Fashion, Femininity, and Fidelity | Thigh Gap Hell

Read this article first for context, then come back:

Why The Dangerous “Thigh Gap” Trend Makes Me Mad

First of all, if she’s considered a “plus size” model, we’ve got other problems. But we’ll take one topic at a time.

Thigh Gap. I didn’t know it was a thing—a fad until about 8 months ago. Not sure how I stumbled onto the phrase, but I found myself searching the hashtag thinspiration (which oddly enough doesn’t autocorrect). It was devastating, and it was all real people dedicating their entire Instagram feeds (and in turn, their lives) to being thinner than they currently are and having an unrealistic gap between their thighs while standing up. Apparently, shortly after my discovering it, it began to get some negative press, so Instagram banned the hashtag; but the idea lives on under countless other hashtags like: thinspo, thinspogram, thinsporational, and thinspoquotes. It’s actually disturbing. On my phone, I clicked on the thinspo hashtag and this warning popped up.

I’ve had body image and eating issues all of my life. I would label myself a compulsive eater—which includes obsessive dieting—but the majority of my issues, I kept a secret. I remember in high school measuring my stomach with my fingers and having a goal of lessening how much of my fingers my belly covered when I laid down. I never told anyone about this, but I obsessed over it. These girls are a community. This behavior is socially acceptable and praised in many circles. If you're not skinny, you're not perfect. It’s destructive, and they’re all in pain. They hate themselves. They say so on their pictures, but they all feel the same way together, so it’s ok…?

As a high school teacher for 8 years, I ran into a lot of body image issues. Sadly, many of the girls even received pressure from home about how they should look. Girls told me their parents pushed them to work out, were strict about what they ate, and they, in turn, felt bad or guilty, and were unable enjoy tasty food or “splurge” on something high in fat. There is a stigma that goes along with women eating in general and eating “bad” food specifically. (We’ll discuss that in another blog.) But it starts at home. I think a woman gets much of her relationship with food from her family life, the way she was raised, and her mother’s relationship with food.

I think about my body daily—what it looks like to me and to others. I know it is a waste of space in my brain, but this is still something I fight all day long. I don’t have a specific obsession with Thigh Gap, but I obsess over other parts of my body. All of this comes from what I’ve been fed my entire life. We’re surrounded by magazines, media, tv, movies, pornography and highly sexualized images that all say women should look a certain way—it’s deeply ingrained in us.

For now, the only way I know how to fight this is 1. not giving in myself and 2. talking about it with others. Talk about how it’s crap, and it’s doing nothing for us as a society or as a gender. It’s actually breaking people down and ruining more than our self images, it’s ruining Our Bodies—our ability to have children, to be healthy, Our Minds—self-worth, the way we treat others, Our Reputations—the fact that people stereotype women as vain and self-absorbed (true in many cases) while rewarding them for it. If we’re spending time using our brains and energy to think about our weight, the number inside the jeans we just bought, the gap between our thighs, if we can put our hand around our entire arm, if our ribs show through our skin, how far our hip bones jut out or if they show at all, what we had for lunch and then dessert and then snack, and how much of our fingers our belly covers when we lie down on our side—if we are putting energy into this or judging others for failing to meet our impossible standard, we’ve lost sight of our humanity.

We’re better than this.

Femininity | Shake Rattle and Roll!

“Get out in that kitchen and rattle those pots and pans

Get out in that kitchen and rattle those pots and pans

Well roll my breakfast 'cause I'm a hungry man

I said shake rattle and roll…  I said shake rattle and roll

I said shake rattle and roll…  I said shake rattle and roll

Well you'll never do nothin' To save your doggone soul”

Yes, those are the lyrics to the classic dance tune from the 50s made popular by Bill Haley & His Comets. Who knew that “Shake, rattle, and roll” was referencing pots and pans? And cooking?!?

Cooking and Kitchens are touchy subjects with me - especially right now, as a new wife. I didn’t grow up cooking or in the kitchen, except to do my occasional chores of washing or drying the dishes. Other than that, I had no real desire to cook or bake or create with food. My mother never pushed me to, which I am thankful for, and my life went on just like anyone else’s. During college, I ate from the cafeteria (or binged on dry hot chocolate mix). After college, I lived alone for nearly 10 years, and I survived perfectly fine. I rarely cooked. I ate fruit, cereal, nuts, oatmeal, Chinese takeout, and sometimes I cooked up a chicken breast. But, making food was never an interest of mine. I love food, don’t get me wrong (I’ll write more about that later). But making said food is just not in my skill set.

Enter Levi Wiggins. As soon as we started dating, I discovered that he was an excellent cook. Not only did he love to spend hours in the kitchen creating food and beverages, but it was unbelievably delicious when he was finished. I couldn’t have been happier with this; he loved to make meals, and he loved that my interests were elsewhere. Throughout our dating relationship, he cooked and I enjoyed every. single. bite.

Then we married. Suddenly everything changed, which is not what I wanted to happen when I got married at all! Levi’s job went full-time and my job ended. We were immediately put into a situation that I was not prepared for. He was working all day from home, and I was hanging around the house all day… also from home. It didn’t even occur to me that I might need to make some food for us—which reveals my naivete and selfishness. After about a week of living in our little upstairs apartment, Levi had to gently say, “You think you might want to make something to eat today?” I was shocked. And in my own little world, I felt like he was shouting the words of that demeaning song “Shake Rattle and Roll” to me. I was hurt. And no, I didn’t want to make something to eat! I’ve never done it before, I’m not good at it, he always did it, that was the deal, why would I do it now?!

I didn’t articulate those feelings at the time, but I went into the kitchen and began to ‘Rattle those pots and pans.’ I made things from scratch - things I’ve never made before, things I never want to make again. It was a rough week —for everybody. I was in the kitchen all day—from figuring out how to make 3 meals to cleaning all the dishes in between. I was angry and hurt. And Levi added salt to everything. I felt subjugated in a way I couldn’t fully express. I knew it made sense for me to cook - I didn’t have a full-time job, we needed food, but something was hurting me.

I talked with L. I told him exactly how I felt, and he listened. He understood. Even though he needs me to do some things in the kitchen, he knows it’s not my thing. And he agrees that it doesn’t have to be just because I am female. We have since found some alternatives. He usually makes dinner, and tries to make extra so we can have left-overs or some variation of it for lunch the next day. Also, cereal. Cereal for breakfast has saved my mental health. And I do dishes 3 days a week instead of every minute of every day, or putting them off for the week.

I’m just not wired that way, and it’s ok. There’s nothing innately feminine about cooking and serving food. How do bachelors survive? What about women who are physically unable? And why are most chefs men? (I’m down with it!)

In our house, we are learning and trying to live out roles that may not look like everyone elses’, but they work for us. I can and should cook sometimes because it is a service to my husband whom I love. He can and should cook sometimes because he loves to and it’s a service to me. One way is not better than the other - one just tastes better.

Femininity | Footwear

I walked in my first pair of heels in a Shoe Show in Hendersonville, Tennessee when I was 14. To my surprise, I was a natural. Not sure if it was the abnormally large feet that supported me or the sturdy frame of my non-athletic body, but I could walk in some heels. And I was so excited! Heels are a vital part of the rickety bridge from childhood to womanhood, and I was ahead of the curve, which was a big deal for a slightly frumpy and awkward tom boy.

For the next several years, I didn’t wear them, but when I got to college, high heels began to be a staple in my arsenal of accoutrements. I was coming into my own—finding I could be even taller than my already taller-than-average 5' 9" when I wore huge heels. I secretly enjoyed the attention of being the tallest one in the room. It was empowering yet feminine. I didn’t fully understand it then, but I knew I felt different and was treated differently when I was wearing crazy heels than when I was wearing something more comfortable and practical.

Over the years, I have worn way more than my fair share of heels—all kinds—crazy, strappy, wedgy, spikey, stiletto, basically anything that was high and drew attention. I didn’t consciously realize it (I don’t think), but it was there; I was using heels as a way to accentuate my womanhood—to have power over others but also seem helpless and sexy.

Bernard Rudofsky says “By depriving her of a secure walk she becomes an irresistible female. The cheeks shake, the breasts shake, the body lumbers and hops. The jutting abdomen, the staccato tripping, it is all delightfully feminine. . . . Every woman knows that to wear ‘walking shoes’ or ‘sensible shoes’ puts a damper on a man’s ardor. The effect of absurdly impractical shoes is as intoxicating as a love potion.”

Although I’m good at walking in heels, it still changes the way I walk. It makes my legs look “toned,” my steps are shorter, my posture is altered, I require assistance from humans and railings and walls to stay upright—my gait is completely changed when I'm wearing heels. Why? Why am I wearing shoes that make my feet and back hurt, cause blisters and sometimes draw blood? Who am I trying to impress, and what am I trying to tell them? When I wear comfortable sandals or my beloved running shoes, my walk is just a walk—there's nothing special about it, it doesn't attract attention, it just gets me where I'm going.

“An artificial feminine walk seems to gratify many psychological and cultural needs. The female foot and leg are turned into ornamental objects and the impractical shoe, which offers little protection against dust, rain and snow, induces helplessness and dependence. In an interesting double message of the sort that abounds in the exacting but not quite explicit feminine code, the extra wiggle in the hips, exaggerating a slight natural tendency, is seen as sexually flirtatious while the smaller steps and tentative, insecure tread suggest daintiness, modesty and refinement.” (Brownmiller, “Femininity”)

I’m beginning to think about the shoes I put on for other reasons than what I have been told to think is “cool” or “hip.” I’m starting to think about what I’m subconsciously but also consciously telling people by the shoes I wear—how I am perceived, and how much I value myself by the amount of pain I’ll endure to look a certain way. These are questions I’ve never asked myself before, but I think they need to be asked. They’re good questions, and I’m worth it. So are you.

Fidelity | On Breaking Engagements

I’ve been engaged twice, basically. Technically once, with a ring and a dress, but basically twice, and I didn’t marry either one of those men. I don’t say that to brag or flaunt my heart-breaking; I say it because it’s good. And that is clear now.

Some of you may actually know and love the men I write about. I love them too. They are good men, and this isn’t actually about them. This is and was about me. I was not supposed to marry them. Not in a weird, mystical, “I was made for one specific person in this whole wide world” sort of way; I don’t believe in that. But marrying them would not have been in the best interest of them or me.

The first time I was engaged, I was very young — 21. In my opinion (now), that is too young to be deciding who you will spend the rest of your life with. It works out for a lot of people. It didn’t work out for me. I made a decision wise beyond my years, and I walked away—with plenty of pain, depression, and anger to follow—from a relationship that wasn’t healthy, sweet, or anywhere near as good as either of us deserved. And I am so thankful I did.

The next (almost) engagement was when I was much older. Old enough to know what I thought marriage should be and how I wanted to be treated. Still immature in a lot of ways, but again, I had the sense—maybe the knowledge deep in my soul—that I shouldn’t do this. I am now so  thankful and relieved that I did not promise my remaining years and life to this wonderful man, because although he had many fine qualities, together we weren’t ideal.

Why am I delving into my somewhat controversial relationship history? Over the past 10 years, I have been critiqued many times on my relationship choices. Some have been upset at my fickleness. However, if they knew the turmoil I went through making these difficult decisions and the hurt I brought on myself, they might not call it careless. And looking at my life now, they would likely agree that I was right. It’s not just my life—It’s his, too, and I guarantee you that both men would thank me and say they are profoundly grateful for the women they are married to. And they're not me. And that’s ok—we all made it through.

The dress was sold, the rings bought back, explanations were made, and eventually, hearts were mended.

I struggle when I listen to women talking about relationships like they don’t have any say in them. Waiting and hoping for your guy to ask you marry him, unhappy with how you’re treated but scared this might be your “last shot.” You’re in love (maybe madly), but the other side of that can often be very dark and lonely.

There is no reason—not one—that you should marry him if you know that it’s not right. Or if you think it’s not right. Or if you suspect it’s not right…. I didn’t end up marrying until I was one week shy of 32. I got all the standard pressure about my age, my “ticking baby clock,” all of it! And I chose not to succumb to that ridiculous, oppressive way of thinking. I waited—not for the “right one to come along”—but for something good, mature, deep, caring, and invested.

I waited until I was in a relationship with someone whom I wanted to marry more than I wanted my singleness—and that was quite a trade off. Marriage isn’t necessarily the next step or even on the staircase of many women’s lives. Believing it is and pressuring yourself to “find someone” or trying to be “so lost in God that a man has to seek Him to find you” all puts the end goal of your life in a man—a broken, human man. And it’s only going to let you down. Every single time.

So, marriage is great and beautiful, and I believe in it way more than I did a year ago (husband sighs in relief), but it’s not the end. It’s not the culmination of a life well lived. It’s a wonderful part of many people’s lives, a horrible part of many people’s lives, and not a part at all of many others’.

When I taught high school, I would always encourage my kids to wait, to grow up, live a little, think for themselves, and make solid decisions, not decisions based on fear, money, invitations sent, or someone else’s heart. Those aren’t noble things. In the end, you’re saving his heart as well as your own.

Fashion | Eyebrows: Fill 'em in, Fake it, or Shake what your Mama gave ya?

I grew up blind to make-up, fashion, and my appearance in general. I remember the first time my mother plucked my eyebrows when I was in high school. She came into my room, sat on my bed with tweezers and a cold, wet wash cloth in hand. I hesitantly laid my head in her lap as she proceeded to pluck one tiny, misplaced hair out - I then shrieked in agony, and she waited while I held the damp cloth on my brow bone for as long as it took for the horrific pain to subside. Then she'd pluck another hair. My sweet mother was painfully teaching me the value of well maintained body hair - a well coiffed brow. a manicured face. a closely mowed eye lawn.

Eventually, I became better at this process and started to do my own plucking. It probably had something to do with the fact that my beautiful big sister complimented my brows one day, saying they had the “best arch" and she "wished hers were more like MINE."

That was it. My obsession with eyebrows had begun.

The love affair continued through college. Until one day, I was getting a pedicure with a friend. The nail tech began talking to us about eyebrows; he wanted to wax them. My friend said she didn't really want to get hers waxed, and I confidently boasted that I "did" my own.

To which the man frankly replied, "Oh...that's what happened…."

Years of self-assurance in my eyebrows' natural aesthetics--as well as my own ability to groom them--was gone with one offhanded but honest comment.

Thanks to some positive thinking and self-actualization, I recovered from that - and now, years later, I am much less concerned with my brows. But I have moved to Nashville, and this town has something serious going on with its eyebrows. It seems to be the en vogue thing to pluck them (I assume) and then draw them back on in a much darker, richer color, in a more dramatic (less realistic) shape. I have found this odd yet strangely appealing. I was not privy to the fact that people even "filled in" their eyebrows until about a year ago. Since then, I have dabbled with a little filling in - making them darker and fuller around that "killer arch" of mine. A few times I have gone too far and made them very black (which doesn’t match my "brown with auburn hues" hair) and then gone somewhere in public knowing I don't look quite right and being assured of it by the puzzled stares I receive.

Nonetheless, seeing all of these brave Nashville women who have dared to remove facial hair that plays a surprisingly large part in what they look like, I have become very interested in people's experiences with their brows. It's so much more vast than a careful plucking or a good waxing these days - some of you people are creating art in place of your brows!

What’s going on with eyebrows? What are you doing (or not doing) with yours? What’s happening in your town? Whatever happened to Grace Jones - and do you think she started this eyebrow craziness?