The Way I See It

I read a book once a long time ago - I have no recollection of the title or the plot, but I very clearly remember the underlying theme and how it was presented. It was about a young girl - a teenager - probably involving some sort of coming of age business. She wanted to express her perceived adulthood through her bedroom decor. She was taking home ec at school and was just learning to sew. She had purchased yards and yards of fabric with her babysitting money and had pinned it in place over bedspreads, curtains, pillows - if it could be covered with fabric, she covered it. She brought home paint swatches from the paint store and tacked those to the walls and furniture to indicate what colors she intended for them to eventually be. She cut pieces of butcher paper to fit around her lampshades and chairs, intending to cut them to size and use them for patterns so that she could eventually cover those items with fabric as well. She wanted to find a fabric that would coordinate with what she'd already bought. She knew exactly what it would look like.

She was really proud of her potential room.

The enthusiasm for redecorating was pushed aside by whatever plot the book actually had, but it didn't matter, because in her mind's eye it was already done. In her mind's eye it was a beautiful room - fully realized.

The book closed with her seeing this room - after months of fabric and paper and swatches being pinned to every surface - as it actually was. To make it what she imagined it to be would take some work. Our last image was one of her unpinning the paper and fabric and neatly folding it and putting it away. Reality. I remember wishing that it would've ended with her at the sewing machine, or with a paint brush - actually putting the work in to make this room realize it's potential. But that's not how it ended. And in retrospect, I think the author probably made the right choice.

I doubt that it would have stuck with me the way it did if she'd gone that route.

Sometimes we have to fold up our dreams and pack them away.

Come as You Are

I think I'm going to have a party. You need to promise me you'll come, though - I have a genuine fear of planning a party for which no one shows up. So promise, ok? Pinky swear?

It's going to be a come as you are party.

No, not what you're wearing right now! If I opened the door in the oversized mens gym shorts and ratty nightshirt I'm wearing right now - sans bra and shoes, of course, though I DID take the time to gather all of my hair into a flattering Pebbles Flintstone/Gene Simmons top of the head ponytail - you'd run screaming for the hills. No - I want you to come as you ARE. Come as who you feel like on the inside. (and hey - if who you are on the inside is a Flintstone/Simmons hybrid with baggy clothes and saggy boobs - I won't judge. Come on in. Make yourself at home. Drugs to the right, hookers to the left.)

Wouldn't that be a great party? Better than Halloween. People showing their true colors. Speaking of colors - my inner gypsy, of course, would be wearing lots of them. And scarves...so many scarves... I would still probably have bare feet - but there would be jingly ankle bracelets and toe rings... And I would open the doors of my house - just as it is, with no apologies - to cowboys and rock stars and princesses and captains of industry - to super moms and pirates and pin-up girls. We would mix and mingle and the people we meet would see US - not some time-worn, society-driven version of us - the REAL us.

Are you packing your bag and planning your wardrobe? You promised you'd come. You pinky swore.

A friend told me recently that in her dreams she is always thin. She asked if anyone else experienced the same thing. I quickly replied that I am always thin, I always have amazing hair, and I'm usually wearing white. I don't know what that's all about - since my inner self, as I've already mentioned, is a huge fan of color. But my dream self wears white. And she moves like water; like wind... She's awesome.

She's not coming to the party, though. Because even though she's me in my dreams, she's not me on the inside. Plus, she doesn't seem like the sort who could get her party on.

So, I need to know: What are you wearing to my party? What will I see when I see the real you?

I Had a Dream

I dreamed last night that I went to a weight loss website (and folks, that right there proves I was dreaming, because as a fan of my own sanity I stay away from them like I stay away from sites dedicated to kicking puppies) and right there - on their front page - was a big article on abuse. An article on taking control and not allowing anyone to abuse you. Helpful links and advice on where to go if abuse had already occurred. I remind you, my friends, that this was only a dream. If it was real, I would be signed up for their service, providing links, and offering to pay THEM to advertise in my sidebar.

No, it was a dream alright.

It was a dream because all you have to do - in January - is turn on your TV, or walk into the grocery store, or - hell - have a conversation with your friends to determine that abusing the sort of folks who might benefit from a visit to a weight loss website is not only acceptable but encouraged. In a society where perfectly average sized women complain about their weight and are encouraged to be thinner, you aren't likely to find what I found in my dream - a place that will help one lose weight if one needs or wants to, but in the meantime informs them that it is NOT ok for them to accept abuse - neither physical nor emotional.

No, that was a dream alright.

It was a dream, because we expect abuse from others, those of us who are bigger than what society dictates as acceptable. We feel like we deserve it. We walk with our heads down and try to be as unobtrusive as big people can be to avoid looks and comments. We try to be invisible when we go out, if we go out at all. We know we incite fear and disgust. Disgust with what we are and fear that 'something like that could happen to me' (usually followed by the comforting thought, 'I would NEVER let something like that happen to me'). We expect it. We try to avoid it, but when it comes we blame the abused rather than the abuser.

Yep, it was a dream alright.

It was a dream because we're encouraged to abuse ourselves. We're barraged with commercials and products - particularly at this time of year - that remind us that we're disgusting and unworthy, but with a lot of money from us and a little help from them we can be acceptable once again. Oh happy day. Sellers of false hope like Jillian Michaels, Special K, and Nutri-System can collectively kiss my fat white ass. There's plenty of room.

Now here's a little meta-blogging for ya: as I was reading this post over, the rant about the TV and grocery stores and conversations rang familiar in my ears. I went to my archives and found this: Battling the Two-Headed Beast - written last year in - what do you know? Early January. 'Tis the season.

But I had a dream...

A dream where people were encouraged to be who they are - right now - not who they could be if they bought the right product or plan. A dream where healthy people come in all shapes and sizes. A dream where designers at all price points made lovely, flattering clothes for women with all body types. A dream where it was no more ok to abuse someone because of their weight than it would be to abuse them because of their race, religion or creed (for the record, I do know that people are still abused on all three of those counts, but it is not societally acceptable and certainly not societally encouraged).

I had a dream. It's still early. I wonder if I could still get back to sleep?

Radar Love

Do you ever just get that feeling? Do you ever think of someone out of the blue that you haven't thought of for years, and just know - know with unshakable certainty - that something is going on with them? Do your dreams ever feel prophetic?

I raise my hand and wave like Arnold Horshak when asked all of the above. Ooooh! Oooh! Oooh!

I will never forget - when I was five years old, I woke up in the middle of the night (the middle of the night for a five year old being, probably, more like 10 or 11 o'clock) with horrible pains in my stomach. I went downstairs to find my mom and she and my dad were sitting very close together and talking. When they raised their heads to acknowledge my presence, it was clear that they'd both been crying. My grandmother had just passed away. In my five year old blissful ignorance, I hadn't even known that she was sick. I didn't know - cognitively, at least - what dying was. But I had a physical reaction to the loss. That's what I've always considered that pain to have been. Once I was told, my tummy felt better and I went back to sleep.

That was the first incident.

As an adult, I would often have really strong dreams about people I hadn't thought about in years. When I was pregnant with my first, I had several VERY strong dreams about someone I hadn't been friends with since elementary school. I became a little obsessed with this person I hadn't thought about in something akin to 25 years. A decade later, I've friended this person on Facebook and their profile and a few conversations revealed that they were going through some serious stuff around the winter of '95-'96. I never told them about the dreams. It would've appeared too weird and stalkerish.

I've taken to calling it radar love.

I know everyone has been on at least one side of the conversation wherein the person who is called or otherwise approached says, very sincerely:

"Oh my gosh, I was just thinking about you!"

We've got a line in the sky.

Recently I've been missing a friend who I ALWAYS miss, but for the last day or two it has been almost palpable. Turns out she's been needing me.

We've got a wave in the air.

I'm pretty sure this is something we all experience to some degree or another. And I think that's really cool.

I told you a couple of mine, I'd love to hear yours!