John Mayer was Right

Since I returned from my honeymoon, I have experienced an internal calming in an area that has long been a private and turbulent obsession of mine. That is my body--its weight, its proportions, the clothing size it requires. I admit this inner demon of mine with some embarrassment, but as its sharpness and all consuming nature begins slowly to soften and ebb, I almost feel a need to express it, in order to more aptly celebrate the potential of its passing.

I can hardly remember a time when I was not acutely aware of my body and how it related to the world around me. I would always notice and pinpoint distinctions--as a child it was whose legs were skinnier than mine, and as I got older the areas of comparison grew until eventually, in my mind, my body was not really my own but rather an entity that existed only as a better or worse reflection of those around me. My freshman year in college was when this notion of an ideal body and its untenability became paramount in my mind, and has stayed since. Much like an alcoholic must constantly fight thoughts of drink, I continually wrestled with my mind's eye and the way I felt inside my own skin.

Luckily, I never physically manifested this mental anguish. Perhaps because of a gentler gene somewhere in my DNA it really never occurred to me to starve myself or purge--I was brought up with a healthy attitude towards food and there was no urge to tamper with that--at least to an extreme. There were many weeks when I vowed not to eat dessert, to cut my portions--all types of diet roller coaster type schemes that did nothing but affect the up and down view I had of myself. The real problem always existed in my mind--a completely morphed view of my physical self and a complete inability to accept myself as I was.

Perhaps it sounds like my constantly negative view was an attempt to elicit compliments, but it truly wasn't. Rather it was a heart wrenching, confusing and deep handicap that preyed on me and ruined my ability to be carefree and enjoy so many moments. When I was in college if a particular pair of jeans was too tight, I would opt to stay in. At a bar in New York my spirits would sink lower as I would see girl after girl that was skinnier than me, whose arms were smaller, whose athletic body I thought made mine look mushy and unappealing. Even when out to dinner with my wonderful, supportive husband, there are times when I would fight back tears because I had gotten on the scale that morning and been mortified by what I saw.

Of course, there were times when I would be blessed with a streak of confidence. Mostly they would come after several weeks of diligent working out, strict eating and a precise concentration on my body. So while I would enjoy these periods, they never felt as freeing because they were not my normal state--they were come by artificially, it seemed. I wanted to feel like that all the time, without having altered my life drastically to get there. I desperately wanted to exist freely--to workout and enjoy it instead of being fascinated by an ideal physique it might create; to enjoy a healthy meal because of the nutrients, the taste and its benefit to my health and not because I'm proud for depriving myself of a more decadent option. I wanted to just be.

Now, finally, I am beginning to feel this state. And it is clean, fresh, and exhilarating. Sure, it is happening after I am married, but it has nothing to do with any silly thoughts of being able to let myself go since I have "hooked" the man. Instead, I think its a glorious side effect of learning exactly who I am on the inside. As I began to understand and full appreciate my internal self, there was quietly growing a steady appreciation for my outside self. And now, it has effervesced into a lovely calm and quieted my savage thoughts with regard to my physical appearance. So what if my legs are not skinny--they have carried me through my life. So my stomach is not flat and my abs not washboard--someday, somewhere behind them I will, God willing, shelter life. So what if my arms are not as thin and toned as I'd like--they have held so many babies, been locked in so many embraces, and been thrown around so many loved ones. A wonderland, indeed.

Blueflying f*!@

I have unconditional love for Tim Gunn, and thus am enthralled by all he trills in that low decibel voice, originating somewhere around the back of all of his neatly pressed collars. But now, thanks to Bluefly, I can no longer enjoy it when Tim says, "Please use the accessory wall from Bluefly.com wisely." I have HAD it with them. It was coming for a while now, a latent nagging as I looked at their billboards and print ads...something was bothering me... and then, last Wednesday, BAM, right in the middle of my Project Runway bliss, Bluefly hits me with a commercial that just sends me over the edge.

I am happily licking my Skinny Cow ice cream sandwich and waiting to watch Nina scowl at Kenley, when I am assaulted with the image of some chick strolling the airport. Naked. Nothin' on but her Louboutins. And I hate her. She is sauntering, she is swishing her hair, she is coyly placing her shoes in a security bin, she is winking as she glides through the security gates. NO. No, no, no, no, no. Listen, I am perfectly willing to suspend disbelief. But in this case, I cannot. SHE IS WALKING THROUGH AN AIPORT, NEKKERS.

This is not sexy; this is not witty; this is dumb. Why are the commercial airport people not reacting to this!? I want to smack the TSA people, kick the guy with the luggage cart who is ogling her, and summon the airport police to take this naked woman to airport jail. Ugh, she and her, "yeah, I'm naked, so what?" attitude disgust me. Not to mention the thought of all that airport like, stuff, just floating all over her, like, stuff. Ew.

OHH but, hahahahaha, NOW we're supposed to titter and laugh and sympathize with Nudie because, see, she HAS nothing to wear! To the airport! THAT is why she Blueflies! Oh my god, how simply genius! So I get it, because all of the other still outrageously priced designer duds she has previously bought on Bluefly simply won't do for a transcontinental flight she must leave all clothing aside and get herself to the nearest internet connection for some Dolce and Gabbana, STAT.

Listen, I have Bluefly-ed. I'll admit I do have a weakness for designer clothes and have given in on some I- fell into -some -cash occasions. But THAT is not why I Bluefly. Not because when I look at my moderately priced closet and am uninspired I choose to go in the buff. My nakedness is basically confined to the cooling tiles of my bathroom floor since it's pretty much shower to lotion to bathrobe for me, so the clothes-less thing is not a fashion statement option for. Or anyone else outside a nudist colony. GEEZ. I Bluefly because when I obtain a particularly smashing item of clothing, it just makes me feel good when I wear it. And it is fun to look at your wardrobe, find those particular sparkling pieces, and hit the town feeling fabulous...but somedays you just gotta go with what ya got.

So, shove it, Nudie, and throw on your oldest pair of jeans, long sleeve t-shirt that might smell, running shoes and go to the god damn airport, like the rest of us do.