Overcoming the Space of "Meh"

I don’t really write/talk a lot about body image, and the reasons for that are fairly boring.  First of all, I don’t think I have much to add to the discussion: I feel like we should all love our bodies, but I understand why we often can’t, and I’m reluctant to contribute to the guilt people feel for failing to cultivate a healthy body image.  This array of feelings makes me the world’s most indecisive cheerleader, “Love your body!  Unless you can’t, which is understandable because of the oppressive onslaught of images the media throws at us and the way we all judge and punish one another for failing to fit into unrealistic confines of ‘beauty.’ So if you can’t, that’s OK!  I wish you would, but…What?  Oh.  Sorry.” And someone then would take away my pom-poms and megaphone, and rightly so.  I don’t really know, in this hypothetical, who was foolish enough to give me a megaphone in the first place. 

The other related reason I don’t really discuss this very important issue is that I have no wisdom to pass on to those suffering from a bad body image.  If I can shamelessly generalize for a moment, people who talk effectively about body images are often people who either really hate or really love their bodies.  I fall somewhere in the middle of the spectrum of body love/hate, in an area that, in my psychological and sociological expertise, I will label “meh.” I don’t experience the perpetual self-loathing that becomes disease which so many people have bravely fought through, but I also spend exactly no time celebrating how I look.  I spend a lot of time actively not thinking about my appearance, but I don’t do this out of an evolved sense of humility, I do this because I want to avoid that perpetual dissatisfaction.

Don’t get me wrong, my body is a good companion.  It doesn’t get sick very often, and when it does it knows we still have to get things done, so it very seldom requires a lot of doting.  It has worked despite quite a few sprains, torn ligaments, and out of place joints, and only emits muffled complaints on rainy days and cold mornings.  It has learned that coffee is amazing, and, whatever “experts” say, this magical beverage actually has its own level on the food pyramid, and we should revere that.  So I appreciate my body on a functional level.  I’m healthy, and that’s fantastic.  I could totally teach a class on “Listening to Your Body Except When You Don’t Want To Because You Have Papers to Write Or Other Things That Need Done,” but I did not think I could write a blog post about “Loving Your Body.”

And yet here we are, so what happened (you may rightly ask, as you wait for me to get to a point)?  Well, this happened, and that happened, and it’s almost summer, so I keep running across articles telling me how to get a bikini-ready body, when all it takes to have a bikini-ready body is buying a bikini you like and putting it on your body.  In other words, my people, shit is going down, and I am not amused.

I’m not here to warn you about the scary, nefarious Media.  We know the media doesn’t particularly care if a size ten girl is sadly perusing a magazine where the models are so thin it’s like an inadvertent game of Where’s Waldo.  I think the people who point out the flaws in advertising do very important, necessary work, and I also think that we as individuals need to acknowledge that there’s more work to be done that only we can do for ourselves.  There have been many times where I have doggedly deconstructed a commercial’s harmful portrayals of the female or male body, and then spent the rest of my afternoon dodging mirrors because I was having a fat day.  Really, “meh” is not an empowering place to be, and as fun as tearing down the media is, we need to do more.

I’m going to sound like Oprah or maybe the Dalai Lama for a second, so bear with me: The work we need to do starts inside, and I believe it starts from a place of gratitude.  Maybe we do start by being grateful that our bodies actually work for us, that they fight off disease, and that if we ask them to run a marathon for us, they might be like, “Seriously? Why? Will this cut into our Game of Thrones time?” but ultimately agree as long as we provide cupcakes afterwards.  It’s unlikely we’ll ever live in a world where appearances don’t matter, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.  There are a lot of beautiful people out there, waiting to be appreciated.  But, that’s sort of my point here: we are the beautiful people, and we need to stop waiting to be appreciated.  We can’t afford to wait any longer for the media to change or for standards of beauty to be adjusted.  We need to find a place for ourselves in the world we have now.

If we can be happy with the things our bodies do (maybe you have great eyesight, maybe you have horrible eyesight but that allowed you to get kickass glasses, maybe one time in second grade you were the only person to make it across the monkey bars without falling the humiliating four feet into the dirt), that could be the secret to cultivating a thoroughly positive body image.  For example, I trip very seldom for a person who is often thinking of potential revisions to papers while walking instead of paying attention to my surroundings.  Perhaps gratitude for this will help me eventually garner appreciation for my legs. 

But on a more sincere note, a few days ago I was playing Space Monster with my five-year-old friend Liam. At one point, Liam enthusiastically tackled me, and I was able to catch him and purposefully crumble to the ground with a surprising amount of grace and dramatic flair.  I’m really grateful to have a body that allows me to do that. 

I guess I’m just asking that we approach this really complicated issue from a simple, pragmatic standpoint.  Let’s not start from “How do I look?  How do I not look?”  Let’s instead start from “What can I do?” I think that’s a more powerful place to begin, and I believe that will make our journey to healthy body images more meaningful. 

Degrees of Separation

Most of us have had the experience of walking away from a conversation, knowing exactly what we should have said.  I, personally, am always about 300 times cleverer in those imaginative alternate realities than I am in real life.  We rehearse these conversations that we had somehow botched originally, struggling restlessly with the knowledge that if we would only have another chance at that exact same conversation, we’d be so devastatingly ready that redemption would surely be ours; and our would-be retractors, those unworthy victors of the original exchange, would realize just how awesome we truly are.  Usually, though, those conversations never happen again, and we’re left as the sole believers in our undiscovered wit.  Really, hindsight and too much free time is a tough combination for everyone.

What’s worse, though, is when those conversations actually do recur, and you never manage to cultivate a comeback. 

As a graduate student studying English Literature, I get asked the same question over and over again (sing it with me fellow liberal arts students): What are you going to do with that?

And, to a point, it’s such a fair question.  Genuine curiosity doesn’t offend me.  It’s the tone, it’s the follow-up questions, it’s the look of distrust and suspicion, as though I’m going to prowl the town with Derridean flair and start systematically dismantling street signs because there is no way they can ever truly represent the signified. (I’ve taken a lot of theory this year)

People don’t really ask me what I want to do with my degree, they ask me why I’m still pursuing an education, and there are a few thoughts implicit -and sometimes explicit- in this inquiry:

Why are you shirking your responsibility to be useful in society?  What are you afraid of in the “real world”?  Why are you wasting your time/money/ heretofore undiscovered musical talent and/or modeling potential?  OK, no one ever asks me about the last one, but I won’t pretend to know for sure that’s not what some people are wondering.

And I never know what to say.  I always smile politely, reply with something benign and meaningless, then toy with saying, “You are not worth another word, else I’d call you knave,” but quoting Shakespeare at people in this situation seems sort of counterproductive.

However, I recently finished my first year of graduate school, and I’ve been pushing myself to really explore the symbiotic relationship between Academia and small town life.  I think even if a foray into Foucault wouldn’t interest a lot of people who were not sitting through a theory class (and, to be fair, a lot of people who are sitting in a theory class), there are still a few things I’ve learned from my first year as a graduate student that transfer to life outside of Academia.

Work while confused.  Try to work through your confusion, and, if you can’t, learn to use your confusion.

This is where I admit that I totally understand why people think literary theory is ridiculous.  Sometimes you read sentences that are half a page long.  People make up the craziest words, and you’re just supposed to go along with it.  And then you have the theorists who tell you that words don’t really provide stable meaning anyway, so good luck ever knowing what anyone is talking about.  I spent about 50% of my time confused this year, and there was many a moment when I considered throwing text books across the room, but, alas, they were generally too heavy. 

The secret to making it past those moments of frustration is, perhaps, just accepting them.  Yeah, someone’s making something up right now, and, OK, this person could probably make an effort to be clearer, but maybe something this person is saying could add to your life.  You could actually walk away being more than you were before you started participating in this exchange (because, never doubt, it is an exchange). And if, at the end of the sharing you’re still confused, look at what’s confusing you and make sure that you communicate your own ideas in a more efficient manner than what you just witnessed.  It’s OK to not understand.  It’s never OK to shut down because you don’t understand.

Be around people who get you, and also be around people who don’t.

I first really clicked with one of my friends in the program because we’d both earned a B on the same, minor essay, and were disproportionately angst-ridden about it. Even though we ended up having more in common than our unrealistic academic standards, I still get a lot of comfort from having a person around who knows where I’m coming from when I scowl at a 19/20, because I really was aiming for that 100%.

I also have a few friends in the program who will unabashedly tell me to chill the hell out and watch a movie or get a drink.

In life, you need people who will reinforce your drive and understand your slightly neurotic tendencies – you need those people who will assure you that you aren’t crazy.  You also need those people who will tell you that you are definitely crazy.

You do not need to prove that you are the smartest person in the room.

Grad school is very competitive, and even though our program is not as cutthroat as others, there was still occasionally the sort of tension that derives from two or more people heatedly debating an irrelevant point in order to see who would prove themselves Smartest Person Sitting in an Uncomfortable Desk. I’m not sure what you get for winning this award, but if the prize was cookies, I really regret not participating. Next time.

Anyway, really, when we’re so concerned with showing off our intelligence, we tend to tear other people down instead of trying to discern how to add to the conversation before us.  And, you know, sometimes the best way to add to a conversation is to just stay silent.

It’s great to know what you want to do in five years.  It’s necessary to know what you have to do to get through the week.

Things get busy in graduate school.  Things actually get so busy that you start to long for the days when you thought you were busy as an undergraduate.  Adding to the atmosphere of preoccupation (that smells slightly of fear and coffee) is the fact that there’s basically always something you could be doing – another project that needs completing, a paper that needs revising, etc.  Believe me when I say that to-do lists are helpful, but also rather frightening things.  It’s easy to be in the middle of one project, and then accidentally start to think of all of the other projects you may never get to because of old age. 

Despite what you may have surmised based on stories of adrenaline-fueled individuals lifting cars off of children, panic is not conducive to an effective working environment, at least not long-term.  As much as you can, focus on one task at a time, if for no other reason than you will actually experience joy when you finish one thing, instead of anxious dread because you thought you were on a journey to Accomplishment, but you’re really on a treadmill with a carrot dangling in front of you.  And you don’t even know that you particularly like carrots.

Unapologetically spend time doing what you love.

OK, so, after all of that, I still don’t know what to say to people who don’t get my degree, but I do know that my first year as a graduate student has taught me that I don’t need to apologize for the joy and sense of purpose I get from being a part of Academia. 

I truly believe that the world is a better place when we’re doing what we love, if for no other reason than we’re happier. 

As for what it means when I’m saying “better” and “happier,” and who I’m actually talking about when I say “we,” well…Those are questions for some literature students. See how much you need us?

To the Haters

I knew I had undergone a successful Facebook friend-purge when I logged into my account yesterday and was met with dozens of red equal signs.  People dismiss “Facebook activism” as lazy and empty, and to a point I agree, but sometimes I enjoy visual representations of common sense.  That being said, after 24 hours of a consistently positive newsfeed, this status managed to sneak through the cracks of my master filtering rationale (e.g. Do I feel said person would be appropriately disturbed by the phrase “binders full of women”?):

“I married a man. Under God. Which this nation was founded under Him. So my heart and beliefs go to Him. I know my spouse would say the same.”

There are a lot of things I could say to this (I might begin with: Stellar sentence construction), but most responses have already been verbalized much more clearly and gracefully than I could have managed in a Facebook comment. Also, it’s been a longstanding belief of mine that in Facebook arguments, there are only losers.

But I do want to say a couple things, because I’ve been having an imaginary conversation with this person - and people who share her opinions - all day.  So, although I am really overflowing with gratitude for the members of the LGBT community, especially the Allies, who are showing their colors (see what I did there? With the red equal signs?), I’m going to go ahead and address this post to all the haters.  Mostly because I’ve always wanted to address something to “haters” since Jay-Z is my spirit animal.

So, to the haters:

I have been one of you, so I do appreciate the fervor with which you’re expressing your beliefs.  I understand what you think is at stake.  I can imagine how you feel right now, to look around you and perceive the moral foundations of society crumbling.  You have to be scared and angry, so I don’t wonder that you’re saying some hurtful things.  I’m hurtful when I’m scared and angry, and also when I’m hungry or haven’t had enough coffee.  I’m imagining some of you poorly-fed and under-caffeinated conservative folks are just completely blowing up an unluckier individual’s Facebook feed right now, and, truly, I do get it.

But, whatever you say your God wants (and I qualify with “your” very consciously here, because I have a feeling, if you’re truly representing your Deity’s feelings on love, we worship very different Gods) doesn’t really have much to do with what the state allows.  This, I know, does not quell your religious outrage, so let’s deal with that.  You’re comfortable telling people what God wants and doesn’t want, and to a certain point I understand that, even if I don’t agree with it.  But since that’s the rhetoric we’re deploying, I want to play, too.  I don't think God cares that I identify as bisexual.  Really, I don’t.  I’m inferring this because I spent years begging God to make me straight, and here I am, decidedly, happily not. What I recognize now is that I was so busy begging, I didn’t stop to hear God telling me that my sexuality was something to celebrate.

I also want to say that I’m writing this as a woman who has not spent a lot of time dreaming of her wedding, and as a person who completely agrees with the argument that the legalization of same-sex marriage will likely not bring about structural change.  Yet I still deeply care about this issue, because I am basely opposed to someone telling me what I can and cannot love.  I also think denying same-sex couples equal rights is symptomatic of larger issues in society, and simply makes people feel inferior.  Let’s not do that, OK?  There’s no point.  My hypothetical marriage to another woman would not invalidate your hypothetical marriage to someone of the opposite sex.  Really, as charming as I find your Facebook statuses, I do not want to marry you, so you’re safe.  Truly.

Now, I’ve spent a lot of time telling you what I do understand, but I also want to address something that is beyond my grasp:  What is it about my capacity to love another human being that threatens you?  I want you to dig deep and answer that, because that’s a question I had to answer to come to terms with my own identity.  (And, for the love of God, I’m not suggesting you’re all closeted homosexuals.  I just want you to think about what you’re fearing here, and ask if it’s rational)

After I came out to my sister, she asked me how I felt, if I was scared of anything.  I said I was acutely afraid, because there were so many people I loved, so many people who were important to me, whose opinions of me would fundamentally change if they knew.  Jess said something that I hope every closeted member of the LGBT community will hear one day: “We don’t need anyone who doesn’t accept you.  Anyone who can’t love you for who you are does not deserve to be a part of our lives.” 

I want you to know that while you are a multifaceted creature whose opinion on homosexuality does not comprise your identity, and we do actually need you and benefit from you in our society, we do not need your rhetoric. This is a debate you’re going to lose.  You aren’t building anything, you aren’t protecting anything, you’re merely trying to stop growth.  I’m sorry you’re scared.  I know how uncomfortable you are; I remember how that feels, and I am willing to be patient as you shake off these prejudices – a shedding of old skin that can take a long time.  But, friends, you’re on the wrong side of history.  I mean, come on, just check out our kickass profile pictures.

Diving into the New Year

Humans are complex creatures.  We make resolutions at the end of December to be better people, and then the majority of adults spend the first of the year exhausted and hung over.  And yet we make the resolutions.  A major reason I love the new year is the renewed faith people have in themselves to accomplish goals that were apparently too out of reach in November or early December.  One of the only qualms I have with New Year’s resolutions is how hard people are on themselves when they break them.  Friend, you had to have suspected you were not going to be carting yourself out of bed at 5am every morning to go to the gym.  Unless there was a really good bakery beside the gym, and you could eat your croissant there and be like, “Close enough.”

I don’t like that we curb our ambitions because we might fail, or dislike this time of year because it reminds us of our rather predictable missteps and resignations. Let’s just be honest about our lack of foresight: very rarely do we know at the end of one year what will be good for us through the next 12 months.  I can’t even skillfully plan out my groceries for a week.  When I sat down and thought about it all, actually, some of my favorite memories have come from broken promises to myself.  So, in honor of 2012 and all of the times I had to actively ignore that inner voice Oprah is so fond of telling us to listen to, here is a fun time that occurred because I released myself from my resolutions.

Those of you who have been reading this for a while may vaguely recall my declaration to never cliff dive.  Mostly, my determination to avoid this form of recreation was borne of my impressive knowledge of limnology: Sometimes there are jagged rocks on the bottom of lakes.  I have never been, and, I thought, would never be, so hard-pressed for something fun to do that I would feel compelled to spontaneously throw myself from a cliff.  I have cable.  Plus, Bella Swan took an angst-ridden jump off a cliff in New Moon, and sort of succeeded in zapping any bad-assery from the act at all. 

Yet, one summer a friend and I had his jet skis out on a lake, and he pointed out a ledge in the distance. 
“We could jump if you wanted,” he said in a tone that clearly implied I could say no and he would not judge me at all.  I had one sane moment of appreciation for his neutrality before I more deeply considered his tone.  Perhaps he anticipated I would say no.  He anticipated this response, no doubt, because I am responsible, and level-headed, and enjoy possessing full mobility of all my limbs.  Clearly these suppositions were unacceptable.

“Definitely!  I’ve always wanted to cliff dive.  Let’s go!”  I then proceeded to race him to the base of the cliff.  I cannot say why I not only lied, but channeled my sister to give the peppiest response to his request possible, but I did. 

We tied the jet skis off by the shore, and swam around the base of the cliff to find a place to begin our climb.  He grabbed one of those random tree branches that sometimes stick out of cliffs (I don’t know why this is a thing, but it is), and swung himself out of the water.  After watching him go, I silently plopped my forehead against the surface of the water in grim acceptance of my fate, then laboriously followed.

This is the way it will all end, I thought to myself somberly as we carefully climbed the slippery, moss covered rocks.  I am going to literally jump off of a cliff to impress a boy.  Somewhere on the planet, Betty Friedan sighed.

When we reached the top, we both peered anxiously over the edge.  I’m going to be upfront with you and say the cliff was only about 50 feet over the water.  It doesn’t sound like a lot, but I don’t even like falling from my 5’7” height, so I’m just assuming 50 feet wouldn’t be fun either. 

“You can go first,” he said gallantly.  I raised my eyebrows.  “Unless you’d rather I go.”  The implicit unless you’re afraid hung in the air between us, and I took a deliberate step forward.

“I guess I should have asked before,” my friend’s conscience seemed to catch up with him.  “You’re not afraid of heights?”

I rolled my eyes.  “No real issue with heights, just a wee bit hesitant to jump from a cliff.  But I think that’s just an indicator of prominent mental health.” 

He remained silent as I looked over the edge again, trying to pretend I had the mental capacity necessary to calculate a safe trajectory for my jump. 

“If I die,” I said, “I’m going to kill you.  And then sue you.”

“Want me to count for you?”

“In my experience, math will only exacerbate the problem,” and those could have been my last words, because after ensuring the world would remember my ability to make bad jokes in uncomfortable situations, I took a breath and ungracefully leapt from the cliff, stifling what I’m sure would have been a confidence-inspiring squeak. 

I can compare the sensation to a rollercoaster with no safety restraints, or a slide without the friction, but none of those phrases really do cliff-diving justice, especially when the entire time I was falling I was berating myself for having the ability of a nine-year-old to forgo a dare that no one ever even uttered.  And yet I was also feeling sheepishly triumphant, because I had done what we all want to do as often as possible: overcome fear – an admittedly reasonable fear, but a fear nonetheless.  I’m definitely not addicted to that form of recreation (if you want to know what kept me from making cliff-diving a necessary activity of my summers, I’d have to quote the voice of our generation and say, “It’s the climb”), but I like to be able to faux-nonchalantly tell people I enjoy cliff-diving.

The experience is a good reminder for me that I don’t always know what I’m doing.  Especially when I’m making resolutions, at any point in the year.  So, friends, if you slack a little this year, if you skip the gym for a day (or a week), or you forgo an hour of introspective journaling for an hour of trashy television, more power to you.  You’re right where you’re supposed to be for 2013.  Good things happen to us when we’re being human.  Happy New Year, and happy reading.