Thigh Gaps: Scarier Than a Break-In

Thanks all for your concern and support regarding the break in.  We’re all moving on.  I think the kids have more or less forgotten about it, and as for me, while it’s still taking up too much head space, I’m trying not to let it affect my mood or my outlook. This is easier said than done most of the time.  I have to confess something to you: I posted on FB a few days ago that I cleaned out my closet.  The reason why I cleaned out my closet was that…. well one, it was really messy and needed to be done, but reason number two was that I actually found myself wondering what kind of judgments the thieves passed on me when they saw the mess of shoes on my floor and the pile of dirty clothes shoved in the corner.  

I am totally aware of how twisted this is.  I may be the only woman on the planet who would be motivated to clean her closet by the fear that the punks who broke into her home would perchance dare to think her a slob.

I don’t know how I got this way.  I’m pretty sure it’s not how I started out, and I blame the insanity of motherhood.

So be it.

Anyway.  Turns out there more scary things out there this week than break-ins.  Do you know what this is?

This would be a thigh gap.  Apparently, according to Lara Spencer on Good Morning America, American teenage girls are obsessed with it.  More than anything else in the world, America girls do not want their thighs to touch. In fact, the more inches of air space between point A to B, the better. 

So, yes, young women have now invented yet another way to tear each other down and make themselves feel inferior, insufficient, not enough and it all depends on how much negative space one does or does not have between her thighs.

Fabulous. 

That’s not even the worst part. 

The interviewer asked the group of girls if boys cared about thigh gaps.  The girls all agreed that boys aren’t even aware of what thigh gaps are, to which the interviewer replied: “ Well, if boys don’t care about thigh gaps, why is it so important?”

Yes.  Because if boys had an issue with thigh gap, then somehow this stupid obsession would be more legitimate.  

Do I really care about this?  No, not really.  Am I surprised by it?  No, not all.  And I think you probably aren’t either.  I suppose I can say that I speak for a lot of women when I say that having been at this game for some time now, we all know that it’s bullshit.  Our brains know that our bodies and their shapes do not in any way reflect our value as humans, as friends, as wives, as mothers.

Except for one thing.

If my brain knows this, then why (WHY) was it impossible to resist the temptation, upon my next trip to the bathroom, to sneak a peek in the mirror to see whether I myself possessed a thigh gap? 

I’ll tell you why. 

It’s because I know it, but I don’t know it.  The voice inside my head that tells me that I’m perfect the way I am- with my flabby thighs, soft stomach and smile lines around my mouth and eyes- is drowned out by the messages of the hundreds of sexy ads I’m bombared with every day.  It’s drowned out by the voices of men in my life- some of whom I love very much- making negative comments about other women’s bodies.  And it’s taken down to a whisper by voices of other women who critique themselves so strongly that I know they must be silently judging me in the same manner. 

And the fact that my own voice gets drowned out and looses it’s power?  That’s scary.

Never before have I felt more overwhelmed at the thought of raising a girl in this society. 

PG happened to be in the room eating her cereal when the whole thigh gap story was on, so I was able to talk to her and tell her my problems with it.  She listened and took in all that I had to say.  It was nice.  However, the time for that is SO limited.  In a few short years, everything I say will seem so lame to her and her friend's adolescent opinions will hold more weight.  How in the world am I going to teach her to value herself in this superficial culture of ours?  Especially when I myself still struggle with it?

(By the way, I think I may have a bit of an answer for that.  I think the best way for us to take the focus off of superficiality is to engage in meaningful service to others. I guess you could say that it’s ironic that I would choose service to others as a way of combating the “good girls please others” mentality, BUT call me crazy....wouldn’t you think that it’d be hard to worry about the size of your thigh gap if you were in the midst of helping another survive for another day by providing them food or shelter or some other necessity?)

Look.  The reason I was compelled to look for my own bullshit thigh gap is the same reason why I felt like I should have a clean closet lest thieves break into my home again.  It’s craziness, I know it’s craziness, but getting past the I’ve been taught the “pleasing others” lesson looms nearly impossible for me.   Judging from the volume of social media that zeroes in on a girl’s insecurities such as thigh gap , I’d say it’s a difficult lesson for others to discard as well.  Here we are, fifty years past the women’s movement and our girls are still being taught the same lesson.  We’ve just made the lesson more covert, and they’ve just become more adept at reading between the lines

I don’t have anyway to end this, except to restate what I’ve already said earlier in this post: 

I don’t know how we got this way.  I’m pretty sure it’s not how we started out. I blame the insanity of being a girl.

So be it.  

  

Break In

So our house was broken into this morning.

I suppose it makes me a bit of a drama queen to harp on this and blogging about it, but if ya'll will bear with me here, writing is how I process things sometimes.

(The fact that I'm even using language like "processing" most definitely makes me feel like I'm being over dramatic.  I'm not even sure that the way I feel right now is process worthy.  I feel pretty calm.)

(In light of the above sentences, if I'm not being a drama queen, I guess I am definitely guilty of over thinking things.  I'm debating with myself over whether or not I need to process my feelings.  WTF?)

(Never mind.  It's apparent from all of the above sentences that I'm a wreck.  I just needed to write all that to see it. See?  We've come full circle to my original point- writing is how I process and understand things.)

Deep breath.

Okay.  So I returned home from tutoring today, unlocked the front door to my home, took one step inside and noticed that a drawer to the table in our foyer was pulled open.
My mind registered it as odd.

I took another step inside and saw that the cable box and DVD player were pulled out and that their wires were hanging off the shelf like strands of hair.
I froze.

What a weird thought process- to be looking around your own house and to know that things are very very wrong and yet to have your disbelieving mind still try to rationalize it.  I thought to myself, "Well, maybe we left it this way this morning?".  Even as I slowly leaned forward and saw that the desk was pulled out from the wall and that the antique piece that we have in the dining area had all it's drawers open, I was still trying to come up with an explanation besides the obvious one.

Fortunately, my legs weren't as interested in rationalizing the situation.  They took one, then two steps backwards and then I was out the door.

I crossed the lawn to the sidewalk and called Matt at work, who then instructed me to stay out of the house and to call the police (That instruction was a total formality.  He knew I wasn't going back in. I only called him first to touch base with reality because everything felt so odd.  I called the police immediately after I got off the phone with him).  

You all don't need the details with the police.  They were fine.  Came out and did their thing.  I doubt we'll ever hear back from them.

Here is what I need to get off my chest.  Again, please bear with me if I'm being too dramatic.

The absolute worst moment in all of this came when I reentered the house.  It'd been about 15 minutes and I was still waiting for the police, but by this point, I was pretty sure that there was no one inside.  My friend came (thank you Lord, in times like these for the gift of friends) and stayed with me while I walked inside to check it out.  There was still a part of me that had been hoping that I was being silly, that there was an explanation, and that everything else in the house would be undisturbed.  But when I stepped into the hallway and looked through the door to the master bedroom and saw that all my drawers had been dumped out, clothes strewn across the floor, and jewelry box open, my blood turned cold.  Looking the other way down the hall gave me a view of the kids room, where their toy boxes had been pulled out.  The drawers in the linen cabinet were pulled open.

I was so reluctant to even move from the spot I was in.  I guess that's because that's the point when I had to accept that some absolute strangers had been in my house, rifling through my drawers and putting their disgusting hands on my stuff, my family's stuff.  There was no rationalizing it anymore.  Now all I could do was deal with it.

So that's what I've been doing.  Dealing with it.  Mostly by disinfecting.  The feeling of being violated is very prominent. I know that's normal.  (Not to trivialize, but my drawer full of "good underwear"  was all over the floor and now I just want to burn it.)  I've also stared down any stranger who happens by my house in the last few hours.  Everyone is a suspect.  I hate being distrustful like that, but can't help it now.

Mostly though, I'm trying to keep perspective.  My family is safe.  I have good friends, both near and far, who either helped me directly by being there today or indirectly by just empathizing on Facebook.  Like I said, thank God for friends.

And thank God for karma.  May she find these guys and kick their lily livered big fat droopy arses from here to the north pole, and when they get to the pole may it come into direct contact with their family jewels and may their pain be excruciating.

And may they then be poked in their eyes by a pair of large reindeer antlers.  And then may they be eaten by polar bears.

With extra sharp teeth.

And razor sharp claws.

Amen.  

Taking Grace on the Road

I've been thinking a lot lately about living a more graceful life.  Not graceful as in less clumsy- although I did drop a pretty large jar of coconut oil yesterday on my foot and could potentially benefit from a more graceful life.  But that's not the type of grace I'm talking about. Nor am I referring to Gracie, my daughter (in case the title misled any of you). I'm actually talking about grace grace. You know. The spiritual kind. The kind that allows one to let go of negative emotions in lieu of compassion, empathy, kindness, and understanding.

 Maybe it's been motherhood or maybe it's just been my mid to late thirties, but somewhere in the last few years I've become much more wary of anger and judgement and much more aware of grace.  Maybe that's just a natural part of getting older. (By the way, are you guys familiar with that Ed Sheeran song that says something about a woman's face "crumbling like pastries"? Lately that line goes through my head everytime I see my reflection.  Seems to me that I'm going to need a big dose of grace just to survive the aging process.)

Anyway, I decided in the last few months that a tiny stockpile of grace could only be a good thing, so I started consciously trying to practice it.  Instead of giving in to my short fuse, I tried to step back and offer kindness or compassion in place of anger.  I still messed up every day, but for the most part it was good.  My kids and husband were targets of my anger less often. I felt less stress.  I hated my white tile floors less.  Zen was practically oozing out of my pores.  But my friends, I made a fatal error.  I began this quest for grace during high season out here in the desert.

Let me tell you about season, for those of you who don't already know.

For the most part, the months of January to May are the best time of the year out here- and I think every senior citizen in every snow region from Washington to New York City to Canada  knows it.  They all come and infiltrate the desert with their expensive town cars, poor driving skills, and sense of entitlement. I've complained written about them before here in this post.
I am not lying when I say that currently one in every five cars out here have an out of state license plate.
That means that 20% of the people that I'm on the road with daily have NO IDEA WHAT THEY ARE DOING OR WHERE THEY ARE GOING.

(Sorry for yelling, but it felt necessary to convey the frustrating experience that is driving during season.)

(Also, it's probably clear from my tone that I haven't really mastered grace in the long term.  I can only manage grace in the moment, but that's a start. Right?)
  
Practicing grace on the road during high season out here in the desert turned out to be a bigger challenge than I was prepared for.  I mean, I did good for the first few days.  For example, when I saw a car turn left onto the wrong side of the divider, instead of marveling at the driver's stupidity, I had the presence of mind to pray for his/her safety.

When a car cut me off by turning right in front of me even though there was no one behind me and they could've saved me the need to brake wildly by waiting a half a second, I was able to conjure up some empathy by remembering that my own grandfather is on the road and may make the same mistakes.  I would want other drivers to offer him grace.

I do confess, when someone honked at me because I stopped for schoolchildren in a crosswalk, I did roll down my window and ask him if he'd prefer if I'd run the pedestrians over- but I managed to do so in a joking manner with only the slightest hint of sarcasm.

And when a driver with Washington plates failed to move until the last second at a green left turn arrow, thus leaving everyone behind him to sit through another red, I was the only one of five cars who did not honk at him.  I figured the other honkers spoke for me.

However.

Turns out I have a limit. (I say that as if it's a surprise.)

The other week I was picking the kids up from school.  Nowadays I avoid the Devil's Lot by picking them up on a corner in the neighborhood across the street.  I had stopped for a truck in front of me who had double parked to let his kids get in. Upon beginning re-acceleration (key word there, as I had just put my foot back on the gas), I passed a young lady parked on the side.  She was getting her baby out of the back seat.

And that's when it happened. She yelled at me to slow down.

(This is the part where, if I was telling you this story face to face I would expect you to say something like "Oh, NO she didn't!" just so I could say "Oh YES she did!" back.)

(Let's pretend that we had that exchange.)

OH YES SHE DID!  It was too much.  After weeks (WEEKS!) of biting my tongue and being witness to countless numbers of idiots drivers making deadly mistakes on the road, she was going to yell at ME when I hadn't even hit 20mph on my odometer?

Not caring that my kids were in the car, I slammed on my brakes.  I rolled down my window.  Bug eyed, I leaned out and yelled "LADY!!!!!!  I WASN'T EVEN GOING 20 MPH!"

And she started screeching back at me about how there was a school across the street and how I needed to slow down.

So I screeched back "I KNOW THERE'S A SCHOOL ACROSS THE STREET!  I AM HERE PICKING UP MY CHILDREN!  YOU DON'T GET TO YELL AT ME TO SLOW DOWN!  I'M THE ONE WHO YELLS AT PEOPLE TO SLOW DOWN!  ME!  NOT YOU! ME!"

Those words actually came out of my mouth.  I'm not proud.

The good new is that she probably didn't hear me in her determination to drown me out by repeatedly screeching "Slow down!"  in the same manner that little kids cover their ears and shout "LALALALLALA" when they don't want to hear something.

I wish I could say that that's when the absurdity of the situation hit me, but it wasn't. (That didn't happen until I actually sat down to write this.)  I did have the presence of mind however, to realize that in that moment, I was being a terrible role model to my kids.  I guess if I really thought about it, I would've realized that I was also being a terrible role model to that new mom as well, but that's another topic.

And while I was still angry enough at her to imagine scenarios where I got to tell her off and say things like "Welcome to parenthood lady!  You and your baby against the big bad world.  Get a grip." (Wouldn't that have been SO satisfying?), I also realized that I was in the middle of a big grace fail.  Huge.

And there's the thing about grace.  It doesn't require perfection.  In fact, imperfection is it's starting point.  So you get to start over.  And over.  And over.  And over again, until you learn the lesson grace is trying to teach you.

So, I took a deep breath and chastised myself for yelling at a mom with a newborn carrier.  I am truly ashamed of that.  And I remembered back to when I was pregnant and waddling through parking lots, how offended I would get towards the drivers who zipped past me.  Maybe they weren't going faster than 20 either, but to someone who was new at trying to protect an tiny little life, it didn't matter.  I felt overwhelmed by the enormity of the task, and felt like there should be more people working on my side.

Between that and the fact that I realized she was the reciepient of some pent up anger I'd been feeling towards the other idiots on the road  snowbirds, I was able to clear my head.  In fact, I saw her cross in front of me a few weeks later in the Target parking lot and the urge to put my car in park and rev my engine at her was very, very small.

Thank you, grace.

For my desert readers, approximately 75 days until the end of season.  That's 75 opportunities grace allows us to start over, and I have a feeling I'll be using up every one of those opportunities.