satisfaction that I share my epiphany with you.

It all started in Italy four summers ago. It was a steamy day and husband, boy, and I sat at an outdoor cafe. My lovely summer blouse measured specifically partway down my arms and my shorts, partway down my legs, conspiring with me to keep bubbles at bay.

Shifting weight from time to time to prevent the sun from casting shadows on any offending area, I suddenly looked up. Coming towards us was a sexy early 50’s Italian woman dressed in an outfit that can only be described as so beautiful, so chic, so perfect, that she doesn’t care if you like it or not. In fact, it’s probably better if you don’t. There she was, just owning the street with each cobblestone click. And then I saw it. Her arms were covered in cellulite. She was bubbling over.

I said to my husband, “Why do I think my cellulite looks so horrific and yet she has it and still looks so hot?”  My husband said that I was an idiot, which is his sweet and sarcastic way of saying that he loves the way I look, bless him. So I vowed then and there that I would never ever ever cover myself up! That I too would own it.

And four years from that moment ... I was transformed.

You see, I woooooooooouuuuuuuuuullllllllllllddddddddd have done it sooner and I tried. I mean, philosophically I was behind it one hundred. But as a public practice I couldn’t make a full commitment. And every time I would get ready to bare arms, I would catch a glimpse in my full length mirror as the sun was softly setting ... aaaaaaaaaaaaand-no.

And yet this summer, I am just feeling so summery and so free, I brazenly donned a bathing suit in front of friends who had never seen my dimpled goodness lo these past years. And as it turns out, no one sneered, shunned or scorned, even though in certain light my upper left thigh looks like Shirley Temple eating mashed potatoes. I’m sure they noticed and yet they did not shun, not even a little. Mind you, given the number of middle-aged friends we have, it is remotely possible they actually didn’t see it.

Whatever the case, this has been an almost five-year battle for me, one I was too vain to be sensible about. And now I’m outed and free to play in the sun with the other kids.

I mean let’s face it, ten years from now with aging’s new charms and surprises and looking back on this 57-year-old Deb, I will be awestruck by my crazy-ass hotness.

So I figure I might as well just think it now. Too humid for insecurity. 

PS And if you think you’re getting a picture with this one, think again. I’m not insane. But in the meantime, enjoy this lovely picture of a cloud.

Barbara: Hey, my Yoda Master and my birthday near-twin, I’m having a similar sort of summer as you! Haven’t worn shorts and even skirts the last few summers (not just cellulite woes, but those new, shocking eruptions of extra meat where once was lean). But this hot and hazy summer has been all strapless this and swishy that. I feel AWESOME! Sidelong comments be damned. And, thanks to our lovely readers here and their encouragement, I’m getting so much better about not giving a shit about that shit anyway.

On another note, maybe when it comes to the body-confidence arena our hot-climate sisters have it over us cold-livin’ gals because too much coverage in warm weather is uncomfortable at best and suffocating at worst. Let’s face it, when you’re hot, you’re hooooot. 

Just Another Pretty Face?

Barbara: Okay, so I’m watching this show the other night and it’s all about body consciousness and dysmorphia and the too early womanizing of girls and plastic surgery and all that. And I don’t want to write about any of this stuff today because there’s already so much out there about it and I don’t feel like ranting and suffice it to say I want women to feel at peace with themselves and their bodies and accept who they are and all that. I do. I wrote about it here. I really really do.

But this TV program also made me realize a couple of things. Not cool things. Things I want to confess to you because it always turns out to be interesting when we go a bit out on a limb.

I’m a sucker for a pretty face.

There I said it.

Like a baby stares at a face for long bouts of time, I too can stare mesmerized at a lovely person. My mom still teases me that when I was a toddler, she could keep me occupied in my bed for hours simply by sticking a magazine in the bed with me. Every time she’d come back to get me, I’d have a certain page open: one with a photo of a beautiful man staring back at me. My virtual handsome-man babysitter.

So on this TV program, they were vilifying the modeling industry for using a 12-year-od girl on the runways. Well, I couldn’t stop staring at this beautiful—she seemed to me—woman. Take off the makeup and the womanly clothes and put her beside her mother and I see her childish self and am no longer mesmerized. Pull me away from the show and I would be all outraged for the poor girl’s lost childhood, concerned with how this life might affect her sense of self-esteem, for all the pitfalls of fame and scrutiny. But wait––let me look at her first. All beautiful chocolate skin and corkscrew curls.

I don’t value pretty faces above others, I don’t think the people who don them are more interesting, better people, more talented. I have no intellectual investment in a pretty face. I also can’t imagine wanting this as a kind of personal goal: “Oh how I wish people would stare at me like mouth-breathing idiots.” This isn’t how it works. Not in my experience. I’ve never known an attractive person to just coast through life on this accidental happenstance. Life is as sticky, as challenging, as frustrating for them as it is for anyone else.

But if you are a pretty face, know now that I will take a break for a moment when I see you, know that for a moment you will be a shiny object upon which I simply must gaze. Can’t help it.

Confession over. Lynch me now.

PS Deb and I were ships passing in the night on this post, so today Deb will post her response in the comments section.

Deb and Barb Have A Three-Way (nudity might be involved)

Deb and Barb Have A Three-Way With Hart

Deb and Barbara met Hart through her excellent, thoughtful and spirited blog, Confessions of a Watery Tart, which explores lots of "real life" stuff, but focuses mainly on her journey as a writer. Hart has a mind-blowing amount of stamina: not only does she work full-time, raise a family, write her novels, and blog everyday, but she is an ardent, generous reader and supporter of dozens of other people’s blogs, including ours. And we love her.

The Aging Nudist

Hart: Before I get going, I really want to thank Deb and Barbara for having me. I adore these two: the honesty, the energy, the fun... all things I aspire to. In honesty, though, there are things I don't talk about much because... they're embarrassing...

Oh, I hear you. Anyone who knows me is convinced I embarrass myself all the time, but that is the intentional buffooning to throw attention off the... buffoon. But I thought maybe here was a good place to get naked...

See, I've been a nudist most of my life. At age two I refused to keep on the wet swimsuit because WET CLOTHES are UNCOMFORTABLE! (And I had a point, ne? They're MISERABLE!  Mom said I was easy to potty train, though, so I suppose that is the other angle to the naked toddler in the front yard.)

Two years later I gave up nightwear for good... (it gets TANGLED!), and at sixteen I finally started recruiting... you know, spreading the word about how much more COMFORTABLE it was!

But here's the thing... at sixteen, or twenty, or twenty-five, I could legitimately say I looked better naked *cues Chris Isaacs song*. Video here  (note, it is the 1:07 mark where he says 'you're the kind of a girl who looks better naked'). I'm a bit Amazonian... have always hopped the line between the high end of normal and overweight... not the kind of girl to compliment the latest fashion (particularly anything straight-legged—even at my thinnest, I've always had ample thighs), but my parts were firm and smooth... they held in place... so long as I made a point of getting some exercise and some sun, it worked well.

Jump ahead 20 years... past two pregnancies... four or five significant weight losses and regains... and frankly... it isn't pretty. I still walk A LOT (about 25 miles a week)... there is solid muscle coating my legs, top and bottom... erm... under a layer of lumpy stuff... the tummy sags a bit... in fact when I bend, it folds into rolls... lovely.

I don't have many mirrors in my house and it takes quite an effort to see one’s lower half (like standing on something). And it takes the hand-mirror to see much of one’s backside.  I never really thought about this until my last hotel stay when it was all too easy to see that time just was not being nice.

Instead of giving up the Nudism and embracing an age of modesty, though, which goes against all that I am, I've decided to embrace the opportunity to practice a little self-acceptance.  I see older women who look GREAT and that is great—good for them and more power to them. But I also see older women who are trying far too hard to hang onto something that just isn't happening—lovely, young curls on a face of wrinkles doesn't have the same kind of grace as gray curls.  And makeup doesn't hide it—in fact, it just settles into the creases and looks tacky.  Ton of eye make-up?  HELLO, CIRCUS ACT.

Hart's tatoo

And at least I can be content in my knowledge that I really DID know what I was doing when I chose my tattoo location... upper central back... that moon will neither wrinkle nor sag, no matter what happens to me.

Barbara: First off, LOVE the tattoo! Second, one of the things that drew me to you and your blog, Hart, was your deep commitment to honesty in all forms. That comes across in your writing, of course. But there was always something about the nudism angle that seemed to support that honesty even more (symbolically and literally).

I WISH I had this kind of freedom, I really do, the kind that says “free me of my shackles, I need none of them”. But, sadly, I am not a nudist at heart and never have been. Well… there was this one time…

Honeymoon pic. Yep, nekkid under the hat :)

When my husband and I went on our honeymoon (obviously back in the “young bod” years), we found ourselves on a topless beach. I was intrigued by the idea of nude sunbathing. But I was also wracked with nerves at the idea of taking anything off. Finally, though (okay, with some prodding from my new hubby), I decided to go for it. It was exhilarating, no question, to have the nips out in the fresh ocean breeze. My husband jokes that I went from, “Please, no, I can’t possibly take it off,” to “Weeeee, let’s play topless beach-ball!”

Did I find my calling? Um, no. As much as I loved it, it’s not like it ever happened again. But now that I’m older and the older parts are showing? I don’t know. Would it be less likely… or more??? After all, I care less now about what people think. And I also think I’ve accepted the aging process with some amount of grace. But the truth is, maybe I’m just not a nudist at heart.

Should we be hiding our lumps, or showing them off?

Deb: Ahhhh, Hart, you are my HERO! I have always wanted to be that person. Free as the birds, age of Aquarius, flappin’ in the wind kind of gal. But alas and alack, I am clothed. Fully clothed. Don’t even like to go barefoot. Very similar to Barb in that way. And funnily enough I went topless on the island of Santorini on my honeymoon too. Well to be honest, it was the first honeymoon, first husband––does that count?  And... I have the pictures to prove it. I won’t lie to you. I had a kick-ass body from the age of ten (yeah, ten, sadly, too too young) to the age of 52.

I remember the day it all ended.  It was a February day, a little overcast and breezy, high of minus two, when the bod years died. One brief glance in the mirror and I knew the bod years were history.  But even in the day, the “days of the bod”, couldn’t do the bare naked. I even get out of the shower and cover up when I am alone in the bathroom, for crying out loud! Don’t know why exactly, but I suspect it had something to do with having a woman’s body at such a young age. I spent many early years trying to hide it and cover it up. Hence... I guess... the covering up.

You work it, girl. God invented the body, we invented the clothes. xo

Hart Johnson (aka:  Alyse Carlson and The Watery Tart) is a super-secret social scientist by day. At night, Hart writes suspense, YA and adult mainstream books from her bath tub.  She is currently writing book 9 (the second as Alyse Carlson). Alyse writes Cozy Mysteries for Berkeley Prime Crime––a series to make its first public appearance in June 2012.  The Watery Tart is responsible for most mischief you will ever encounter.  She's incorrigible.

Hart can be found at her blog Confessions of a Watery Tart, at the blog of her Writer's Group Burrowers, Books and Balderdash or at the Burrow website.