In Defense of Size Zero

Among the backlash to the pointed remarks on size bias from the Abercrombie & Fitch CEO, was this contribution, from Ellen DeGeneres.

It’s cute.

Except, there is nothing wrong with being a size zero.

That is my daughter’s size.  She’s a petite, curvy, muscular, perfectly proportioned healthy girl.

She’s neither skinny nor fat.  Any “ideal weight” formula you use, she’s close to ideal.

As much fat-bashing as I read and see online, there are equal numbers of people who openly disparage those who are naturally small.  It’s just as wrong.

My daughter, and girls like her, don’t need to hear people talking about Size Zero as if it indicates an eating disorder or an un-feminine body type.

Or, worse, be told they are “not a real woman,” as if real woman all share the same body type.  Real women are big and small, petite and tall, bigger on the bottom and bigger on top, curvy and straight.  You don’t have to be under a certain weight or over it to be real.

My girl’s not invisible or trying to be.  She has a normal, healthy appetite and a good metabolism.

The truth is, size Zero does not exist because girls are getting skinnier.  There is a size Zero because as a society, we are getting heavier.

Vanity Sizing, as it is often called, means that the size 14 of today is not the size 14 Marilyn Monroe reportedly wore.

I like to look at vintage dresses online.  Because the sizes are so different, sellers list the actual garment measurements.  Waists are typically 24-28 inches, with bustlines of 32-36.

Granted, many women wore waist nippers, but today we have spanx to reform our midriffs.  People were, on average, thinner then.  Not better, not prettier, just thinner.

You don’t have to go back to the 1950′s to notice the change.  Looking at today’s Levi’s measurements chart, I would have worn a size 4 before my sons were born, and a size 6 afterward.  In the early 90′s, I wore a size 8 before and a 10/12 after.

I do not blame designers and brands for adjusting the sizing scale.  They are in business to sell clothes, and if they sell more things labeled 10 than 16, why wouldn’t they change the numbers?  If that means that those on the small side now wear a size double zero, so be it.  The point is to sell dresses and jeans.

Personally, I wish designers would do away with the arbitrary numbers and put actual measurements on their garments as they do with menswear.  I wish women could accept those numbers and not be lured into spending money with the flattery of smaller sizes.  I’m not holding my breath for that to happen.

I won’t even hold my breath waiting for women to stop bashing each other.  To stop comparing and disparaging.  To accept that real women come in a variety of sizes, and none of us are lifted up by putting others down.

Whether we are a size 00 or 22, we are real women, with feelings, and we are more than the number in our waistband.

Are we too self-deprecating?

To someone like me, who does not like meanness, self deprecating humor is the best sort.  Mocking one’s own foibles can be hysterical in a way that pointing out the faults of another never can be.

On the other hand, there is nothing amusing about walking into someone’s immaculate home and having them apologize for the mess as they straighten the one pillow that was not perfectly plumped.  Instantly, I am made aware of potential messes I might make – where should I put my purse, how much hair am I shedding right this very minute, and am I really allowed to sit on this furniture?  It doesn’t make me anxious to visit again.

If your house is a mess, apologizing for it only draws more attention to it.  Chances are, nobody would mind the dust-doggies trailing across the floor if you didn’t point them out.  (Let’s be honest.  They might notice, but noticing and minding are two different things.)

Yesterday, I read that the same holds true for the things we say about ourselves.  Self disparaging comments about our bodies do not make us more likable, whether the remarks are true or not.

For some reason, I find this harder to believe.  Am I just kidding myself?  This research was done among college students.  Would the results be the same for women in different stages of life?

I also wonder if this is true only of strangers, or if it affects those with whom we are already friends?  It seems that most of the women I know speak more of discontent than delight with their appearance.

It’s not a constant topic of conversation; that would be tiresome.  It is, however, a frustration shared aloud – the difficulty of losing the post-baby weight or the mid-life bulge.

Obviously, I share those thoughts myself.  Does this make me a less likable blogger?

I don’t think ill of my friends who share that they’d like to lose a few pounds.  If I know a friend is trying to change her eating habits, I won’t serve cake or sweets when she visits, but, other than that, it doesn’t affect my behavior or opinion of her.

Honestly, sometimes it would be weird to express a positive body image.

If I were to greet a friend with, “Anything new?” and she responded, “I joined a gym, trying to keep from outgrowing my jeans,” I’d ask if she liked it or if it was working.  If she responded, “I joined a gym.  I’m already the ideal weight, but I want to get stronger,” I’d wonder why she mentioned her weight if it wasn’t an issue and hope the topic soon changed.

How often can you work it into casual conversation that you like your looks before you sound like a boor or a braggart?  I’m thinking it is slightly less than the number of times you can mention that you are still have ten pounds to lose.  Not a whole lot less, but, really, one announcement that you’ve lost all the baby weight is sufficient.

Still, I get the point of the article.  Negativity is not appealing.  Whether we are talking about our homes, our bodies, our jobs, or our families, complaining is not the way to win friends or influence people.

Unless you are a comedian.

What if they don’t like me?

You’ve probably seen this.  It was a social experiment done six years ago, to see if anyone would stop to listen to Joshua Bell play the violin during their morning commute.

I see it pop up every so often on Facebook, and when it appeared in my feed again this week, I looked up the old article in the Washington Post.

In it, you can read about the reactions (or lack of reactions) of various passers-by, but what struck me today were Bell’s comments:

“At a music hall, I’ll get upset if someone coughs or if someone’s cellphone goes off. But here, my expectations quickly diminished. I started to appreciate any acknowledgment, even a slight glance up. I was oddly grateful when someone threw in a dollar instead of change.” This is from a man whose talents can command $1,000 a minute.

Before he began, Bell hadn’t known what to expect. What he does know is that, for some reason, he was nervous.

“It wasn’t exactly stage fright, but there were butterflies,” he says. “I was stressing a little.”

Bell has played, literally, before crowned heads of Europe. Why the anxiety at the Washington Metro?

“When you play for ticket-holders,” Bell explains, “you are already validated. I have no sense that I need to be accepted. I’m already accepted. Here, there was this thought: What if they don’t like me? What if they resent my presence . . .”

If not universal, it’s certainly a common fear, isn’t it?  The first day of school, the new job, every time we stretch ourselves wondering if we’ll be accepted or rejected, even when we are sure of our abilities.  Like Bell, we wonder, “What if they don’t like me?”

Because, sometimes, they don’t.  We could be Joshua Bell, one of the world’s finest violinists, playing a Stradivarius, and still be ignored, a mere irritant to people with other things on their mind, other agendas, and no interest in us.

“Not everybody is going to like you,” I used to tell my children, “And that’s okay.  You won’t like everyone you meet, either.”

Easier to say than accept.

Crafty Like a Porcupine

Have I ever mentioned how crafty I am?

No?  Well, that’s because I’m not.

I’m a wannabe, and always have been.  (Just so you know, I was a wannabe before Pinterest made it cool.)

In my mind, I am always doing amazing things with paint, fabric, and other people’s junk.  I even sew my own clothes and reupholster furniture in my imagination.

In reality, I’m just a detour on the way to the recycling or trash bin and lucky when I don’t injure myself in the process.

Take, for example, this tray (which I forgot to photograph before I started painting it).  I “rescued” it from a friend’s donation pile, imagining that a few sprays of paint would give it new life.

Mistake #1:  Not buying primer.

If I’d had primer, I’d have used it, but I only had one 40% off coupon.  I didn’t want to buy primer and paint.  That would have taken the project over $10, and I’m pretty sure I could have bought a tray for that.  I brought home a single can of yellow spray paint for less than $5 to paint over a black tray with a dark bird and fruit design.

Mistake #2:  Painting on a breezy day.

I think every day is breezy, and spray paint fumes need to be outside, so why wait?  Bits of pollen and tree debris now add texture.

Mistake #3:  Drips are not correctable.

Holding the paint can closer than recommended in an attempt to not have so much of it blow away results in drips.  If you think that a drip can be fixed by tapping it with your finger, you are wrong.  It will make it worse.  Also, spray paint is harder to wash off your skin than regular paint.

Mistake #4:  Not knowing when to quit.

After the drip fix fiasco, I think a reasonable person would have stopped, taken the project into the garage, let the tray dry so it could be sanded, and tried again another day.  Not me.  No, I continued because there was still some paint left in the can.  There wasn’t enough to start over, and I certainly wasn’t going to buy another can of paint, so I just kept going until all the paint had been used.  That’s right, an entire can of paint for one small tray.

Mistake #5:  Documenting the project.

I’m pretty sure the drips, smudges, bits of debris, and still visible bird and fruit motif are hidden by the African Violets.  I positioned the leaves over the worst drips.  If I hadn’t told you, you’d probably never have noticed.

Are you crafty?  What sorts of projects do you enjoy?  Have you spray painted anything lately?

Unfinished: Believing is Only the Beginning

A couple weeks ago, I received a message on Goodreads offering me a copy of Richard Stearns’ new book, Unfinished:  Believing is Only the Beginning, to review.

I immediately said yes, please.  Stearns is the CEO of World Vision, and you know how strongly I support their work.  I was expecting this book to be similar to his earlier book, A Hole in Our Gospel, which spoke of the need to respond to the incredible suffering of the impoverished world wide.

It isn’t.  The scope of Unfinished is both broader and more personal.  In it, Stearns calls Christians to examine their lives, to assess whether they are truly following Christ or merely claiming the benefits he offers.

Are we, he asks, true disciples, committed to expanding the kingdom of God?  Are we meeting the physical and spiritual needs of the world?  Are we taking Christ’s message and love, in word and deed, to the farthest corners of the world?  Are we even bringing them to the corner where we live?

Or have we become mere consumers of Christianity?  Looking for a way to fulfill ourselves, an insurance policy against damnation, something to make us feel better about our lives, and frustrated when it does not?  Are we sitting in the pews, teaching our Sunday School classes, serving on committees, and still feeling like we’re missing out on something?

If we are not engaged in the mission Christ left for us, we are missing out.  If we are leaving the Great Commission to the professionals, we are disregarding our true purpose and denying ourselves the very fulfillment we seek.

So how do we figure out our role in expanding the kingdom of God?  How do we live lives of meaning and purpose, right where we are?  Unfinished guides us through these questions, helping us to discover our own part in growing the kingdom of God.

Stearns’ admits that he is preaching to the choir in Unfinished, that those who read his book will most likely be Christians who are seeking lives of service, but, as he says, even choir members need a kick in the pants sometimes.

God’s timing is always perfect.  I received this book just as I’ve been pondering this very topic.  Pondering too long, frankly.  I had just taken a first step towards responding, and was already second guessing myself.

My seat has been kicked.  I am moving forward.

Happy Mother’s Day

For all my mom friends who are in the throes of it.
Happy Mother’s Day.
We’re all in this together.

Last Minute Mother’s Day Gifts

Mother’s Day is only two days away, so my pinterest and twitter feeds have been filled with gifts ideas for the past week.  Recipes for breakfasts in bed and brunches, suggestions of jewelry or spa weekends.  All sorts of ways to celebrate or be celebrated by the ones you love.

I haven’t paid attention to any of them, so here I am, wondering if I should send my mother in law flowers yet again.

For myself, I feel so blessed to be a mom, I really don’t need flowers or gifts, and the idea of eating in bed is repugnant to me.  The best gift I could ever want is to see my children thriving.  I think most parents feel that way, even the ones who enjoy a day of pampering.

We cannot imagine the pain of watching our child go hungry, of not being able to give them an education, basic medical care, a future.

I cannot think of a better way to honor moms than to alleviate the suffering of mothers and children who know those sorrows on a daily basis.

Once again, I’m turning to my World Vision Gift Catalog.

If there is one thing that reading Holocaust memoirs does for a person, it is to make them aware of genocide as an ongoing issue in the world.  So, for Mother’s Day, I chose to send support to refugees from the violence in the Democratic Republic of Congo.

Because of corporate and government grants, my little gift will be multiplied nine times.  I hope and pray that this will ease the daily burdens for another mom, far away, who has never even dreamed of a day spa.

I also wish a Happy Mother’s Day to all of you.  However you choose to celebrate it, I hope you feel appreciated and loved.

What an elephant forgets

A wet elephant is more likely to get in the pool than a dry elephant.

That is what I learned yesterday at the zoo, where Groucho enjoyed getting sprayed with the hose before stepping in for one of his favorite activities, swimming.  Apparently, he’d forgotten over the winter how much he loved the pool last year, so the keepers were coaxing him in.

Watching him, I thought about how much he and I have in common.  There are things I love to do, but it’s almost like I forget how much I enjoy them.

Until, like Groucho, someone reminds me, or I get a little feel of it.
Then I remember how much I love it.

Are you like Groucho and me?
I read somewhere that this trait is common
(but not universal) among introverts.

A lesson from my mother: Letting Go

Over the years, I quickly dismissed most of the advice my mother gave me.  She wasn’t witty or wise.  She expressed her worries and regrets as criticisms and directives for living a life that didn’t interest me.

Occasionally, her advice would be both annoying and comical, as when she spent the first week of my son’s life trying to convince me that if I did not tape his ear against his head it would, “stick out funny the rest of his life.”  It didn’t.

Mostly, though, her advice was forgettable.

What I learned from my mother – both good and bad – I learned by her example.

It’s intimidating to think about, but being a parent means having everything you say and do scrutinized by your children.  With their spouses one day, they’ll be analyzing it all, peppering their conversations with “We’ll never do that.”

When I began my motherhood journey, my list of I won’t was considerably longer than the list of ways in which I wished to emulate my mother.

Over the past twenty three years of parenting, though, my sympathy for my mother has grown.

It wasn’t the years of parenting toddlers or young children that softened me, nor the endurance trials of the teenaged years.

My parenting style never came to resemble my mother’s, and she never stopped giving me unwanted advice.

Unsolicited Advice became part of a new list of Things Not to Do to Adult Children, most of which fell under the resolution Let My Children Lead their Own Lives.

Keeping that resolution has been a learning process, the one that has greatly increased my sympathy for my mom.

Watching my mother be the parent to an adult who was sometimes struggling, I could see her pain.  Watching her learn – slowly – to swallow her words, to – eventually – not swoop in to rescue, and to – finally – be quietly supportive when I knew she wanted to scream and cry.

It took a long time, but after nearly fifty years of parenting, amazingly, she let go.  Not every problem was her problem to solve.  Not every mistake was hers to point out and correct.  Not every circumstance required her advise.

I doubt she feels this way, but in my eyes, these last few have been her finest years of parenting.

Letting go is probably the hardest lesson she learned, and the one she taught the best.

Just in time, too, because I already have adult children whom I, at times, want to swoop down and rescue.  Ones who need to figure out life on their own.  Ones for whom I am praying earnestly.  Ones who probably wish I gave a little less unsolicited advice.

 

This post is part of a Generation Fabulous Blog Hop. Would you like to read more of the lessons we’ve learned from our mothers?  Click here.

Betting on the Horses

Yesterday, my husband and I went to a Derby Party, complete with hats and $1 bets.

Knowing nothing about the horses, I placed my dollar on the horse whose name most appealed to me: Normandy Invasion. (He came in fourth.)

I was asked to bring an appetizer, which caused me a few moments of consternation.  “What qualifies as an appetizer?” I asked my friends via email.  Does it have to be cooked?  Bite sized?  Not require a plate or utensils?

Clueless, I know, but I always volunteer to bring dessert.  I don’t think I’ve ever taken an appetizer anywhere in my life.

I decided that my appetizer would be bite sized, mostly because I have an abundance of toothpicks leftover from one of my daughter’s school projects. Several boxes.  I may never need to buy toothpicks again, or I may start taking appetizers everywhere I go.

I made watermelon-mint-feta appetizers.  As we were leaving, my husband said, “Isn’t it an hors d’oeuvres if it has a toothpick in it?”

I have no idea, but either way, everyone loved them.

Here is the recipe:  stack a cube of watermelon, a tiny torn mint leaf, and a cube of feta.  Spear it with a toothpick.

The after-race dessert was Kentucky Butter Cake.  I think you should make it.  It would be good with fruit, or a cup of tea or coffee.  Or all by its buttery self, which is how I ate it.

Did you watch the Kentucky Derby?  Or celebrate May the Fourth Be With You Day?  Will you celebrate Cinco de Mayo today?

Most importantly, do you distinguish between appetizers and hors d’oeuvres?