Parentheses

          Hello, hello!  I hope you all had a lovely week.  I decided, in the spirit of using this blog to take risks, I'd share a piece of my actual writing in it this week.  This essay is one of my favorite pieces that I've written recently.  It's probably not the best piece I've written, or particularly interesting for others to read (Sorry!) but it is my favorite because it was the most difficult for me to write, and the most difficult to share with others.  In one of my writing classes, we read a piece called A Portrait of My Body by Phillip Lopate.  The piece was a written self portrait of sorts, and was incredibly brave, honest and interesting.  I felt compelled (and obligated by an assignment) to write a similar self portrait.  I went into the assignment with a goal-anytime I've talked about my body to anyone else, it's always been in a negative way.  With this, I set out to try and point out the things about myself that I like.  This was surprisingly difficult for me, as I feel it probably would be for a lot of women (and men, for that matter.)  I was so used to hating my body that finding something I genuinely liked was tough.  Anyway, below is what I wrote.  I thought it'd be a good introductory piece of sorts.  It's pretty long, but for anyone that soldiers through, I hope you enjoy.  :)

Parentheses

Those that buy in to the cliché that the eyes are the window to the soul would think my soul crooked.  I’m practically blind in my left eye, and when I am tired, even when I’m looking straight, my left eye shifts lazily to the side, like a soccer ball coaxed across the grass by a light breeze.  When I was five, my doctor had me wear a patch over my right eye to try to strengthen my left eye.  As a result, I walked around seeing the world as if it were an impressionist painting, a blur of colors and shapes that I could never quite make out clearly.  In those years, I wore a patch, and thick glasses, and ran into things.  It was really a pleasant time.  My mother used to put stickers on the patch to make it more fun for me.  I loved it, I felt so special.  For my kindergarten pictures, my mom told me I didn’t have to wear my patch, but I wanted to.  I went to school in the outfit she had made me, my patch and my sticker.  That little gesture of parental love and kindness made me feel invincible.  The patch didn’t really work though, my left eye is still bad.  This imbalance between my two eyes causes some interesting problems.  My center is off, and when I think I am walking through the center of the doorway, I am often veering to the left.  Consequently, I often run into open doors.  I also have very little depth perception.  One time I was driving home to Columbus from a concert in Indianapolis.  I saw brake lights ahead of me and slammed on my brakes, coming to a stop in the middle of interstate 70, cursing, wondering what the hell was going on.  Once I did, I was able to determine that the brake lights were approximately 500 feet ahead of me, and I had stopped in the middle of the highway for no apparent reason.  I now tend to avoid driving at night as possible, it seems like a bad idea to drive at a time when brake lights merely seem like mysterious glowing red orbs, more like a space craft to be studied than a warning to be heeded.    

            But my eyes really are appealing, when they’re looking straight.  They are well shaped, well spaced, and their hue appears to be different depending on what color I am wearing. I appreciate their efforts to accessorize my wardrobe,  sometimes they seem green, sometimes, blue, sometimes gray.  Once, when I was at dinner with my dad, my aunt, and my brother, I looked around and realized we were all looking at each other from the same eyes.  I’m not speaking metaphorically here, somehow, in the genetic lottery of the Pierce family, we all drew the same eyes.  My aunt told me we have my grandfather’s eyes.  I like knowing that.    I like that I have glasses to help me see the world more clearly.  I like that my eyes hint at my being a kind person, whether I actually am or not. 

I used to hate wearing glasses, but now I like them.  Time and technology have allowed people whose eyes need completely different prescriptions to wear glasses without them making the bad eye appear 16 times larger than the good one.  I do have to wear those plastic frame glasses, the thin framed ones make glaringly apparent the fact that my one lens is 457 times thicker than the other.  Thankfully they have come back into style and are created in lots of great shapes and colors, so I no longer have to look like a member of The Golden Girls cast when I have my glasses on.  Everyone thinks glasses make people look smart, and I’d have to agree.  I feel smarter and more powerful when I have them on, more comfortable as Clark Kent than Superman.  In wearing my glasses, I feel that my outward appearance in some way is aligned with who I am inside.  I look smart, I am smart.  It feels good.

I am of Italian descent, but don’t really look like it, except in one place: My eyebrows.  I have thick unruly eyebrows.  For a time I tried to pluck them myself, but plucking hundreds of hairs from your face every couple of weeks is quite a process.  I now try to get them waxed fairly regularly, to make them look feminine and nicely arched, but I don’t get them waxed into thin little lines like lots of women do.  I try to maintain their structural integrity, keep them true to who they are as eyebrows.   But I do like the way I somehow look more feminine when they form a smooth arch over my eyes.    

            My nose is identical to my father’s.  It is not small, but not exorbitantly large.  Given that I have full lips and big eyes, I think it’s appropriately sized.  In most ways I look like my father.  We have the same face, a similar build.  The only thing I get from my mom is the color and straightness of my hair.  I do not have the curse of the Pierce family black curly fro, and for that I am grateful.  People have always commented on the fact that I look exactly like my brother and I used to really hate it.  He’s a boy, I’m a girl.  Girls don’t want to hear they look like boys.  But I grew out of that.  When my dad, brother, and I are together, we really look like a family.  Also, I’m not constantly called “Jarrod Number 2” anymore, like I was in high school, so that makes it easier to handle as well.

My mom says she would kill for my lips, they are very full and have a nicely defined shape.  They really are quite lovely.  I have to be really careful when I wear lipstick though.  If it’s too dark, or too bright, I start to look like I’m wearing a pair of those wax lips.  Lots of neutral shades for this girl.  My lips constantly feel dry.  I have one of those insanely dangerous chapstick addictions everyone is always talking about.  I’m constantly slathering it on.  It took me a long time to want to wear chapstick. When I was smaller, in the winter my mom would attempt to preemptively soothe lips chapped by the cold.  She would tilt my head back, have me open my mouth as wide as possible until I felt like Pacman, until the hinges of it were separating and would then apply approximately 16 coats of Blistex.  Afterwards, she would wrap a giant scarf around my face so that only my eyes were showing, and send me on my way.  To this day, I still don’t use Blistex, as the smell instantly reminds me of the stench of it trapped by my scarf.  But I do have smooth, lovely lips.  Thanks for all your efforts in protecting them, mom.

I used to suck my index finger when I was a little girl.  I don’t know why I chose my index finger, but doing so drove a large gap between my two front top teeth.  Luckily when my wisdom teeth came in, it shrunk, but it’s still there.  When I have a big smile on my face, or am laughing too hard, my lips spread open too wide.  I am one of those gummy smilers, and when I am laughing, it is not a pretty picture.  My eyes become little slits, and you see all my teeth and gums.  I can’t tell you how many smiles and laughs I tried to stifle in a vain attempt to make these big smiles and laughs more attractive.  These days, I embrace the ugliness of my biggest smiles, refusing to sacrifice one more moment of uncontrollable laughter.  

            My head is large.  Really large, in fact.  When I graduated from Ohio State, and went to get my cap and gown, the standard cap didn’t fit.  The lady behind the counter said “That’s quite a melon you’ve got, eh?”  Her statement made me think that some career counselor had led her astray.  How could someone so clearly insensitive to the plight of the large headed be hired as the person who sells caps?  I suppose career counselors don’t ask your opinion on head sizes before placing people.  But she’s right.  I do have quite a melon.  My gentleman friend does as well, and I fear any children we might have will come out looking like Brutus Buckeye.  I like my head though.  It’s a big strong head, full of brilliance, a unique sense of wisdom and insight.  How could I write if I didn’t have this large head?  Where would I keep this verbal gold that I am sharing with you?  I’ll proudly sport my large head, knowing that my neck is stronger for having it. 

            My hair really is beautiful.  It’s incredibly thick, has been responsible for the demise of many rubber bands as they tried to tame my mane into a neat ponytail.  My hair was quite a bit lighter when I was younger, an ash blonde of sorts.  Over the years it’s slowly darkened to the darker side of a medium brown, the color of coffee with just a touch of cream. My hair is mostly straight but has a wave to it, can easily be coaxed into a curly mass.  In the summer it lightens, and there are golden blonde streaks throughout.  I like to think about the fact that a lot of women pay for the privilege to have streaks like my hair naturally has.  I’ve had a lot of unfortunate haircuts, and have settled on a standard longish cut.  It’s a big improvement from the mushroom haircut I had as a kid, I’d say.   Hair stylists marvel at how much hair I have, and there are days when I take a shower in the morning and my hair is still wet that night.  Having a lot of hair means there’s constantly globs of hair clogging the drain of my shower.  Hair care products are a weakness of mine, though most of the time, to be honest, I think I like them more because they smell good than because they actually do anything to make my hair look better. 

            My toes are really, really long.  The second toes on my feet, in particular are very long.  They far surpass the length of my big toe.  If I stretch my toes out, I can make it so that no toe is touching the other.  I don’t think most people can do that.  It’s a bit of a pain when I buy shoes, they are either a half size too small for my second toe, or a half size too big for the rest of my foot.  I like to think that if I had been born a few million years ago, when humans were somewhere between human and monkey, I’d be a leader of the pack with my long finger-like toes. 

            My legs are very short.  I specify that my legs are, because in general, I am not.  I’m approximately 5’6 but a lot of that height is apparently in my torso and large head.  For a long time I wondered why my jeans were always too long for me when I got an average length.  Then one day I tried on a pair of petite jeans and they were the perfect length for my legs.  There’s something odd about being a 5’6 woman who has to shop in the petite section.  As I flip through the racks of jeans, I feel all the short women gazing up at me, wondering what the hell I’m doing invading their turf.  I’ve wanted to step from behind the rack, put my hand at the spot where my legs end and say “look!  My legs only go up to here!  We are sisters in short leggery!” But I haven’t.  I just slouch as I walk through the section, trying to make myself look shorter.  My legs are strong though.  I like them for that reason.  They aren’t aesthetically perfect, but functionally, they are excellent.  When I bend at the legs to lift heavy stuff, they assist me in lifting it.  When I have to walk up several flights of stairs, they don’t cramp.  I feel like they are short scrappy members of my entourage, two short, thick tree stumps upon which the upper half of my body comfortably rests. 

            I have a beautiful body.  I am also overweight, by quite a bit.  Obese, actually.   I shop in plus sized stores, sweat a lot when I exercise, love sweets.  Those of you who know me might have been surprised as you read this, might have wondered why this piece isn’t full of the self deprecating humor about my weight that dominates my day to day life.  The fact of the matter is I have spent a large portion of my life making jokes to make other people feel more comfortable about my body.  I’ve imagined everyone seeing me and thinking “she’s fat.”  I make a joke, and we all laugh and they think “ahhh she is in on the joke.  We are fine.”  I’ve lived my life with every other part of my personality and appearance being parenthetical to the fact that I’m overweight. 

“She’s a big girl. (But funny!)”

            “She’s uhhh well…curvy, if you know what I mean.  (But smart as a whip!).”

            In worrying about how comfortable everyone else was around my body, I was never comfortable with it.  I hated it, in fact.  Don’t worry, friend, I’m not judging you, or them, or myself, or anyone.  I know this is how our culture is.  I’m not trying to pretend I’m not overweight.  I am.  I am overweight.  Fat, some might say.  Fat and disgusting, I’ve heard some particularly blunt people say.  And that’s okay.  Really, it is.  But you see, on this page, I can make the weight of my body parenthetical to the other things.  I can point out to you that I am smart and have lovely eyes, and pretty hair, and a good sense of humor, and long toes.   I’m not proud of my weight, but I’m not ashamed of it either.  I love my oversized stomach, my thick legs, my chubby arms.  This is the only body I have, and the only one I’ll ever get, so in that sense, it is my most prized possession.  I love it unconditionally. 

            A friend's daughter once looked at my stomach and pointed out

            “Your tummy is bigger than mommy’s.”  I laughed and nodded.

            “Yes it is.  You’re right.” I agreed.

            “Why is it bigger?” she asked, staring at it.

            “Well your mommy runs every day.  That keeps her tummy small.  That’s why it’s really important to go outside and play a lot.  That way your tummy will stay small.”

She nodded, satisfied with my response.

            “But honey, it’s not polite to comment on the size of peoples tummies.”

            “Why not?”  It was a good question, and I found myself wishing we all saw things as simply as she did sometimes.  Some people have big tummies, some people have small tummies.  It’s a fact.  It’s just one small part of who we are, not the factor that makes us decide whether people are worth our time or not. 

            “Some people wish their tummy was a different size, and it makes them sad to be reminded that it isn’t.  So we just don’t talk about people’s tummies so we don’t make them sad.” I told her, and she hugged me and ran off to play.

            I will continue to strive to be good to my body, to be healthy, to honor its needs.  But no matter what its size and shape, I will not let it put me in parentheses. 

The Better Bethany Project

Alright, here goes.

My name is Bethany.  Hello!  I am 28 years old.  I live in Euclid, Ohio, and lead a mediocre life full of extraordinary beauty.  I can not be described in a paragraph (who would want to read my blog if I could?), but I'll try.  I have a college education and a full time job.  I've lived a life where I've been lucky enough that my biggest struggles have been things like being too chubby and having too much to do in my life without enough time to do it.  I've tended towards a disorganized lifestyle, convincing myself that I don't have the capability to be organized.  I tend to keep a step back from people-I like having my distance, a buffer zone of sorts.  I love my friends and family like crazy, but fear they don't know it because of this particular aspect of my personality.

I believe passionately in the idea of moderation.  I think there is something really important about being able to look at situations rationally and formulate an opinion.  Aristotle talked a lot about the Golden Mean and that dude was pretty smart, so there's got to be something to it.   
 
I suppose if you are a random stranger, you are thinking "Why the hell do I care who you are?" and if you know me you are thinking "What is this bullshit thing about?"  Don't worry, I'm getting to my point.

I've wanted to start a blog for a long time.  I'm a writer, or I fancy myself one anyway.  I've wanted to be a brilliant writer of fiction, but have settled for adding bits of humor to the biweekly newsletter I write for my job.  This isn't quite enough to fulfill me.  Part of the reason I am not a successful writer (except for the saturation of people who think they're good writers, and the potential reality that I am a HORRIBLE writer but can't see it) is that I've been too scared that I suck at writing, and everyone would hate it, and think it's trite and mundane and stupid and self indulgent.

What I've decided is-so what?  Perhaps all those things are true.  Perhaps no one cares, and no one will read this.  That's alright with me.  My mission is not to say what I think you want to hear, but simply to share my experience.  The best way we connect with and learn from each other is through our experiences-so why not share them?  And so I am starting this blog.  And even more terrifyingly, I'm sharing it with my family, friends, and other random members of my facebook friends community (Hi family!  Hi friends!  Hi distant acquaintances and people who actively dislike me but continue to be my friend because you secretly hope to learn details you can use to gossip about me!)

And so after making the life altering decision to write a bunch of nonsense into a faceless void (brave, right?) I had another important decision: What the hell do I want to write about?  I've been tempted to start writing a self help blog, a weight loss blog, a "things you can't discuss at a dinner party" blog. But as a fat person who is in counseling and who doesn't think people even have dinner parties anymore, none of these felt true to who I am.  I do have some things to share, (besides my razor sharp wit)  I've learned so much in the last year about the kind of person I want to be, and more importantly, how I can actually become that person.  I've changed my outlook and behavior, and seen how much it's changed my life.  I've learned that some cliches about how we should behave are true, and some are gloriously false.  I've learned a lot.



However, a lot of this stuff ends up sounding  like  preachy, naive garbage.  We all hear these things ALL the time, generally in cute little one line phrases that we post on facebook and then forget

"Happiness is a journey, not a destination" 

"Love is never having to say you're sorry" (this one is crap, by the way.  But I suppose that's a rant for another time..)


And so, I thought, why don't I just write a blog about whatever the hell I want to, and just be me? As a big fan of me, this struck me as a brilliant plan. Sometimes this blog will just be me posting some of my latest writing.  Sometimes it will be about the journey I've been on to become a better person.  Sometimes it will be about how Meatloaf could get away with saying he would do anything for love and then immediately refuting it by saying "but I won't do that."  It'll just be me.  I'm 28 years old, and am on a journey to be the best person I can be.  Not the nicest, or skinniest, or funniest or smartest.  Just the best me.  This blog is a little part of that.

So thank you for reading this, I really do appreciate it.  I hope that sharing my experiences helps me to learn some more about your experiences.  I hope some of you get to know me a little better, or that my experiences in some way can inform yours.  Most importantly, I hope that the boxing match that my fiance is watching is over soon, because I think boxing is one of the most boring sports in the world.

Good night all!