All That Glitters Is Not Gold

I was talking to a friend recently and I asked her if she ever compares herself to other people to determine her own success and she said, “Yeah, when I look at Facebook.”

Maybe it’s because my Facebook feed is filled with people getting engaged, married, pregnant, or worse, looking like they have life figured out, that I’ve come to fear that I’m doing nothing and going nowhere. Or maybe the cards are stacked against us. Maybe Facebook is the embodiment of the common human experience of fearing that the grass is greener on the other side. Maybe the people who really have it figured out are the people who don’t have the time or desire to compare themselves to other people on Facebook or elsewhere.

Typically, we don’t post things to social media that explain what a hard time we’re having or that we just had a fight with our partner, our mom, our boss, or our friend. No, we use it to show other people how much we have figured out and how far we’ve come in life. We got the job, the degree, the ring, the baby – we got everything we ever wanted.

Those who know me outside of social media know that I have an honesty complex. I have never figured out how to answer the question, “How’s it going?” with anything but a thoughtful response about how it’s actually going. “Good” just does not do it for me because it doesn’t feel authentic. Honesty is one of my core values, sometimes to a fault. I struggle to even tell white lies because I value the truth so much.

So that I would create a social media image of myself as anything other than my entire complete self, struggles included, is ridiculous. And yet I do it. I do it because I want to pretend my life is perfect just like everyone else. I want to prove that I’m successful, too. That I cracked life's code. 

So here is my admission. Here is my truth.

Sometimes I have bad days.

Sometimes I feel like I’m going nowhere and doing nothing.

Sometimes I get mad at one person when I’m actually pissed at someone or something else.

Sometimes I get cranky when I’m hungry, tired, in traffic, or because it’s Tuesday.

Sometimes I’m incredibly lazy.

I start books I don’t finish, but I’m much better at watching TV shows.

I want things in life I have no idea how to get.

I’m terrified of being wrong.

I want to be liked.

I’m convinced that everyone else has it figured out and that I’m behind and will never catch up.

Maybe the 20s are just a time when you constantly look around and wonder, “Is this who I want to be?” “Is this what I want to do?” “Is this how I want to spend my life?” And with Facebook, we have an all access pass to other people’s successes. We watch other people get exactly what they want.

Including the perfect relationship.

Over the weekend someone told my girlfriend, Lisa, and I that we were super cute together and asked if we ever fight. This got me thinking about the way we look at other people’s lives. [Now let me just say that Lisa and I have a loving, fun, sturdy relationship, complete with our fair share of disagreements. Especially in the kitchen.] We look at other people who we assume to have what we want and believe it’s perfect. It must be perfect! Just look at them smile lovingly into each other’s eyes.

And then we look at ourselves, our relationships, our jobs, our decisions. We see our own truth: that our lives are not perfect. We see our struggles and our frustrations and we believe on some deep level that other people have things we don’t have because we see glimpses of their seemingly perfect lives but we have to live in our own.

Or maybe it’s just me.

So the way I see it, I have two options: quit social media or change the game. I’ll let you know how it turns out.

Love,

Kelsey

P.S. I’m just gunna leave this here: http://www.buzzfeed.com/alexlee/my-house-is-always-this-clean#.hpZDGQOZd

Being Unapolgetically Me

For real though.

For the past couple of months, I’ve been doing the online dating thing.  I’ve had mostly mixed feelings so far, and am thinking of taking a break from it for a little while once March is over.  It’s not that I have anything against online dating.  I have several friends and family members who met their significant others that way, and are very happy.  I’ve just never been good at non-face-to-face interactions, so this whole experience has been way out of my comfort zone, and quite frankly exhausting.

My lack of game and smoothness online is not the point of this post, though.  As uncomfortable as this process has made me, it has also made me very aware of a few things about myself.  Today in particular, I had a very major epiphany moment.  I realized that when interacting with potential romantic partners, there were some things about myself that I hesitated to tell them.  One of these things, notably, was my career.  I would intentionally put off telling the guys I talked to that I was a campus minister.  Why?  In all honesty, it’s because I didn’t want them to jump to any conclusions or draw on any stereotypes they might have for that type of job and apply them to me.  I was scared of being judged for doing something I love.  And I do LOVE my ministry.  I love it and I am proud of it.  I worked hard to get my degree and find my job, and I was lucky enough to find a position that was exactly what I wanted to do in the area I wanted to be in.  In summary: my career rocks, and anyone who wants to try and judge me for it can suck it.

That’s easy to say now, after my epiphany moment earlier today.  It wasn’t just my job, though.  There were other, more personal things and choices I’ve made that I was scared I would be judged for.  I was scared if a guy learned some of these things, he would bolt and I’d never find love.  I’d end up alone, with twelve cats, living in a cabin in the woods and wearing floral nightgowns everyday (yeah…I’ve thought pretty carefully about this).  So, to avoid this fate, I hid things about myself and hoped I could get a guy to fall for me before he needed to know any of my “secrets.”

That was stupid.  I was being so incredibly stupid, and worse yet, I was chipping away at my self-esteem bit by tiny bit.  Self-esteem I’d spent years building up, but that was still fairly delicate.  It wasn’t until one particular conversation, where I was dodging questions out of fear of revealing one of my “secrets” that I realized how totally idiotic I was being.  I have nothing to be ashamed of, about any of the choices I’ve made, and what’s more, I’m not sorry for any of them.  So why should I be afraid to be totally honest with the guys I was talking to?  Didn’t I want to be with someone who accepted me for who I was, what I did, and what I valued?  Did I really want to be with someone who didn’t accept me for who I really was?  Someone I had to change myself to be with?

No.  Hell no.  I’d rather be single.

That’s when the epiphany really hit.  I have no reason to hide anything about myself from anyone.  I’m not ashamed of myself, I’m not embarrassed by what I do.  I’m good at what I do, and I’m proud of who I am.  If a guy is scared off by anything that I bring to the table, that’s his problem, not mine.  Dating in the adult world is hard enough without pretending to be someone I’m not, or wasting time with people who don’t actually like me.  So, I’m going to keep at it, but I’m not going to play games.  I’m going to be honest.  I’m going to be myself.  Maybe I’ll find someone, maybe I won’t.  However I end up, though, I’m going to be me, and I’m not going to apologize for it.

Have you ever held part of yourself back in a relationship because you were afraid of rejection?  Are you lucky enough to have someone who does accept everything about you?  Tell me about it in the comment section below.  The good, the bad…we all have stories to tell.

Until next time,

Erin B.

Because I like to end on a laugh.  P.S. if anyone throws any of these your way, online or in person, RUN!

50 Shades of No

I saw "50 Shades of Grey" with a few law school friends on Thursday night. We were originally supposed to go last Saturday, but one of (it seems like) a zillion winter storms cancelled those plans for us.

I have not read the books. I thought about reading them for about a millisecond before I heard they were even worse writing than Twilight, which I previously considered the worst books I'd ever read. So I went into the theater with no idea what to expect beyond the basic plot. I had seen articles claiming it promoted abuse, so I was aware of that potential issue, but I decided to go in thinking of the movie as entertainment - that it was probably going to be terrible, but with the intention of giving it a fair shot. After all, many things I love dearly are terrible, like "Say Yes to the Dress" or "Toddlers & Tiaras." I'm only human.

Here's a play-by-play of my reactions during the movie (SPOILER ALERTS):

• Wait, she's supposed to be 21?
• OF COURSE SHE DRIVES A BEAT UP VW BUG. HOW QUIRKY.
• Never in the history of time has anyone found parking in a major city right outside their destination. I believe that less than a millionaire playboy dominant falling in love with this awkward, faux-mousy, nervous 26-year old pretending to be 21.
• I heard "50 Shades" was originally a Twilight fan fiction, and it was never more obvious than when Anastasia trips and falls the minute she opens the door to his office. I guess being clumsy is supposed to be an endearing and universally female quality, which I have never understood.
• Dakota Johnson is actually pretty funny and her timing is really good. I am pleasantly surprised.
• She bites her lip a lot. I can feel this is going to be reoccurring plot point because they keep zooming in on her lips dramatically.
• OF COURSE HE'S ADOPTED. PROBABLY HAS A TRAGIC HISTORY WHICH HAS SCARRED HIM FOR LIFE. SHOCKER. It's like there was a contest for the least subtle plot point imaginable and E.L. James won.
• Jamie Dornan has beautiful cartoon eyes but he was better in "The Fall." Also, I can hear his Irish accent at times, which I really don't mind. What I do mind is his lack of facial scruff.
• The first third of this movie has actually been very sexy and kind of... nice to watch. I am delighted.
• He shows up at her work and asks for serial killer things. I am laughing inside, because I just finished season 2 of "The Fall" where he is an actual serial killer and I'm wishing the plot would twist and this movie was actually a story about Paul Spector moving to America, getting really rich, and continuing to secretly murder brunettes until Gillian Anderson puts a stop to it.
• My law friends and I are judging the non-disclosure agreement. Anastasia probably should have read it more thoroughly or consulted with a lawyer first. Please don't sign those things willy-nilly.
• "I don't make love. I fuck. Hard." My friends in the theater audibly laughed at this line and they loved the books. I truly believe Jamie Dornan is doing his best given this terrible writing.
• I am extremely grossed out by how excited he gets that she's a virgin. It's this incredibly patriarchal idea that women's worth to men comes from being her sexual "teacher," and if she knows what she's doing, or how to please herself, or what she likes, or what you might even like, then it's not exciting anymore. Ew, dude. You're being an asshole.
• So is she basically a whore??? Like, they're not dating, and she gives him sex, and he gives her stuff in exchange for the sex???
• Anastasia does not seem fond of the rods and whips and whatnot. I'm sure other people are really into that but some of those things looked really fucking painful and I'm just not sure that's my thing. Or hers. Which is a perfectly ok feeling to have, Anastasia. *pats her on the back gently*
• It doesn't seem to me like they're looking for the same thing in a relationship. In fact, their expectations are both waaaay off. I BET THAT'S NOT A CONFLICT IN THE MOVIE AT ALL.
• Ok, that's a lot of butt. They both have very fit bodies. And we see about 96% of them.
• That's a looong shot of her nipple. Like, I'm not shocked by breasts or anything, but I just watched a close up of her nipple for about 15 seconds and I'm a little uncomfortable by that.
• I guess they live in a world where losing one's virginity is a pleasant and not-at-all-painful experience.
• I'm bored now. I guess she's not into the whole submissive sex thing, which again, is a perfect okay feeling to have. There's about 20 minutes of her being like, "IDK" and him being like, "PLS???" I do like that she's sassy about her "IDKs." They have sex at her house and there's ice and more gratuitous nipple shots. It's a little rougher than I was comfortable with, but we all have our limits.
• The best part of the movie, in my opinion, was their negotiation of the sex contract. My law school friends and I were very interested in this part, haha. I thought she could have gotten a better deal out of it, but again, she didn't consult a lawyer.
• I feel like for the first half of this movie, she's really been the one in control and she seems to like that she has power over Christian.. So why on earth would she give that up and suddenly be a submissive if that's not something she's actively seeking?
• I clearly don't know enough about BDSM, because I am very confused at how he was a submissive for years and years and years but now he's totally a dominant? And I have heard those same arguments for being a submissive about submissive Christian women in marriages ("It's freeing not having to worry about decisions") and I am no more convinced in this situation that someone who is not excited about being submissive should be so to please another person.
• I'm bored again. I think it's at this point in the movie when I determined that Christian Grey was a total asshole and any lingering sexiness just disappeared for me.
• He keeps making statements like, "I just want all of you," and "You can't do things without my permission" and "I want to control you" and I guess it's supposed to be sexy but it's having the complete opposite effect on me right now. I am sitting there with a stink-look on my face while he's being "romantic."
• All I can think of while he's upset at her going on a trip without telling him and bitching about how he wants to control her is that, when I was 16, I would have thought this was sooo sexy. But I have learned, through college and life and growing up, that those behaviors are really the least sexy things a person can say or do. It's about power and control and distrust and those are all things I want to avoid at all costs in a partner. I don't care if Christian Grey bangs like a god - if he's gonna act this way, I'm leaving his well-sculpted ass in a heartbeat.
• She's crying all the time about what an asshole he is but she's still with him. I'm sad for her.
• He's hitting her stomach with a crop and she's acting like it's bringing her to ecstasy. I fundamentally do not understand.
• "I'm 50 shades of fucked up." COMPLETELY lost it in the theater and couldn't stop laughing. I'm pretty sure I wasn't the only one. But seriously, COME ON.
• The last few minutes are just ripe with consent issues. She absolutely told him to hurt her in the way that he wanted to, but she did it so that he could see the effect it had on her. So she's crying on this table, getting whipped on the butt by the guy she loves, and can leave at any time... but doesn't, so he can see how much it's hurting her. I still don't get why she thought this was necessary to teach him something in the first place. I'm just very confused.
• Oh, I guess it's done?

After I left the theater, two things were especially clear to me:

First, these two people had wildly different expectations and desires. Anastasia wanted a romantic, sweet boyfriend, and she was crushed that Christian Grey was not that kind of guy. And Christian wanted a lady friend to have lots of sex with and be his submissive and have total control over. Anastasia did not want to be that for Christian, and Christian did not want to be that for Anastasia.

The analogy I used right afterwards was that if you have a green painting and wish it was blue, maybe you should go out and exchange it for a blue painting instead. Sitting there wishing it was something different is not going to change it. It's still green. And maybe you just don't like green. Maybe you really like blue. So stop whining and being sad, and find something blue that will make you happy.

These were two people who are not what each other wanted and needed. And while I understand the struggle of wanting to be someone your partner desires and failing utterly to do so, I also saw her crying in every other scene. It's sad. And I wish she had respected herself enough to get the hell out of there.

Second, Christian Grey was controlling and basically the worst. The more controlling he got, the grosser I felt about the whole situation. Emotionally, he was like a petulant man-child, stuck at age 10, wanting to be the center of her world 24/7 and not handling it like an adult when he wasn't. I'm trying to think of someone I would want to be around less, let alone be in a relationship with less. Being good-looking, rich, and passionate does not excuse him being shallow, emotionally-immature and -uninvolved, and controlling.

Now, if that kind of guy appeals to you, feel free. I'm not here to stop you or to tell you not to like what you like. But you deserve to be with someone who loves you, who respects you, and who is emotionally mature enough to be in a real relationship.

--------

All-in-all, I've described the movie as both better and worse than I expected. The first part was actually really entertaining and fun to watch, but then second part was painful to get through (ha). I tried really hard to go in with an open mind and judge it for what it was, which I feel like I did. My favorite part was seeing it with my friends, who did not judge me for warning them that I might laugh at parts and not to be upset with me. There was this elevator scene near the beginning of the movie where he kisses her and it's undoubtedly the hottest part of the movie in my mind. It was full of sexual tension and touching and passion, but it was fully consensual and there was no question that it's what they both wanted... which is the hottest (and only???) kind of passion in my opinion, haha.

Would I watch the second one? Probably not. I'm positive the plot from here on out is that *gasp* he suddenly changes and she gets through to him emotionally and he doesn't want to hurt her anymore and he lets her touch him and they're happy. Which is bullshit and not what happens in real life, so I think I'll pass... Unless my girlfriends ask me to go again. Then I probably will, because I'm really not in a position to pass up a girl's night out.

I'm still torn about the consent issues at the end of the movie. Have you seen the movie? What did you think?

xo Madie

On Being In Love

Hello loyal Her/Story readers!  It’s been a long time, I know, but life has been crazy the past few months with new job, new city, and new adult life.  But I’m back, and today, I want to talk about love.  Yes, I’ve posted about it before, several times in fact, in several of its many forms.  I’ve talked about how we should love each other as Jesus did, what real love feels like (glorious, painful, terrifying, and exciting), and that there are all types of love.  Let’s face it, love is a favorite subject of mine.  I’ve always been fascinated by the concept.  I read about it, write about it, talk about it, and try to understand it.  I’ve written all my past posts, specifically in regards to romantic love, mostly from an observatory standpoint because I’ve never been in love.  At least…I don’t think I have.  Recently, the question of whether or not I’ve ever been in love has been on my mind a lot.  Before we get to into that, however, a little bit of background first.  In an attempt to branch out and break out of my comfort zone as a part of my new adult life, I’ve started the online dating thing.  It took a lot of convincing from friends and family, but I finally got myself a profile and have started to intentionally look for someone to fall in love with.  I’ve never done this kind of thing before (intentionally seek out a relationship), and it’s made me really wonder what it’s like to fall in love.  It’s also made me really wonder if maybe I’ve already been in love, but didn’t recognize what I was feeling.  I never thought so before, but now I’m not so sure.  I’ve never been in a relationship before, but that doesn’t mean I’ve never had feelings for anyone.  Could some of those feeling have ever been love?  How do you know if you’re in love?  Can you fall in love with someone you’re not in a relationship with?  How do you know if you’re falling in love with someone you are in a relationship with?  These, and different variations of these questions have been racing through my head for the past few weeks.  So, ever the inquiring mind, I took to the streets to try and find some answers.  And by streets, I mean mostly Facebook and some texting.  I asked several people who I knew to be in love, or to have ever been in love before, how it was they knew what they were feeling.  The answers I received were thoughtful and honest, and there were a few similarities among almost all of them that I was able to pick out.  Put together, I think they offer very helpful insight into how people fall in love, and how you can tell if you might be on your way to jumping off the deep end yourself.

Among many of the people I spoke with, a common occurrence I found was that people had said the words “I love you” in previous relationships without really understanding what that meant.  A few maintained that they did feel some form of love in those situations, but it wasn't necessarily the type of love that you can build a life on.  It wasn't until they had actually fallen in love that they realized the times they had thought themselves in love before were really more diluted experiences of the emotion.  They loved, but weren't necessarily in love.  Love is a spectrum, and it takes many forms.  Oftentimes, we do not realize exactly where on the spectrum we fall, and this is especially true when we are young and not that experienced in love.  To those I talked to, many found that as they matured and were able to better understand who they were as an individual, it became much easier for them to understand when they were truly and deeply in love with someone, and what it was they needed from a steady and committed relationship.

 

A lot of people said that falling really in love was a slow build for them, and they didn't actually realize it was happening until it had already happened.  Some observed that when they finally said the words "I love you," it felt almost naturally because they'd had those feelings for so long, but hadn't fully understood what they'd meant.  Some resisted, some recognized what was happening, and some were surprised when they finally realized just how long they'd been falling in love.  Those who resisted did so mostly out of fear of being hurt, especially if they'd suffered similar pain in the past.  Yet in the end, though it may have taken them a little longer than most, when they finally admitted to being in love, it freed them to be even more open and genuine with their significant other.  Several people also answered me by saying that they realized they were in love because they missed the other person in a way they'd never missed anyone before, to the point of aching.  Some would come away from Skyping or talking on the phone with their significant other with huge smiles that they couldn't fight. 

One person's story in particular stood out to me, because she was reflecting on a love that she wasn't sure was actually returned (at least at the time).  She told me she’d had feelings for someone for a long time, but never realized that what she was feeling was love.  In fact, she adamantly denied that what she was in love, even when other people would point it out to her.  When she finally acknowledged what the emotion actually was, she described it as a full body reaction that she’d never had towards anyone else.  Just thinking of him would make her chest ache, her heart pound, and her legs go a little numb.  He was the only person she'd ever thought of having a future with, and also the only guy who'd ever held her attention for very long.  While she wasn't really sure she was all the way in love with him, she eventually realized that she was definitely on that path.  

Finally, the majority of the people I talked to reported back the same thing: they could be their genuine selves with the other person.  They didn't have to hide any part of who they were, or try to adjust themselves to fit the other person's ideals.  In a few instances, people realized they were in love with their significant other because they were put in a vulnerable situation, but it didn't bother or frighten them that that one person was present to witness it.  As one individual put it, "love is finding somebody who not only accepts, but who also understands the weird in you...Love is mutual weirdness."

So, put together, what can all this tell us about falling in love, and knowing when we are really in love?  It tells us that people recognize the feeling at different points in their relationship, for different reasons.  It doesn't always strike like a lightning bolt out of nowhere.  A lot of the time, it's a natural build up over time.  Being in love, like really, really in love, can be complicated, confusing, and scary.  It can be unlike anything you've ever experienced before, and it can be ever-changing, evolving as you grow and mature as an individual and as a couple.  There might not be one right way to fall in love and be in love, but it seems to really be one of those experiences that you know its happening when it finally happens.

Until next time,
Erin B.    

Mostly because the whole series is on Netflix and I'm binge-watching it, one of the best, most love-filled moments from Friends :)

Another Hair/Story

Like Madie, I just chopped all my hair off. (Ok, almost. There are still a few hairs left.) There must be something in the water this group drinks, Erins be warned.

I'm the one on the left, yo.

Unlike Madie, I don’t date men. Instead, I joined the ranks of the majority (I don’t know the stats, people, I’m just making assumptions) of lesbians who rock short hair as a life choice.

In other words, I am perpetuating my own stereotype.

And I feel great about it.

I have spent most of my life following the rules. I love rules. If life had a rule book and all I had to do was follow it, I would win at life.

I’m a color inside the lines kind of gal.

So when I came out as a lesbian (or bisexual, or queer, or whatever the heck I came out as) it was a huge leap out of the box for me.

I was never alternative. Besides a brief stint in fifth grade when I wore only black clothes, I never rebelled. The craziest thing I did my freshman year of college, when most of the rest of my class was getting drunk for the first time (or 100^th time) was die by hair (a natural color) and pierce my ear (in a normal place).

Needless to say, I haven’t exactly lived life on the edge.

And I’m cool with that. I read authors like Anne Lamott and Nadia Bolz-Weber, women who did crazy stupid shit in their pasts, because I have always dreamed of being a rebel and I simultaneously know that I could never break that many laws.

So I guess my haircut is pretty alternative, given how non-alternative I am.

 

I know we aren’t supposed to let looks define us, but I’ve been thinking about trying to let this hairstyle define me a little bit.

I spent most of my life living in the box and the only reason I stopped was because I had to choose between being true to myself and making everyone else happy. It's time to try something new.

Does something as simple as hair explain that to people?

Probably not.

But it was never about them anyway.

Love,

Kelsey

Hair/Story

Before I cut my hair off about a month ago, a lot of my friends at law school already knew I was planning to do it. I got asked a lot why I wanted to get a pixie cut. No one asked in a rude way, just with curiosity – like, if my hair looked good at the length it was, why would I want to have short hair? I explained time and time again that I just wanted to.

I felt claustrophobic because my thick, fluffy hair around my face and neck. I missed the freedom of not having to style my hair in some form. I just didn’t feel like myself with my longer hair. I’ve had short hair more often than long in the past five or so years, so it wasn’t a scary decision.

Short hair just seems natural on me. It’s sassy, it’s fearless, it’s low-maintenance, and it’s unapologetic: everything I strive to be.

After I got my hair cut, most reactions were positive. But one guy asked me if my boyfriend supported me cutting my hair off so that guys wouldn’t hit on me as much. I laughed, then I calmly tried to explain that my boyfriend happens to think I have a pretty face, and that it’s easier to see my pretty face when I don’t have so much hair in the way… And that I feel confident that he’s not trying to purposely make me uglier.

This conversation bothered me in the same way that all those articles online from douchey bros, who claim that short-haired women are ruining the fun for men, do - because they all assume one vital falsehood:

That I (and other women) are actively thinking about pleasing men and how all our actions fulfill that goal.

I did not cut my hair for men. I didn’t cut it for my boyfriend, or my father, or my male friends, or the men I pass on the street. I did not keep my hair long for men. I didn’t keep it long for my boyfriend, or my father, or my male friends, or the men I pass on the street.

I grew out my hair because I wanted to. And I cut it off because I really, really wanted to.

If cutting my hair off upsets sexist douchebags and makes me less appealing to random men on the street, that’s actually a plus in my book. It weeds out the kind of guys who will objectify me on first sight, or judge me without getting to know me, or assume that I care about their opinions on the sexual attractiveness of my body.

I wear high-waisted pants because they make me feel fabulous. I have a nose ring because it makes me happy. I have short hair because it makes me feel confident. I wear running leggings as pants sometimes because they’re comfortable and opaque. None of these actions are harmful to other people, and they are deeply and personally satisfying for me.

Women do a lot of things without thinking about the reactions or approval of other people – men and women included.

I want Jake to think I’m beautiful. I want my dad to approve of my choices. I want to make my grandpa proud. But if it comes down to making myself happy and making other people happy, I’m going to go with actions and decisions that make me happy and fulfilled.

Your decision for how to cut and style your hair, what clothes to wear, or how to decorate your body are all personal decisions that only you can make - and these decisions do not make you any less of a woman or deserving of respect.

If you want pink hair down to your waist or no hair at all - have 15 piercings on your face alone or just your ears - two full sleeve tattoos or a butterfly tattoo on your lower back - and those things will fulfill you deep in your soul (or maybe you just really want them), then let your freak flag fly.

No one should be making that decision for you – especially trolls on the internet. If a few less douchetools don’t think you’re sexy for being your most complete, confident, satisfied self, then I’m pretty sure you're the one who lucked out.

xo Madie

A bodily work: birthing my baby

Pregnancy is a bodily business. So is giving birth. It seems odd to tell my birth story with words and thoughts when it contained very little of either. But my body is already changing the story it tells each day, and the birth of Amy Mae is one I wish to remember. So, here we go.

(Friday) 
        A few morning contractions and a little birth show on my panty liner are the first indicators I deem important enough to text to my doula, Julie. Just a quick update but a new development since I saw her at our 38-week prenatal appointment with my midwife, Lanette, two days previous. It’s another low-key morning with a wide open time line of an unknown duration of waiting. The end of pregnancy. I spend most of my time these days resting, eating, and watching Property Brothers on HGTV, which I am convinced exists for frustrated, non-working pregnant women. Thankfully, this day has a little more color because my husband, Michael, and I have a big adventure planned for the day: going to the grocery store.  Woo-hoo, right? Not many contractions through the morning, but a really strong one in the dog food aisle of Pick ‘n’ Save this evening reminds me of the promising change from the morning. A few more through dinner. A few more in the evening. Several while trying to go to sleep. Several more while trying to stay asleep. Finally, they are too frequent and annoying to sleep through, so I get out of bed at 3 A.M. and spend an hour rolling around on my birthing ball. I don’t want to wake Michael, because I know he will need his rest if I really am in labor. After an hour, I call Julie to tell her I am having strong contractions every ten minutes with a smaller one at the 5 minute mark in-between. I know I need to try and sleep, and she confirms that in her sleepy voice. I go back to bed and rest between contractions, but sleep will not come. 

(Saturday) 
        Michael and I are up around 8 A.M. which is earlier than usual, because we like to sleep in. Michael rubs my back while I lay over the birth ball and while I’m on my hands and knees. I’m trying very hard to relax and help each contraction be as productive as possible, but I’m also trying to rest. So, I keep my contractions about 10 minutes apart.  Around 11 A.M. I decide to commit to laboring, and I go upstairs to walk around the living room. A few granola bars and a fruit smoothie later we leave at 2 P.M. for the 35 minute drive to Milwaukee. (Contractions have been 3 minutes apart if I’m walking and 5 minutes apart if I’m sitting.) The car ride is not as bad as I expect, which is a small relief. 
We arrive at the birth center to cheerful, excited faces. I feel that my face is one of exhaustion and almost boredom. The only thing I desire is sleep, and I’m having a hard time getting excited about the prospect of a new baby. It’s as though my mind doesn’t comprehend the possibility. It’s only a couple minutes before I find out why.
After letting me pee, the midwives have me lay on my back, take my vitals, and listen the baby’s heartbeat through a contraction. I haven’t had a pregnancy pelvic exam yet, so I don’t know what to expect, but it lasts longer and is much more uncomfortable than I thought it would be. Lanette calmly tells me to stay relaxed, and she will let me know more when we’ve gone through a contraction and finished up. 
Turns out our baby had decided her hand was so nice that she wanted it right by her head. Consequently, she had been sitting on top of my cervix off-center, with her hand jammed up by her head. Lanette had needed to push it back. That’s what had made my pelvic exam so long and extra uncomfortable. The baby could now sit on my cervix like an egg in an egg cup instead of an egg with a marker next to it trying to fit in an egg cup. 
I’m so glad she could push back that arm, but I’m just so tired and now we need to walk around. A couple laps around the birth center with contractions that now feel different. I want to lay down, so Julie sets me up in a three-quarters-over position with my right knee on a pillow. I try and sleep. I’ve spent hours being woken by contractions, but I wake to a much larger, much more painful contraction. I feel so much pressure in my lower back and have a harder time finding focus in my relaxation. These are worse to try and sleep through.
Another pelvic exam, two hours after the first, and I’m 1 cm dilated. I haven’t slept in 30 hours, laboring for about 16 of those, and my only question now is “what next?” I don’t care when the baby will come. I’d wait a week if it meant I could get some sleep. 
Lanette and Ali explain that I have a couple options. There are some different medicines that might slow my labor and let me sleep. Julie listens, does some more research for us, and recommends the anti-histamine. It should help me sleep and has been known to slow or stop early labor (usually anything before 4 cm). Sure. Call it in. We will pick it up at the Walgreens a mile from our home. 
We walk into a mucky winter night and our windshield washer fluid has frozen. Our 35 minute drive turns into a much longer affair with slow speeds on the interstate and two stops to wipe off the windshield. Michael has been a pillar of calm and reassurance, but I know he is getting impatient. He just wants to get me home, and I just want to sleep. The contractions are incredibly painful and I relax through each one as best I can, but I am getting angry. I start audibly sighing through contractions but not so much out of coping or instinct. I’m just angry at the contractions, so I’m yelling at them.
We get to Walgreens and they tell us they can’t give me my prescription because it’s not covered by my insurance. Fine, we will pay out of pocket. Oh, the state won’t let you do that. Are you kidding me? (That thought may have contained some swear words in my head.)
Michael asks if I want to wait in the Walgreens parking lot while we call the midwife to figure something out or go home. I say I want to go home so I can just “get out of the damn car.” 

(Home) 
        I haven’t eaten more than a piece of toast and a couple granola bars since Friday night dinner, so I know I need to eat before climbing into bed. My mother-in-law comes downstairs with my requested bowl of raisin bran to sit with me while Michael calls, gets the prescription redone, and goes to pick it up. 
I finally get my medicine around 8 P.M. I am ready to settle in for some much needed rest.

(Some time that feels like a day in-between Saturday and Sunday)
The medicine doesn’t work. I’m up every 5 minutes with strong contractions. Every two or three take me off my side and onto my hands and knees on the bed, and Michael wakes up with me for each one. Every time he tells me I’m doing well is a time when I need to hear it. (Which is with every contraction...) I tell myself I’m strong. Focus. I can do this. I picture myself running up a hill, knowing it will be easier after I get to the top. I can’t help thinking that running up hills will be much easier to me after this night of labor. 
We try again with more medicine at midnight. Still doesn’t work. More contractions. At 4 A.M. we are texting Lanette and Julie that it’s not working. They recommend a bath. There is one time (maybe two times...) when I think I could just go to a hospital and tell them to take the pain away somehow with some drug that will stop labor. Anything. But I don’t want that, so I do what I don’t want to do. I take a bath. Michael sits in the low lit bathroom with me to make sure I don’t drown or slip. I stay in the water until it's cold, and he sits with me quietly the entire time though he has not slept either. The bath is relaxing, but not like I want it to be. Back to bed. I spend the rest of the morning much like before with the addition of weird visions of lemon greek yogurt during contractions. I’m also going through them with Rock You Like a Hurricane going through my head, because I keep rocking my hips and it hurts and somehow that means hurricane to my exhausted mind. 48 since I’ve slept, 32 hours of labor.

(Sunday) 
         It’s 8 A.M. and my hands and knees are so tired. I’ve been on them on and off for probably 32 hours, the last 14 of which have been very difficult. I wake from one of my 5 minute nap breaks to a promising plan from Michael. Julie and Lanette are supposed to text us about a time to come to the birth center so they can check the baby. Finally, something to look to! I’ve been laboring convinced my contractions are ineffectual because that was how my first 18 hours of labor went.  The medicine was supposed to slow my labor, so I think the last 14 hours have been for nothing. 
 We leave at 9:45 to meet everyone at 10:30. I’m pretty sure I look like death. Yesterday, I walked in feeling like a woman in labor. Today, I walk in feeling like zombie. 
Ali gives me a pelvic exam and the best news I’ve heard in 24 hours: I’m paper thin and 6+ cm dilated. The last 14 hours have not been for nothing! She mentions to Julie that the baby is +1. I'm pretty sure that means she’s low. No wonder I’ve had so much lower back pressure. That and the fact that my membranes still have not released.
But...I can get in the tub. A big tub. A big, beautiful tub of water which is all I have wanted for 8+ months. I get in and keep trying to relax. I’m pretty sure I look relaxed, but inside my mind is running like crazy. I don’t remember any of the thoughts I was having, but I was very focused. Very aware. Trying to relax. Moving. Breathing. Drinking water from my blue cup with Michael’s help. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that a modified hands and knees was the most comfortable position for me. The tub had a little seat or shelf thing on which I could rest my elbows, so at least my wrists had a break.

Time moves quickly in the water. Sooner than I expect, my body has a small convulsion at the end of a contraction that feels like a push. Two more contractions with that pushing instinct, so I tell Michael to get the midwife (who is just in the next room). I feel a pop between my legs and know that my membranes have finally released. I find out later that it is 12:45 P.M. I've been in the water for only two hours.
From this point, I do not remember any pain. I did compare the pushes with contractions and couldn’t decide if I had a preference. At least I could feel more keenly the great work my body was doing. I felt my baby begin to move down. I felt her move forward with each series of expulsions and then slide back a little. I was very happy she was doing this, because I knew she was stretching me out little by little. And she was moving fast! I thought maybe a little too fast, but I couldn’t slow down the work my body was doing for me. 3 pushes from the end I knew how many more there would be, and I could feel her head. Second to last push and I knew there was only one more. She was right there. I was completely stretched out. Her head finally popped out (this hurt for only a moment) and I remember thinking it felt very round. It’s 1:13 P.M. A rest in my body’s work, and then some final expulsions to release her body. Her body felt bigger coming out than her head! (And hurt a little more, too.) She’s born at 1:15 P.M.

I moved off my elbows and knees to lay down, and then she was coming into my arms. Her head was up and her eyes were open and she cried immediately. I felt exhaustion. I felt relief. I didn’t know what I was feeling. These two days after the birth I didn’t remembered crying, but as I write this I remember. I cried. I looked at Michael and he was so happy. I drank in his expression, and I have held that memory second most vivid to my daughter’s face as she came into my arms and my chest. I didn’t feel like I knew her, nor did I feel any rushes of understanding. I only felt confusion and what I think was happiness. I knew I would get to know her. She was mine, but I didn’t quite know why. I knew she was Michael’s, because I could see it on his face. And his face gave me hope.

Adoption and Superheroes: The Relatability of Superman's Search for Identity

So, during the past few weeks I have had a lot of different experiences centering on the theme of identity.  One specific example of this was the STM Dialogues.  This event was wonderful, and allowed for different members of the STM community to tell their stories.  All of the stories were focused on the various issues that people face when determining or owning their identity.  I actually submitted a piece myself to be performed, which was about some of the questions and transitions I have faced in my life as an adopted child.  In thinking of what I wanted to write for this post, and thinking on the theme of identity, I was brought back to a previous idea I had had for a blog post, which talked about one of the most famous adopted kids of all time: Superman.

I’ve been on a bit of a Superman kick lately, I’ll admit.  Ever since I saw Man of Steel, and found season one of Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman on Amazon for like $10, I’ve been

Oh, the 90's goodness.

borderline obsessed.  It’s weird to, because Superman never appealed to me as much as other heroes growing up.  He was too much of a goody-goody, which made him boring (although I did LOVE Lois and Clark when I was a kid…and still love it…I recently bought season two).  I always liked Batman better (DC Universe-wise, anyway), because he was a little grittier, and less black-and-white.  He works in black “and sometimes very, very dark gray” (haha, LEGO movie reference).  Really, though, I could never relate to Superman the way I sometimes could to other heroes.  He was too good, to unshakable, too…super. 

However, what makes Superman more interesting to me now is his struggle with his identity, which is highlighted in Man of Steel (here come the SPOILERS).  Basically, the whole movie can be boiled down to Superman’s struggle of balancing his identity as Kal-El of Krypton, and Clark Kent of Earth.  In the movie, when Clark first realizes he is not his parents’ biological child, he is understandably confused and distressed (and on top of that, he can lift a freaking bus...puberty is confusing enough without all of that thrown in the mix).  His dad, Jonathan Kent, doesn’t want Clark to let anyone know he has his superhuman powers, because he is afraid people wouldn’t be able to handle it and would fear and hate Clark (the results of this order prove disastrous, which is typical when you’re forced to deny who you are…we all remember what happened to Elsa in Frozen).  He does encourage Clark to try

and figure out why he was sent to Earth, and what his other parents’ intentions for him were.  However, while Jonathan only has good intentions at heart, his actions really add to Clark’s confusion, distress, and fear of himself.

As a teenager, Clark goes through the somewhat typical stage of independence-seeking that all teenagers go through, and as an adopted kid, this includes the occasional “You’re not my real father/mother” retort that makes you want to punch him in the head.  However, tragedy strikes (as it usually does), and Clark comes to regret those comments (as he should).  Fast forward, though, and Clark’s a grown up man traveling from place to place in search of his identity (the song “I Can Go the Distance” from Hercules would fit in well with this part of the movie).  Eventually, he finds a Kryptonian spaceship in the Artic, in which he is able to learn more about his home world and the parents who gave him up so that he could survive its destruction.  When he encounters General Zod (the bad guy), Clark is faced with the decision to either help the General turn Earth into a new Krypton, or protect the people of Earth from destruction. 

OBVIOUSLY he chooses to protect the people, but if you really break down this decision, it’s a lot harder than it might seem at first glance.  Clark has spent his whole life feeling different, as if he doesn’t really belong anywhere.  He searches for any clues that will answer the millions of questions that are constantly swarming through him about where he comes from, and who he is.  When he finally discovers everything, he is given the option to completely embrace the identity he has found…or create a new identity based on who he was, and who he is.  As his Krypton father Jor-El states, “Born on Krypton and raised on Earth, you had the best of both and were meant to be the bridge between two worlds.”

Space dad with baby Superman

Superman is neither just Kryptonian, or just of Earth, but both, and he eventually realizes this and finds his purpose to be the protection of his adopted home.  While it is an extreme example, I’m sure there are a ton of adopted kids who could resonate with some part of Superman’s journey of identity.  I know I can, but most especially with his conclusion.  I have no desire to meet my biological parents or know where I “come” from.  I am completely happy with my life, and I my family is the most important thing in the world to me.  However, after years of anger and pain in regards to my biological parents, I have come to understand that they are a part of my identity as well, especially my biological mother.  If she hadn’t made the choice to give me up, I wouldn’t be where I am right now, surrounded by all of the people I love.  Like Superman at the end of Man of Steel, I understand that both my parents and my biological parents (where I am and where I come from) are hugely important to how I see myself and relate to the rest of the world.  Their decisions and actions have influenced my identity, and I wouldn’t be me if I never had all of them.  I think it’s important, in any search for identity, to acknowledge what has come before and what is happening now.  We are formed and molded by every aspect of our lives, whether large or small, whether we realize it or not.  I am not Superman, but Superman isn’t so hard to relate to anymore.  

Farm dad with pre-teen Superman          

See you next time,

Erin B.

And because I like to end on a laugh...

 

Selfie/Story

I've got a confession to make…

I take selfies.

That definitely wasn't someone else who took that picture of my face. That was me. With my iPhone, with that little "reverse camera" feature so I could see what I looked like when I snapped the pic. I probably took at least three pictures before I finally took one I liked. If I'm gonna post my face all over the Internet, I wanna look good.

Women are expected to look beautiful all the time. We're expected to look flawless whether we're at home or work. Sometimes (despite all those Pinterest fitspirations about, "If you look good after your workout, you didn't work hard enough) even after a workout, in that sweaty, sexy, exhausted, maybe even post-coital way. We're supposed to wear makeup, but only enough to enhance our "best" features. We're supposed to have perfect skin, and if we don't, we're supposed to cake on some concealer until it's not as noticeable. It takes us twenty minutes to make our hair perfectly dishevelled so we look gorgeous, but in that, thrown-together-I-really-didn't-try-I-swear kind of way. We work really hard to look effortless.

http://www.thegloss.com/2013/07/05/beauty/social-experiment-confirms-men-like-natural-makeup/

That, in itself, says a lot about unattainable beauty standards. And on top of everyday people, celebrities, and (most of all) companies telling us that we we're not pretty skinny curvy insert physical qualifier here enough, why are we surprised that women have lower self-esteem about their appearance?

According to Psychology Today, women are more concerned about their appearance because people judge us on our appearance, much more than people judge men on appearance. Dove says that only 4% of women worldwide would describe themselves as beautiful. This may have to do with sexual selection, biology, or competition, but it's a real life problem that women experience on a daily basis. We're sold products to cover up or eliminate these "flaws." If we didn't feel so shitty about how we looked, many a company would go out of business.

As we try so hard to look so perfect (quite an uphill battle), heaven forbid women express any sort of pride or confidence about their appearance.

"Oh, you look so beautiful today!" "Psh, no, I look like a troll! You look beautiful!"
"Oooh, I love those pants!" "Awww, really? I got them on sale!" (Notice, no acknolowedgment that your body is attached to those gorgeous pants)
"You look really pretty today!" "Are you kidding me? I just rolled out of bed!"

When should I stop quoting "Mean Girls?" THE LIMIT DOES NOT EXIST.

Women are supposed to be insecure. We're supposed to blow off compliments. If you're open about how beautiful you feel, even if you totally do, you're full of yourself. A bitch. Cocky. Self-involved. Fake. Vain. Maybe even slutty.

Selfies are a touchy subject. People see them as promoting vanity, an impression of empty-headedness, attention-whoring, or self-obsession. And let's be honest: we all know that one person who has a Facebook album exclusively full of pictures of her face at slightly different angles. It does seem a little extreme.

Here's my question: Is it really offensive that a woman might actually feel good about herself and her body?

I'm not advocating we all start making selfie albums on Facebook or anything, but is it possible that maybe that girl posting a picture of her face just... feels pretty? Is it more offensive than a group of friends taking six different pictures of themselves until they take the most flattering one?

Is it so offensive that someone might actually feel good about themselves and feel okay sharing that online? We share new jobs, good grades, relationships, and pretty much everything else online, but sharing a flattering picture - differing from all those other tagged pictures only because you took it yourself - crosses the line?

In a world where 4% of women worldwide would call themselves beautiful, we should be celebrating women who have the confidence to post a picture and say to the Internet, "Hey, I feel beautiful today. Deal with it." We should be encouraging other women to feel beautiful just the way they are (filter or not). We should be building each other up, not tearing each other down. We should encourage ourselves to celebrate our own beauty, whether that comes in the form of a good grade, singing really loud in the car (with the windows down - free those dulcet tones!), or having a good hair day. And hell, take a picture of it if you want to. I bet it looks great.

At least on my Instagram feed, selfies appear all the time with a caption like, "Hey, just feeling pretty today! #nomakeup" The responses to those pictures in particular are really beautiful - 99% of the time, other women are building each other up. They say things like, "Wow, BABE ALERT," "You're always so beautiful," or "Screw makeup, you're so foxy!" Every time I see one, it warms my heart. 

I have an app called "BeauCoo" where women (of all shapes and sizes) can post their outfit pictures. It's meant to be a supportive community where you can see how specific clothing items might fit you, but the comments are always my favorite part. It doesn't matter what size, shape, face type, or skin color - the comments are always positive and uplifting.

When I see examples like that, I just can't throw all selfies in the "self-obsession & vanity" pile. I see a way for women to embrace themselves. I see a way to show the world that we refuse to make self-hate the norm. I see a way to embrace beauty however we'd like to. I see a way to raise that 4%.

How do you feel about selfies? Do you think they have redeeming quality?

xo Madie