Understanding Fat Shaming

Note: I'm calling people "fat" on purpose in this post. First of all, I want to own that word. It isn't a cuss word for God's sake. Secondly, I want to evoke an emotional response. Fat has been used as a hurtful word. It's a word that makes strong people cry. Cry if you need to, but it's time for the truth.

I realize I've already made a post tonight, but after my post about self-love (which included body image), I had a conversation with one of my best friends. I know that he doesn't hate fat people, but he said some pretty ignorant things regarding fat people in our culture. This was just another effect of fat-shaming on us. Someone who really means no harm can say things that are very hurtful without understanding the reaction that understandably roars in response. So, I could go on about what fat-shaming is, how it affects people, how to fix it, etc. But I'm not going to do that. Because the person I talked to tonight understands all of that, but still doesn't understand. Instead I'm going to tell you a story. I'm going to tell you a story of a girl who's been fat for *most of* her life. I want to share my own fat-shaming history. Some of this will be news to you and shared for the first time, but I've come to realize that stories are heard while rants about the harmful effects of unhealthy societal expectations often fall upon ears accustomed to the sound. So here's my story.

As a five year-old, my step sister told me I was fat. She told me I needed to lose weight. She also told me I was a wuss because I was afraid to get my ears pierced, while her best friend's little sister who was only three had already done it. She told me I looked like a boy because of my short hair. She told me I couldn't touch her barbies because I would mess them up, and although my memory has served me the kindness to block it out, it's likely she molested me. She was about nine years older than I and she was skinny and pretty and cool. She constantly told me in new and creative ways that I wasn't okay. As an adult I can look back at that time and see a girl struggling with her parents' divorce, probably dealing with her own history of sexual abuse, and of course her own issues with self esteem. But at the time, someone who was older than me and knew so much more than me was telling me I was useless. It didn't matter what anyone else said, because people are nice, even when they don't mean it. I wasn't the kind of kid to be mean unprovoked (that came with puberty, haha), or ever hit below the belt like that. So I assumed that she must be right, and everyone else was being nice to spare my feelings.

Being a bipolar kid, I was really intense. I would constantly talk, usually about myself, I interrupted people, I argued too quickly, and I was completely oblivious to this behavior. So when I had a hard time making friends or people pulled away, I assumed it was because I was fat. Later, issues developed because I would see popular fat people, and I couldn't understand what was wrong with me. At St. Mary's we had uniforms. Until the fifth grade, girls wore plaid jumpers. Because in fifth grade girls began to wear navy skirts, the sizes stopped at what they thought a little fourth grader ought to wear. I was bigger than the rest of the little fourth graders. Only four girls were in my class at St. Mary's, and the other three were tiny. There was a new seating chart at school and I overheard some of the other girls complaining about it because they had to sit next to me. Completely unaware of my affect on people, I assumed this was because I was fat. It makes no sense, but to my young mind it made perfect sense. No one wanted to sit by me because I wasn't cool, which correlated directly with size. And I was deeply hurt by it.

By fifth grade I'd found my love of dance. Being big in the dancing world is incredibly difficult. You always have to be better than the best girl, because you're judged before the music even starts. My cheerleading uniforms had to be altered because the biggest size was too small for me. For someone trying to fit into a new school, I was convinced everyone knew mine was different. My best friend at the time who was dealing with her own self esteem issues as well (noticing a common theme?) would make side comments to me about the extra red fabric we'd snuck onto my uniform so it would fit. I would respond in a way that preserved her feelings while my own heart was breaking over it. I just wanted to be normal, and I had no idea how. I couldn't even wear the same clothes, because junior clothes were too small for me. I had to shop somewhere else. My dance team in junior high was called the Cubcadettes. After I joined (along with some other heavier girls), we were coined in the hallways as the "Chubcadettes." That made it ten-times harder to go perform on that floor. My mom, who was the coach, and I argued constantly because I was already so self-conscious about being a fat dancer that I didn't want anything else to make me look stupid. Often she was right (although to this day I think getting us pom outfits that looked like cheerleader uniforms was a bad idea), but my bipolar turned our conversations into battles. I was already scared.

In seventh grade, I started to lose weight. I worked out a lot and started seeing a doctor for weight loss with my parents. It was working for me. That year was the first year that I auditioned for and made UDA All Star. It was an audition hosted through UDA and UCA (Universal Dance/Cheer Associations) that gave you an opportunity to dance in the Philadelphia Thanksgiving Day Parade. I was so proud of myself when I received that medal. I wore it all day. Mom gave me shit for it calling me a Special Olympian, which genuinely hurt my feelings at the time, but I wasn't good at expressing that, really. I was just so proud because I truly thought my weight was going to get in the way of me winning that medal and it didn't. (Later I had a huge internal crisis when I considered that they may have only given it to me to prove they weren't fat-phobic, but that's a whole other story.) I went and performed in Philadelphia. It was a really cool experience and I got a lot out of it. I talked about it non-stop (again with the intensity that I'm sure drove people up the wall).

I came back, and during PE one day I was walking the track with the same friend who had made those comments about my cheerleading uniform. I'd been on TV, and she said that she had been with some boys (I'm not afraid to call out Abraham Huffington because he's still a dick). She told me Abe had said if they could find my station they wouldn't be able to miss me because of my huge ass. Again with the silent heart break. All I could think was I'm trying so hard. I will never be good enough for you people. I really was trying to lose weight and I was working my ass off to do it--way more than any of my peers did to maintain their tiny physiques. I cried about it in the bathroom between classes. I was truly hurt. People had said things about that friend to me, but I'd always kept them secret to spare her feelings. I had wished she'd done the same for me, but at the time I genuinely believed she thought she was being a good friend. Now I believe she may have used that as an excuse, but was looking for a way to bring me down. Perhaps out of jealousy, perhaps to shut me up about it, or perhaps both. But I do believe he said those things. In junior high (I think this is true of most girls; boys are oblivious), I was convinced people were always talking behind my back. Every now and then I'd find a moment of peace where I'd convince myself not to be so self-centered and to realize I was not the topic of everyone's conversation. But in this instance I was proven wrong. Being proven wrong one time will poison everything that follows.

This same friend also revealed to me that Sarah Simpson was calling me "Weight Watchers Dancer" behind my back. At the time, there was a Weight Watchers commercial with a plus-sized dancer. I guess that was supposed to be me. I was afraid to ever be around her again. I was so embarrassed. She was stick thin, a dancer, and everything I would never be. The only thing that made me feel better was being mean. Granted, my form of meanness never involved lying. I only told people how much of a bitch she'd been. I was so embarrassed that I wouldn't even use her words, but I'd say she was skinny and not that good of a dancer. I'd say she was mean and I didn't understand why people liked her... and people agreed with me. When my weight loss became more visible, she and her friend cooked up a rumor that I was bulimic. It was as if they were trying to say that, yeah she can be skinny, but only if she cheats. Again I was miserable. I worked my ASS of to lose weight. I was running, lifting weights, dance class, dance team, stretching and doing situps in my front room while I watched criminal minds... and they were going to say I was cheating? I was so pissed. But horribly, more than truly recognizing her cruelty, I continued that thought process: this is what everyone thinks. She's the only one enough of a bitch to say it out loud. And I felt worthless.

By 8th grade I'd lost a lot of weight. I was around 40 lbs lighter with a lot more muscle gained. I felt healthy. I still wanted to lose weight, but I was really proud of where I'd gotten. One day I dropped a bunch of stuff after the last bell. As he was passing, Dylan Reed mumbled, "like a cow" under his breath. I was done. I kept working out and eating right out of habit. But when the time stopped being readily available to hit the gym and the food not quite as accessible, I stopped caring. I didn't make the time or choose to eat healthy. What did it matter? I was never going to be skinny, no matter how hard I worked. I was never going to be as skinny as Sarah Simpson. She could eat all the pizza she wanted and look that way forever. She had it easy. Slowly, the weight crept back on. Cruel passing comments remained. Finding dance clothes to fit was still an issue. Changing in PE was devastating... High school.

On and off through high school I struggled with cutting, inappropriate relationships with boys, and all the other goodies bipolar brings to a hormonal teenage girl. I hated myself and I had no clue why. And I don't think I was ready to understand. I wasn't ready to say, I think I'm fat and I'm afraid no one likes me, because just the thought would make me cry. I didn't even like myself enough to really try to get to the bottom of why I was unhappy. College came and after an incredibly rough first year I began to truly find myself. My diagnosis with bipolar disorder gave me something I'd never really had before. For the first time I knew what was driving people away, and it had nothing to do with me being fat. I could acknowledge that the things I truly hated about myself were symptoms and not character traits. It was so freeing that I began to really come to terms with what it really meant to love myself. I learned that secrets are evil. The more you silently convince yourself you aren't worth it without consulting the people who love you, the less likely you are to succeed. Loving yourself is necessary to be healthy both physically and mentally.

So that's a story of fat-shaming. It took a mental health diagnosis and 19 years of struggle, but I learned that my body did not define me. I am smart, I can write, I can sing and dance, and I love children and books and Doctor Who and Harry Potter and and and... my size has so little to do with me. Granted, with the danger of generalizing I will state, that oftentimes, MY (not true for everyone) weight is a sign of how I'm doing emotionally. If I'm heavier it means I'm eating emotionally and I don't have the energy to work out. This is depression, folks. That is bad. But now that I know myself better, I know I'm not depressed because I'm fat. I gain weight when I'm depressed. And right now, after a year of self-discovery, I finally feel ready to tackle my health. But that's what it took for me. If I'd started any sooner, I wouldn't have been ready, and I'd have wound back up right where I started. Everyone has to find their own individual journey.

With that said. Fat-shaming is never okay. Ever. It is a sensitive topic because of the way it's been handled in the past and therefore must be handled sensitively now. Otherwise it's simply pointless. America is fat. Okay. Instead of making that broad and obvious statement, do something to teach kids about eating healthy. Tell them that loving your body is the first step to taking care of it. Tell them that it doesn't matter what someone else thinks of their bodies--they have to be their own champions. Okay? So shut up about the problem and be a solution. The solution isn't a lecture circuit. It's about appealing to people's emotions. Making them feel worth the effort. It's hard to understand what it's like to be fat in our culture unless you've been there, but hopefully this will give you a better idea of what it's like, and hopefully that will allow you to support healthier messages and to smash what hurts the people already struggling so painfully with self-hatred.

This Election and My Uterus

I'm a pretty loud-mouthed liberal, so I doubt many of you wonder my reasons for voting for Obama. But as a woman, I wanted you to know where I'm sitting. Where are you?

Abortion and Birth Control
This didn't used to be so close to my heart, but this has hit home. First of all: I'm on birth control because I have cramps from hell. My insurance provides that for me because I need it in order to attend class regularly and perform to the best of my ability at work. I'm also a (somewhat) sexually active, adult woman. Even if I had perfectly normal periods and didn't require medication to regulate them, I would be on birth control, because that's the responsible thing for me to do. My insurance company should still support me in making that responsible decision. When I have sex, I am not only on birth control now, but I use condoms--responsibility, folks. If I were to get pregnant under those circumstances, I sure as hell would get an abortion. I am in no way ready to have a child and I in no way want one.

I'm offended and creeped out that these GOP politicians are so concerned with my sex life. I will do whatever the fuck I want with this body, I will be as safe as I can when I do it, and if all that falls through, I will not further curse this nation with the birth of another unwanted child. Tell me how the Republican Party can oppose birth control, abortion, and funding for social programs? You don't want to help prevent pregnancy? Cool. You don't want to help end what you did not want to help prevent? Ummm... You don't want to support the child that would not prevent coming into this world? Fuck you. That is greed.

Many want to argue that this is not a War on Women. I call bull shit. If a man gets a woman pregnant by rape, incest, or consensual sex, he can walk away. He holds no legal responsibility while the woman clearly does. He commits a legal abortion by disappearing, leaving the mother to deal with that kid. A woman doesn't get that option. If she becomes pregnant and is forced to carry the child to term, then she is responsible. The world may never know who the father is--but she is marked. That child is hers. She has to drop everything to raise it. Or adoption, whatever. But let's be real. We have enough kids in the system. Maybe we should put a little more emphasis on those children who are already alive with friends, talents, interests, and loves.
And I love when some say they're only okay with abortion in cases of rape and incest... yadda yadda. Because the woman wants to go to court after she was raped to prove it was rape... meanwhile the child comes closer and closer to the point in its term where abortion is no longer an option. Incest? Maybe she doesn't WANT the person to know she's pregnant. And in the end, how do we prove any of this? We can't, really. Not even science is positive on that. So all y'all are full of shit. You're just trying to make yourselves feel better about telling rape victims they have to raise that baby. This is just something that cannot be government regulated.

Here are some further concerns I don't have the energy to write about in detail:
Capital Punishment
The War on Terror
Fear of Theocracy
Public Programming (a weak attempt at appearing fiscally conservative)
Foreign Relations
Medicare and Social Security
Gay Marriage
Equal Pay (without the help of binders)
My future in a mental health field

How do you define success?

So, I got out all my frustration on the subject of Kyle. I was personally offended, and I shouldn't have been. It isn't my life. Our lives have been so thoroughly intertwined for so long that is seems like a personal thing. Of course I think it's a bad decision. The people from whom I'd take advice think so too. Until recently, Kyle would have asked me first. Instead he acted quickly before I could change his mind. These are the facts. And I don't care about the finer details, because oftentimes the closer we look at things, the less of them we see.

1. He was a junior in college and dropped out.
2. He tried to get a job from the time he entered college, never getting a real one that he could hold down. He finally got a job at a gas station near his Terre Haute house. He missed the first day and was fired.
3. He doesn't have a job now. He plans to look for one in Marshall--but the job market is slim, and without an education, there isn't much for him.
4. He is living with his sister's boyfriend in an apartment. Clearly he is not paying rent.
5. He is smoking pot regularly--with money he can't afford to spend; with money he didn't spend on school. He plans on buying his childhood home--which will put him in debt. But he was morally opposed to the debt school put him in. Life is full of debt. It's inescapable.

Perhaps I just measure success differently than he does. Perhaps I see success as getting an education. As getting a job in a field of your study that you're interested in and care about. As making your voice heard. As being a good role model to children. I measure those things that I do at Waycross as success. I measure my current job as success. I measure the hard work I'm putting into this degree as success. And sometimes I get sad. I do. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed I feel like I'll never get out. I do. But I'm smart enough to know that so does everyone else. And we're all in this together. When Shannon had a ton to do last week, I sat with her in the library and entertained myself. And as I study for my big German exam, she is designing her Halloween costume right beside me. German is hard. But when I get those grades back, I'm proud of myself. I work my ass off and I see something for it. That is success to me.

So. Maybe that's just me. I'd say it's most people, honestly. But Kyle isn't most people. He's never going to be. He's more concerned with the way things should be than the way they are. He's gets so lost in his thoughts that he can't see what's in front of them. He is an extremist. He is so opposed to our societal structure that he's just opted out of it. But you can't ever really opt out of it. You still have to pay for your food. You still have to wear clothes when it's cold. You still have to pay for a house.You still have to pay taxes. You still have to pay for the gas to meet those you love (assuming you have a car).

The rules don't change. You can't get out of those things. All you can legitimately opt out of is a job that requires an education. You still have to pay to feed your drug habit. Money has to come from somewhere. Now it will just come from a job that doesn't involve writing, or thinking, or relationships, or art, and will start off at minimum wage. But again. Maybe that's what he wants. Maybe he's okay with getting a fast food job and writing blog posts. If that makes him happy, then so be it. It's just not what I'd expected from him. I saw a different path for him. But it's not my story to write.

There are times that I've wished I could just ditch these rigid structures of school. job. family. house... I understand that feeling. But school is my favorite part of all that. I like the discussions I have in classes. I like what I'm learning. There will be classes I don't like--but you can't always get what you want. I love school. I'd love to live more freely--but I'll make that happen. I'm going to create a kind of happiness and freedom in my life based on those things that I learn on this campus. I'm figuring out with the people here what my options are--how I can turn the things I love into a career. And I can't wait. I can't wait to graduate and find a grad school. I can't wait to figure out what I'm going to do. I can't wait to travel and see the world. ISU is practically PAYING me to do it!

I measure success as trial and triumph. I think in a phrase, that's how I'd describe it. Trial and Triumph. I want to know how y'all define success. Comment me, bitches. :)

Also: These pictures don't have a lot to do with the rest of the post. I know. But they were hysterical, and even a moderate connection was worth sharing them.

Sometimes...

a girl just doesn't have the time to angry-type that post that is imperative she post.

Justin Bieber Overrated and Exploited

I have plenty of problems with popular music. It's fine for dance music, I think, but I cannot take it seriously. There are musicians who know how to read music and don't need complicated equipment to cover their inability to carry a tune. Those musicians can't get ahead because our music industry is shallow. It's unfair, and that's what bothers me.

So I'm not a Bieber fan. He's not as horrible as some say. But he's certainly not worth his popularity level either. I just watched a special on Justin and his mom on television (another reason this shit is terrible for us). He was serenading her (dripping with cheese), and he got so sharp he changed key. Jesus Christ. How do people like this get famous for their "talent?" *sex, cough cough* He's an attractive kid. Girls freak out (in utterly irrational and creepy ways) about him. They're selling his sex appeal, whether or not people realize they're buying into it.

So, on this show, they were focusing on the trials his mother had faced in her childhood. When I still watched TV (took it seriously, at least) I would have found it a very moving program. She was molested, she was an addict, she attempted suicide, she became pregnant with Justin when she was a teenager, yadda yadda. First issue: They turned it into an issue of pro-life/pro-choice. She was encouraged to abort Justin and chose not to, and now he's such a big deal. I think it's pretty clear that I'm pro-choice (just look at the rest of this blog). I was offended that they used her heartache as a conservative promo.

I'm sure this woman was encouraged to give all this up. At one point in my life, I would have said she was an advocate. She was telling young people that you can come out of addiction, and to get help after sexual abuse... but now I know better. Justin Bieber's mom isn't going to make our youth feel better about their own heartaches. Justin's music is becoming more serious as his PR people are trying to convince the public he isn't still 14 (even if he looks it), because songs like Baby are already getting old. His fans are growing up. And just as his music is attempting a more mature feel, they're trying to do the same with his personal life. They're going to do anything to push that new image, including exploiting his mother's past (or lying about it).

Justin didn't do such a good job on the program. His singing was only the beginning. He was clearly uncomfortable being present for his mother discussing her history of sexual abuse, and the thought of aborting the child that now sat next to her. When the subject of her suicide attempt arose, he said, "everyone makes mistakes." Is there not a more politically correct response? How about, "I'm so happy she's here now. She means the world to me." or "I know my mom had a lot going on, and I'm so inspired by her ability to turn her life around." Not... it was a mistake. I guess we all do that. What the hell, bro? Aren't you coached better than this? Or perhaps they shouldn't have subjected the poor kid to that horribly uncomfortable situation in the first place.

I don't read magazines for the same reason. I don't care what anyone says about someone famous. I don't know them personally, so I don't care if they broke up with their boyfriend, or if they're pregnant, or anything really. Not unless someone endorses something I believe in or has a performance that speaks to me will I be interested in that person as an individual. And I sure as hell won't use television or magazines to gather the information I'm seeking.

The exploitation of our big "stars," is disgusting. It's unfair to them. That environment cannot be healthy, which is why we end up with girls like Lindsay Lohan--she is a product of our sick fascination. I won't be surprised when Bieber comes out the same way. We've created this world in which we admire images of famous people who have been edited to look a specific way, and have resources to trainers and dietitians that most of us don't have. We want to be them... and then we make jokes of the people we once admired--the ones who have broken. And we take pleasure from it. Because when someone we're jealous of fails, it feels good. We celebrate their successes, just as we make comedy of their downfalls. Check yourself, people.

Allegory of the Song

If a song had been playing in your head since the development of reasonable thought—taught thought—and it followed you everywhere, would you feel free when you heard it, or trapped? It seems like the same 5 or so different songs play in everyone’s heads, and even though the lyrics are written down, no one agrees on the words. You yourself had your own lyrics, because those that were written down did not speak to you. We are all so different. It seems odd that the same song would appeal to all of us; and it doesn’t! That explains all the adaptions and arrangements of the original texts.

Although the originals of these songs songs are similar in certain ways, the melodies are so, so different, that they cannot be played all at the same time—chaos. Those with exceptionally flexible (and disillusioned) personalities can play them all at once. But those who hold too closely to their own music, cannot do this. That is most people.

Most People

At different times in your life, the words were louder than others. There were times you found comfort in the words, and others that the words only confused you. You didn’t know how to turn it off (if you’d even know that to be an option), and the lyrics didn’t always fit in your alto line. You only picked the important ones. But then you met some people without the music. You didn’t even know that existed away from darkness and emptiness. But these people were writing their own lyrics, to their own tunes.

Sometimes they lined up with one another, and sometimes they didn’t, but it didn’t really matter. The point was, they were writing their own songs, and they were beautiful. They didn’t have to make beauty out of an original piece that wasn’t that good in the first place.
It didn’t take long for the song to disappear from your own mind. For a while there was blackness, but quickly you began to compose your own symphony of purpose and ethics.

The first song: Did you lose it? Or did you leave it behind?

Lost or Left

The Value in Letter-Writing

We have a great gift past generations lived without. When I want to talk to my mom, I can call her, and assume that she will answer or call back. Immediate satisfaction. I can have an entire conversation via text message telling all my girlfriends, in a group message, how a date went. They can immediately ask questions, and likewise, I respond immediately with all the juicy details. I use my cell phone all the time to talk to friends and family; to quickly tell them I love them, or relay bad news.

But letters. What happened to letters?

When I pass the computer table, I always peek in hopes of seeing my name printed in pen on an envelope. When I do see my name, I get super excited. My shoulders shoot straight up to my ears, I make silent, happy claps, and I hop from foot to foot. I don’t think I’m the only person that likes letters or cards. Everyone gets a little excited! It takes no real effort to send a text message. It’s become part of our lives. You can do it standing up, sitting down, on a bus, on the toilet, under your desk in class… and we’re so good at it now. I’ve come to expect that a person respond to my text within the next five minutes. But there’s nothing special about that.

Letters are different. You have to sit down with something to write with, and something to write on. You have to correct your own spelling and grammar mistakes. And since you’re there, you feel compelled to say more thoughtful things. In order to fill up that space, you come up with more to talk about. And you don’t just relay those things that happen to you, do you? You talk about the way they made you feel. Sometimes I write a letter and I learn things about myself that I hadn’t taken the time to notice. I don’t believe I can say the same for texting.

And when you start writing, back and forth, back and forth… you start to get excited about your next letter! You’re waiting and you start to anticipate that response. And when it comes you feel somehow relieved that they still care, and that they can still find you. And that response! In that time you’ve thought of so much to tell them! You’ve done so many cool things, and met some strange people…

What about letters? What happened to them?

Just because we have the option of immediate satisfaction, doesn’t mean we can’t still practice patience. It doesn’t mean we can’t stop to make an effort to tell someone how much they mean to us. It doesn’t mean we can’t feel a sense of satisfaction when we read our name on the envelope.

Amanda sent us post cards.

Write me a letter, friends. I promise I’ll write you back.

I think that...

school from k-12 should be more like camp. The classes would be way smaller, or they would rotate early on. The teachers would start with staff training, and they would learn to love one another as family. The teachers should eat lunch with their students--on occasion offering to sit outside at a picnic table. The students should be allowed to chew gum, and stand up while they're doing their homework if that pleases them. The teacher would get to know each student on a personal basis. They would know the names of the child's pets. They would be able to point out a bully early on. They would play with them at recess. Class can be as fun as rock wall climbing, or canoeing... but it isn't to most kids.  They spend seven hours a day there.
But that's in a perfect world.

Me after an all-nighter, writing a paper for Psychology.

JUST LAUGH FOR THE SAKE OF PETE!

HAHAHAHAH! Get it??

I obviously can't maintain my "Love a Day" while I'm at camp as I'm completely without Internet. But I can promise to post one when it's available to me. So here goes: I love life exactly as it is. There are things I want to change, and so I do it. There are things beyond my power, and I struggle to accept that. But if I were to allow everything that makes me sad hold my attention in ways that are unproductive, then I have lost purpose. I will choose ways to make my life and the lives around me better. That is my definition of purpose, I think. And so I choose to find things that used to make me nervous, funny. There is certainly more humor in life than we give it credit for.

Knocked-over orange barrels can make you nervous, or they can make you giggle. Soaking yourself by accident with your garden hose can piss you off, or give you an excuse to smile. We always say, "you'll look back on that and laugh." And it's true. Those silly, embarrassing, and near-mishaps will be funny in a few days, weeks, months... years? We can laugh at them. But... but... why wait? What the hell people?! Imagine how much grief you'd save yourself if you accepted the wisdom you can already acknowledge your future self will posses. This is where this philosophy gets tricky, so Imma break it down.

You do something ridiculous.

You freak out.

You know that you'll find it funny in time.

Looking back on it...

But you choose to leave the laughing to your future self.

But two seconds post any embarrassing moment makes it history. If you know it's going to be funny to a wiser you, then you already posses the wisdom necessary to laugh it off. Right? It's so easy to panic when your car starts to sound its own panic alarm, but it's a hell of a lot easier to laugh at it. Laugh louder than that horn! Go for it! Because you cannot let a damned car horn ruin your vacation! You just can't. Enough crap in this world will bring you down. You don't need to sweat the small stuff. I know I'm not the first person to say that. But it's more than brushing silly things off your shoulder. It's about allowing yourself to fall in love with it.

Someone calls you a mean name. What's the real meaning of that name? Our choice of curse words is absolutely hysterical. Someone calls you fat? Why? Why did they feel the need to waste their breath telling you something you already know (and have accepted as the beautiful you, yeah?)?  Shoot. They got more mess in their brain than you do. Someone calls you a bitch? Female dog. Don't tell me that isn't funny. And who doesn't love dogs? When someone says it, picture yourself as a schnauzer or yorkiepoo. Those are precious. I can say that because I own those two. When I was little, my mom told me I could be anything when I grew up. Before I'd considered the unlikelihood of my dreams, I wanted to be a dog when I grew up (specifically with a good home and fur that's easy to brush). I wanted to be a bitch when I grew up.

That last paragraph got kind of out of hand. but I think my point is clear. There are things that are out of our control. There are things that will break your heart. But an orange barrel shouldn't be one of those things. All of you. Right now. Take a deep breath, and when you let it out, just laugh your ass off. Laugh so hard you start to cry. Start to think of everything that's ever made you laugh hard enough to pee on your camp cabin floor. READYSETGO!

Adventure Time--and other gag-worthy children's shows

I wish it would stop moving. And promoting unhealthy eating habits.

Television has potential to be educational. Sure. Okay. That's not what I'm talking about. Dora and Barney? I got no beef. Adventure Time. Are you effing kidding me? I only watched one episode, and this is what I found:

1. Sexual innuendos
2. Poor grammar
3. Borderline cursing
4. Poor boundaries; both verbally and physically
5. Pointless, lesson-less, mind-numbing entertainment

 This is inappropriate for children. This is an example of why we should be teaching our children healthy messages about their bodies and sexuality--because television shows, directed towards our youth, are doing it for us. The kids watching this show aren't old enough to be exposed to sex in this way, but if parents allow their kids to watch it, they should probably be watching too in order to explain and ask their child to question those things that bother them. Seriously.

Also. The grammar. In shows directed towards adults, poor grammar is used as a comedic tool that references a lack of educated, a low socioeconomic status, child-like speech, or even people of specific regions (particularly the south). I don't always agree with that in shows for adults, because I think it furthers our skewed ideas of culture, but I'll admit I've laughed. We watched this show. They didn't laugh. The kids just assumed it to be correct. When children are that young, they're still learning what's okay in our society. They're still idolizing their parents, teachers, older peers and siblings... they haven't found themselves quite yet (as if we ever do, ha!). But they're taking in the images on the tv screen. Television is our culture's most popular babysitter. They didn't laugh because they still think they're being taught. They think it's correct.

I'm sure you do.

 Borderline cursing. I tend to think cursing is overrated. Words are words, nothing more or less. Some words are weighted with a certain kind of power that they're child-like alternatives lack. Darn/damn, frick/fuck, shoot/shit, etc. But there are words that are arguable. Pissed, sucks, God, etc. This show makes use of those arguable curse words as well as the "almost" words. Now, these are things we don't let kids say. Personally, I think it shouldn't matter as much as it does. Kids have feelings equally as important as adults', yet they're not permitted to use the same powerful speech we use. But society says otherwise. We punish kids who cross that line, or eve toe it. We can't punish kids for words like sucks, pissed, God, frick, danged, or whatever; if we allow them to receive their education from a talking box. They'll say what they hear. We need to either normalize ourselves to children cursing, or we need to stop the source from which they hear it.

Boundaries! I watched one character hold another's ass while they made it dance for them... with no pants on. Granted. It's a cartoon, and it's a dog. But they gave the dog an ass that resembled a human's... and the character was holding it. They bite each other. They lick each other. They had a baby (which they'd stolen), and shook it around because it wouldn't "jiggle" for them. They wanted to "get down," and the baby was "ruining the mood." Nuff said.

All in all, it's a lame show. It's not actually that well-done. The script isn't interesting or informative. There's not really music between clips. The plot is dumb and unrealistic. Nothing important comes from it. That was a wasted hour in those kids' lives. It's an hour they could have practiced reading, created art, listened and danced to music, played a game in the yard, or even talking to one another--quite a lost art. I was offended, really. I am so over television. My children will watch PBS and documentaries. Nothing. Fucking. Else. Oh, my God. No hope for humanity. :(

"Lump off"

"When you're 18 I won't feel bad for telling you that joke..."

My sister's son, Julian, has always been the precious kind of trouble maker that genuinely made trouble because he was a boy and for no other purpose. He liked the shock value, and he liked the attention, and he was a curious kid! In the moment there's always this kind of "What the hell, Jude! JUST STOP!" But then there's this little part in the back of your brain that wanted to laugh, and when the initial pissiness would wear off, the laughs came, too. That's what he lived for.

Cursing is one of those pointless rules that little boys love to break. They’re rules that give a whole lot of four letter words a whole lot of power. When he was younger, Julian was already a badass, and he loved to push that limit. Hell. Grownups do it all the time. He was just ahead of his time. But finally, for fear of punishment, he stopped, and instead began to punish the adults for cursing. That was okay to him, but there was no shock value in the “Boss of Bad Words” telling them, “We don’t say that.” I guess he needed more.

In the midst of this stage, while feeling bored at *OneHope United, he pulled the fire alarm. He had been told over and over again not to touch the damn handle, but he was a little boy. And he had a hard time wrapping his little mind around what was so bad about pulling a handle. He loved breaking pointless rules. But this one wasn’t pointless. And it scared him shitless. The blood ran from his tiny face and he ran with his knees and voice shaking to his mother.

When enough time had passed, the whole thing became amusing, and although we were a little afraid he’d think it was okay because we laughed at it, we were pretty convinced that he would never do it again, based solely on the look on his face when the alarm rang. And one infamous day in the car, he let us know about all the things we shouldn’t do or say.

We don’t hit Sissy, we don’t say fuck, we don’t say shit, we don’t say damn it, we don’t say stupid, we don’t say hate, we don’t bite, we don’t pull fire alarms.

And now, years later, his 9 year-old head was tilted up looking at that handle. He eyed it cautiously, and Mom said, “Julian, don’t you dream of it.” He grinned back at her knowingly and walked towards her. Kayla said, “We’ve already been through that one,” and Mom laughed as she leaned towards him, “we don’t say shit, we don’t say fuck, we don’t pull fire alarms… and when you’re 18 I won’t feel bad for telling you that joke.”

We don't say fuck.

*The company that employs nearly every member of my family.