Dear Body,

I know I haven't always been kind to you...okay, I've been downright awful. And I think an apology is long overdue.

Our relationship started out okay, I think. I took you for granted, sure, but you were always true. Your strength allowed me to spend hours in the woods building forts or riding bikes or doing toe touches, cartwheels and splits. You were never particularly helpful when it came to sports involving a ball, but I didn't hold it against you. In fact, I never really thought much about you at all. No, it wasn't until that fateful day at the pediatrician, when I stepped on the scale to realize you had tipped into the triple digits...that's when I turned against you, and it's been a struggle ever since.

There's no denying the things I've done to you. I've called you names. I've made fun of you publicly. I've hated you. I've starved you. I've tried various diets and pills and drinks - all in an attempt to make you into something you shouldn't have to be.

But despite my best efforts, you have stayed true to me. You've stayed healthy and strong. Strong enough to jog up and down Peachtree Street each morning before the sun comes up. Strong enough to explore Atlanta, Nashville, Leeds, London, Scarsdale, Louisville, Los Angeles, Johannesburg, Salt Rock, Madikwe, Chapel Hill, Chicago, Montello, Charleston, Alexandria, Napa Valley, Linville, and Athens...all on foot. Strong enough to take me 26.2 miles around Washington DC on a beautiful Sunday morning.

It's taken a long time to get here, but I see you differently now. I see you for all that you've done for me - all that you are able to do. I no longer hold your imperfections against you. I won't lie...I still see them, but they won't stop me from giving you the respect you deserve. I'm just sorry it's taken so long.

So thank you, Body, for being good to me, even when I didn't deserve it. And thank you for coming through for me yesterday, when I put you through your greatest challenge to date. Thank you for proving how strong you are...how strong we are...and that despite all I've put you through, God willing, we have a long, bright future ahead.

Sincerely,


Robyn

What's on your mind?

I'm this close to hiding your status update.

You didn’t know I could do that? Well, I can. I just have to hover the mouse in the top right corner of your most recent nonsense and yep, see that little “hide” option? I can hide you forever. And I’m gonna do it this time…really I am …

But what if the next one is really clever or funny or thought provoking? What if next time, you actually have something compelling to say? Or what if I actually want to know about whatever fun/hip/cool thing you’re doing/reading/watching? What if I want to do/read/watch it too? I mean, I can’t let you have all the fun, now can I? So no, maybe I won’t hide you…yet.

I don't quite know how it happens but I lose large chunks of my weekends just scanning my “home” page. I go in for a quick glance and end up clicking on the profile of some random person I haven’t seen in 10+ years just because she felt compelled to announce that she cooked shrimp and grits for dinner last night. Mmmm…shrimp and grits, huh? That sounds good…let’s see what else Susie has been up to. Or, wow, Mary’s kid is potty trained? That’s great. Let’s see if she has some pics of this baby genius.

And then there are the “cool kid” updates. You know the ones I mean. The updates designed to let you know how much fun the author is having and how great their life is. I try not to judge too harshly because we’ve all done it.
You’ve been to a fun concert or an awesome vacation, and your Facebook status allows you to brag about it without really bragging about it. And that’s okay. As long as you don’t do it 17 times a day. Seriously. You’re having fun. Life is good. We get it.

I shouldn’t get all worked up about it. I mean, I’m the one wasting my Sunday afternoon reading all the nonsense. But I can't help but think...is this is what I've abandoned my blog for? I'm no longer indulging my own narcissistic tendencies every Sunday, but I've fallen victim to the narcissism of others!

I know I could log out if I really wanted to. Or I could at least “hide” the more annoying "cool kids." But I don’t. Not yet anyway…but I’m warning you, I’m this close.

The naked blogger

"What’s up with the blog?"

At first people kindly overlooked that I missed a week, then two…but lately a few loyal readers have begun to inquire about my intentions for the blog. But the thing is, I still don’t really know. I do enjoy having this outlet for my writing (and my neuroses), but all of a sudden I feel very exposed. Like I’ve been prancing around naked all this time and am only just noticing that everyone else is fully clothed. And accompanying this awareness of being naked is the nagging question of how and why I got naked in the first place (and I’m still speaking metaphorically, so get your mind out of the gutter!). Obviously, I started blogging to keep in touch while I was in South Africa, but then it became a kind of habit, a way to indulge my need to write (and apparently, my need to bare my soul). But I feel like a woman of nearly thirty (!!!) should be more sensible than that. I feel like I should have more of a focus with my writing. If I’m going to blog, I should be promoting something or teaching something. I should have a goal, a purpose…but what?

Even after taking a few weeks off, I haven’t exactly figured out what that is yet. I’ve got a few ideas…but I’m still not sure what it is I should be doing.

My high school English teacher (who fancied herself a bit of a therapist) used to say, “Don’t ‘should’ yourself.” The phrase has stuck with me, even if I'm usually incapable of taking the advice. I 'm perpetually telling myself I ‘should’ be more organized, I ‘should’ lose five pounds, I ‘should’ read more non-fiction, I ‘should’…well, you get my point. But in this case, for the moment anyway, I’m going to try and take Ms. Rich’s advice. I’m not going to worry about what I should do with the blog – I’m just going to write. But I’m also not going to ‘should myself’ into posting when I don’t really feel like writing.

But I’m sure I'll keep writing, and I’m sure I’ll continue to be 'naked' when I do it...because I just don’t know how to do it any other way.

A Makeover Story

"Cher's main thrill in life is a makeover, it gives her a sense of control in a world full of chaos."

- Dion, in Clueless

Everyone loves a good makeover story. Not so much the Lifetime reality show (is that even still on?), but you know what I mean - Devil Wears Prada, Miss Congeniality, She's All That, Grease... those are just the first ones that come to mind, but you get the point. Everyone likes to watch someone else transform into a better version of themselves. I suspect this is true because it supports the theory that there's a better version of all of us hidden away, just waiting to be extracted in our own personal movie makeover montage.

Over the years, I've made several attempts to stage my metamorphis, most notably after my freshman year of college when I had my long locks chopped into a Meg Ryan circa City of Angels 'do. This attempt stands out, not because it resulted in shrieks of "omigod, is that you?" (though it did), but because it accompanied (or incited?) a definite shift in my personality. I went into my sophomore year feeling more care-free, more optimisitc, and more willing to embrace anything college life had to offer (most notably, alcohol, but let's not dwell on that).

I cut off the majority of my hair yet again this week, but instead of dramatically revealing a more care-free, confident version of myself...I'm still pretty much just me. It's not that I'm surprised. With the exception of my post freshman year transformation, I've never had a haircut change my life (and if I'm being honest, that transformation probably had more to do with recovering from a broken heart than my hair). But regardless of the facts, over the years, whenever I'm feeling sad or stressed or out of control, I become convinced that changing my appearance - my hair, my weight, my clothes - will surely change everything. But the truth is - brunette or blonde, long or short, curly or straight, size 4 or size 8 - I'm still pretty much just me.

And as much as I love a good makeover story, maybe "just me" is okay.

Confidence

There are several women in my life who radiate confidence, the

M-I-L for one. It’s a quality I admire in others, maybe even envy. The ability to feel completely comfortable with who you are and what you bring to the conversation. Truly confident women never question the appropriateness of their words, or worry about how they will be perceived. They simply are who they are. I find it fascinating. What must it be like to have an opinion or make a decision and never question that perhaps you might be wrong?

And yet, occasionally this cool confidence can give way to arrogance, or self-centeredness. Some of these women seem to forget that what’s happening in their lives might not be the only thing happening. Sometimes they forget to ask, “What’s going on with YOU?” And sometimes, in their complete satisfaction with who they are and what they do, you get the feeling that they’re not so impressed with who you are and what you do (if they even thought to ask who you are and what you do in the first place).

Look, I see the irony of a narcissistic blogger accusing someone else of being self-centered, but if my mother taught me anything, it was to consider the feelings of others. I'm not saying I always think of others, but I try. My mom, however, completely embodies this ideal – the woman loves others and gives of herself in a way that is borderline saintly. I say this simply to explain the way I was raised, the qualities I was taught to value – not only by my mom, but by my school too. “Think of Jesus first, Others second, and Yourself last.” That was the motto of the all-girl “JOY club” led by my seventh grade Bible teacher – a club I refused to join, mind you, because even at 13, my inner-feminist sensed something wasn’t right with this motto. It’s a beautiful ideal, but teaching girls (and only girls) to put everyone else before themselves, well it doesn’t exactly send a message that values women, and it doesn’t really build confidence.

That being said, I do value the ideal. I look at my mother and pray that I can be even half as kind and sympathetic and selfless as she is…but here’s the thing…I wouldn’t describe my mother as particularly confident or self-assured. That certainly doesn’t mean the qualities can’t co-exist, but it’s a delicate balance to achieve.

I know. I’m getting awfully introspective for a girl contemplating switching gears on the blog altogether, but I spent part of the holiday weekend with the one and only Avery Jayne, and whenever I hold my baby niece in my arms, I can’t help but imagine the girl she will become. I don’t know if she will be brainy or sporty or artsy or all of the above, and honestly, I don’t care. I just want her to be happy, confident, and kind. Happy in her own life, without being complacent. Confident in who she is, without being self-centered or arrogant. Kind and sympathetic to the needs of others, without perpetually sacrificing her own needs.

I look at this beautiful creature and I see her inherent goodness. I know that she will be kind. And with so many people in her life to love her and challenge her, I’m certain that she will find happiness. But what of confidence? What is to stop her from falling into the same patterns of self-doubt and poor self-esteem that plague so many women and girls? And how can she learn to be confident when her mother and her aunt are all too quick to criticize themselves for every minor imperfection or mistake? It slowly occurs to me that if we are to teach her to value herself, we will have to show her that we value ourselves.
I don’t kid myself that I will be a primary role model for Avery as she grows up in Chicago, but I do hope to be someone she admires, someone her parents would be happy for her to emulate should she one day decide to flee the cold and come explore her Southern roots. So to that end, I want to be better. I resolve to be all the things I hope for her: Happy. Kind. Confident.
Crazy, huh? She’s not even five months old and she’s already challenging me to be a better person.

Not that kind of blog.

I had a mild panic attack today at work when someone I respect professionally asked me if I blog and then proceeded to ask for the url. He himself is a blogger and it only came up after I confessed to having checked up on him online (I was just trying to give him a compliment!). Anyway, I tried to avoid answering the question, mumbling something about it just being a silly personal blog (as opposed to his blogs about healthcare marketing and Christian literature), but despite my side-stepping, I’m certain he can easily find me if he is so inclined. (And if he did find me…um, well…Hi there!).

I don’t know why I’m so worked up about this. I mean I would certainly never post anything that could get me dooced, but still, thinking about this man reading my petty comments about the M-I-L, my hems and haws about motherhood, the silly stories about my impossibly charming husband…well, it’s hard to imagine him thinking of me as a Serious Professional after reading all the nonsense I post online. I mean, it’s not like my blog serves to teach anyone or promote anything. It’s just not that kind of blog.

But then again, in the age of Twitter when even CEOs are posting random thoughts about their personal lives online, maybe it’s not so bizarre to think about merging the personal with the professional. After all, one of the first rules of Social Media Marketing is to be personal. No one wants to read vanilla tweets from a generic corporate “handle.” They don’t want to know what Coke thinks; they want to know what Kelly the marketing girl at Coke thinks. And yet, to put yourself out there like that, well, it’s scary for Coke and it’s scary for Kelly.

That being said, I’m certainly not considering using this blog to promote the company that I work for, but I am trying to figure out how this blog might teach something of value or share something beyond stories about the M-I-L. I’m sure I have something of value I could add to cyberspace…if I can just figure out what it is…

I’m working on it.

More fun with the in-laws

Wow. I skip one weekend of blogging and now I don’t know where to begin. Do I stick to the usual narcissistic themes and catch you up on the in-laws’ visit or do I join the gazillion other bloggers weighing in with their opinions on Neda, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, Mark Sanford, and John and Kate. While it’s tempting, I’m not sure I have anything different or more profound to say than what you’ve no doubt already read, so I think I’ll stick to something you certainly can’t find elsewhere on the web.

The top 5 subjects I try to avoid with my in-laws

1. Babies. As I’ve mentioned before, when you’re nearly 30, happily married, and don’t have kids, people start to wonder what’s wrong with you. My in-laws are no different. And while they seem to make an effort to tread lightly on the subject, I’m hyper sensitive to their subtle comments. But I never know how to respond, because I’m not sure what’s worse – if they think there’s something physically wrong with me and I can’t have a baby or if they think I’m too selfish to want one.
2. Food. My food, their food, your food. From their general disgust with the too-large portion sizes in this country to their shock that their daughter-in-law might actually want 3 meals a day, the in-laws have an opinion about every morsel consumed around them, and as you know, I consume a lot of morsels. The M-I-L never fails to comment on my healthy appetite, but of course, she does it under a veil of praise. Example: “Wow, you did really well with that meal; I feel I’ve wasted so much.” I never know what to say to this. Is ‘thanks’ appropriate? Or should I look her in the eye and say “Yes, whatever will you say to the starving children in Africa when you next see them?” Ah, if only…
3. Fat People. Perhaps this stems from their obsession with how much everyone is eating, because the in-laws love talking about Fat People. They like to point them out to make sure you’ve seen them and then make (loud) comments about them. The M-I-L loves to tell you how Britain is no better than America these days – even the children are “piggish.” And the F-I-L will tell anyone who will listen that being fat doesn’t have anything to do with thyroid conditions or other health problems; Fat People just eat too much. And maybe he has a point, but I can’t help but feel indignant on behalf of every pudgy person I know. When I venture to ask them why a total stranger’s weight problem bothers them so much, the M-I-L insists that it makes no difference to her; she just feels sorry for them. The F-I-L barks that he doesn’t feel sorry for them at all, and he has every right to complain because he has to look at them and he does not like looking at Fat People. No, he just likes talking about them.
4. Black People. Now, I want to be clear that my in-laws are not racists, but they’re obviously from an older generation and they do live in South Africa, which I suppose is why they just can’t seem to help themselves from sharing their general observations about “the blacks” in America. It’s not that what they have to say is all that hurtful (“The blacks in America are much prettier/jollier/fatter than the blacks in Africa.”); it’s just the ridiculous generalizing, the use of the term “the blacks,” and more than anything, the volume at which it’s all spoken.
5. My hair. It looks awful at the moment. I can’t quite decide if I’m letting it grow into a wild Carrie Bradshaw-like mane or if I’m ready to cut it off again in an effort to channel a spunkier version of myself. And then there’s the color. It’s as close to natural as it’s been since I was 1o years old, and when your natural color involves the words “dirty” and “dishwater,” natural is to be avoided at all cost. Still, I’ve been avoiding the trip to the salon for awhile now, telling myself the recession made it okay to go natural. In so many words, the F-I-L told me it does not.* Thanks, Dad.

*In fairness, Roger witnessed this conversation and he insists that his father insinuated no such thing. But I’m sorry, when a 70 year old man comments that your hair looks “different” and follows up with “So, uh, how often do you have to go to the salon?” I think it’s safe to assume you’re looking pretty bad. But don’t worry, I’ve already booked my appointment.