Body Peace of Mind

Hi All!

So this issue of body peace has been at the forefront of my mind lately. Do we accept how we look, no matter what? When do we stop being okay with how we look, and start trying to change everything about it? (Yes I know this topic is widely discussed, and is not even a little bit original.) However, I would like to share my body peace story...stories...we'll see how far I get today!

I am now 21, almost 22(holytwentiesbatman!!), and I've finally reached some semblance of body peace. I weigh around 165, I assume. I don't weigh myself regularly, because I don't believe that to be a healthy mindset to live with. Coming into college, I weighed about 140, and I thought I was hott. With two t's. Looking back at those pictures, I was skinny. I exercised every day the summer before college, determined to beat the freshman 15. It turned out to be the freshman-sophomore 25, but that's fine! Because now I look at how skinny my arms were, and I realize that I was freakin hungry. I mean, I love pizza more than most people, and I was depriving myself of that cheesy deliciousness so that I looked skinny. Even my boyfriend at the time told me that he didn't want me to lose any more weight. *red flag*

Now, I'm at the opposite problem. I haaaaate exercise. I associate it with judgement, self-loathing, and insecurity. As we all know, I hate those things. I love myself, pizza, and my couch. This whole idea that since I weigh more than the average person, I need to fix myself is MESSED UP. I love my body at a size 8-12 (stupid clothing stores). I do realize that I should be healthier, only eat like 3 meals a day instead of 6, but I will do that on my own, without people telling me that I "can still get that off." GAH! My body is not up for discussion. Not from my mother who said the aformentioned quote, my step-father who constantly comments on how much weight I've gained, or from friends who comment on the size of my boobs. NOT OKAY. I've been working really hard to accept my curves, cellulite, and blemishes. And yet....

I get ready for work today, and I put on a sleeveless shirt and a high waisted, kinda short skirt. And I stare at the mirror, in this outfit I've worn at least twice before, judging every last thing that someone could possibly find wrong with it. Do my legs look too big? Should I put on tights so that people won't look at them too closely. Is my waist small enough to pull off this skirt? Am I showing just the right amount of boobage? Are my arms too fat for a sleeveless shirt? And then something magical happened. I stopped. I walked into the living room where my roommate was sitting on the couch. "I love that skirt!" *phew*  It's fine. Of course it's fine, it's always fine. My body is flawed, so is Heidi Klum's. I've been rocking this stuff since I was 5. I'm not going to let myself get in the way of wearing what I want. Shut up, insecure-me.

My main point being: Love who you are. I know we all have trouble with that, and it will probably be a lifelong struggle. But don't go to the gym just because you want to be 20 pounds lighter, go because you want to finish that marathon in September. Don't starve yourself to look smaller, you'll just freakin pass out, and that's not hot. Love yourself, because I love you, and I care about you. And if you want to order a large pizza and eat it all by yourself, don't! Because I would like some too : )

Loooooooooooooooooooooove! Carlee Beth

Ocean

Okay, so for those of you who didn't get to see my solo performance, I'm posting it here! Noted, it's a work in progress. Hope you enjoy! Comments welcome :)

Ocean by Carlee Beth

 

Pt. 1

Sometimes, when I get the chance, I go out to the shore. I let my feet sink further and further into the sand with every wash of the waves. And I just stare out, trying to find the end of the water and beginning of sky. Of course I realize how pretentious I must seem. Privileged little white girl staring out in the distance searching for meaning in my pithy existence. I know this. But I also know the beauty of standing in the ocean, letting each wave consume me.

I let the water crash into my legs. It engulfs me, and pulls me toward the vast open waters. And then it leaves. Again and again the waves crash, caress, and leave. Crash, caress, leave. Crash, caress, leave. The ocean hits me with brute force, leaving me breathless. It wraps around me feeling so cold, yet so comforting. Then it leaves me more alone than I had been before. Repeatedly bruising me. But I can’t help but want it. I want the ocean to beat me to a pulp, to drag me under and leave me washed up on shore. Because that’s what it all means! At least for me.

 

I love the water. Be it the ocean, sea, or a lake, I am infatuated with the pulse. The anticipation of the wave. The incredible feeling you get on the first touch. It’s intoxicating. But I’ve never waded in past my knees. I always make sure my feet are solidly planted on the sand. Yes, the water moves me, but I’m always in control. It can’t take me anywhere I don’t want to go. I keep my lungs full of air, and I don’t dare get my hair wet. Of course I don’t enjoy being this much of a control freak. I want to dive in, but not until I find the one that’s worth the dive. I want to jump in at the deepest part of the Atlantic and sink down to the ballroom of the Titanic. I want to share in a beautiful dance with someone who is in over his head just as much as I am. But I’m terrified of drowning. I’m scared of letting go because that means throwing out my life jacket. Nothing could keep me afloat but the arms of my love, and that’s a lot of trust to give another imperfect human being. I mean, we saw what happened to Jack and that door.  So, for now, I stick to the shallow end. It’s impossible to drown when you’re covered in cushions of air.

 

*She sits down and begins drawing waves on the stage with chalk. She does this for a bit without speaking, and then begins without stopping her drawing*

 

Pt. 2

The ocean never stops. There’s no handy off-button to give a smoke break to the pelted sand. Its perceived stillness is just a tool of deception. It keeps crashing without regard to the people or things in its way. If only I were the moon, maybe I could have a say, but no.  He’s just one big selfish bastard, aren’t you?! *She throws the chalk*

I can’t catch a break. The tide rolls out, and I’m washed up. Battered. Bruised in fourteen different ways. And now the ocean has shown me his dark side. And the worst part isn’t the undertow. It isn’t the tempestuous waves. It’s the absence. I want to feel that salt water in these jagged cuts. I want that sharp pain in my exposed flesh. I want to be crashed into again, because at least then I won’t be alone. At least I’ll feel something on this never-ending barren shore.

It seems like the shore reaches for eternity on either side. I could walk for days and miles and sunsets, but I’d never get any closer to it. The shore is safe. It’s easy to stay on the dusty path and just wander. I know, I’ve done it for years. I’ve kept on the sand because the water scared me. I can’t be scared anymore. It is my choice on how to live my life and I’m not going to waste it, idly wandering the solid and known land. I have to make up my mind and go after what I want. The ocean isn’t going to leap past the beach to find me. If I want it, I have to go out and take it. Which is terrifying. But the sand doesn’t give me anything, it doesn’t get me anywhere, it’s just there. It’s firm and safe, and stagnant. It’s what any reasonable person would choose.  

 

*She moves about in a different way, walking away from the audience singing this on repeat*

 

Pero tú, amigo mio

Eres todo lo que vio

No quiero otro

Te quiero solo, oh oh.

 

Pt. 3

Sometimes, I forget I’m not Spanish. I find myself blaming Franco for social issues, and saying “we” when referring to the Republicans in the Spanish Civil War. There are two major reasons why this is not even slightly normal. 1. I was approximately negative fifty-six years old when the war broke out. 2. I had no idea there even was a Spanish Civil War until my Civilization and Culture class at Barcelona International College. See, that’s the funny thing about study abroad; you become so involved with the culture and people with which you study and work and live, that you start to believe that you’re a local. I know that sounds ridiculous, especially since there is not even a speck of southern European blood in my body. My ancestors are a mix of English, Irish, Scottish, and Welsh (which explains my insatiable need to rule the world and my inability to keep a tan).  My forefathers and mothers settled in the exciting land of central Illinois, and were content to remain there, to a creepy extent. Growing up, my sister and I learned to tell our mom about the boys we liked, so she could warn us if we were related to them. That’s my childhood, like a slightly skewed Norman Rockwell.

I didn’t even know any Spanish until I went on a mission trip to Juarez when I was fifteen. It was broken, and didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but I loved the way the words tasted in my mouth; sabe al mar. And even more than that? I loved opening myself up to a completely new group of people.

The more Spanish I took, the more that florita grew and blossomed in me. Suddenly, the world map changed. I had seen it a million times, the different and strange shapes of land, all connected by this immense blue grid.  But it wasn’t something I just studied anymore. It was a challenge; this big blue ball of cultures and people begging to be explored. I didn’t want to sit in a classroom memorizing capitals, I wanted to travel to Quito, climb Machu Pichu, barter in Colombia, and make art in Spain. The more Spanish I learned, the more languages I wanted to know! I want to discuss politics with Moroccans, see Indian films, learn mahjong in China, and argue with a French person about how Picasso actually belongs to us! *beat* I mean… Spain.  I wanted to experience the entire endless globe, not study a finite map. In that tiny brick, windowless classroom in DeWitt County, I discovered the world. And just a few short years later, I would begin my journey.

 

I flew into El Prat Airport on August 29^th, 2012. Some people look at religious baptism as their rebirth. I count Barcelona as mine. Once I stepped into the warm Spanish sun, I knew my life would never be the same. I knew I was going to fall in love there. Even if my señora didn’t let me wear heels out. “Los chicos no quieren casar con una torre.” “Si, mamá. I’ll wear my sandals to the club.”

I learned how to let go. How to drink and dance until the sun came up. To soak in the salty air, and to stop worrying about things.  But most importantly, I learned to float. At the Barceloneta, there is a section of beach that juts out close to the breaker. I would bury my bag, take off my top, and force myself upon the water. The waves sparkled with flecks of glitter. Even if that glitter was actually some kind of native algae, it didn’t make it any less magical! Because that huge, vast sea was mine. I’d swim out past the rocks and just float. I stopped fighting the current, and let the water lead me. My body became one with el mar. I would lay out there and dream. And think about how one day it would all just be a distant memory. That was my rebirth. The salty seawater of the Mediterranean anointed me. It was in that same water that I shared secrets, memories, kisses, and big decisions.

 

The ocean knows more than you’d think. It’s seen the rise and fall of great empires. It has spared and killed many men. It selfishly holds the treasures of the world. And it moves us. Shakes us imperceptibly. It drives people to do the unadvisable, the dangerous, the exciting. It drove me to abandon my safety net for a life of passion and uncertainty. It drives me daily to move, to be moved, and to make waves! Because a life inside the safety and comfort of shore is a life I have no interest in living. Vaminos!

Identity

I have spent most of my night watching videos about LGBTQQ issues and women's issues in modern society, because that's my way of procrastinating. The more videos on upworthy.com that I watched, the more introspective I became. (Sidebar, I adore this website. It rocks my fricken socks) This is not a blog of me coming out, as I do not identify as a full-fledged member of the LGBTQQ community. However, I do fully support all of you! Rather, I started thinking about some factors in my identity. 

Hey, look! A Book!

I have always identified myself as a tall, sometimes blonde, intelligent female. I would like to think that I value my intellectual growth more than other aspects of myself. I hate working out, and I really can't stand taking the time to blow-dry or straighten my hair. My mind is my prized possession, and my passion for learning new things is something that I view as fundamental to my personal growth. But, somehow, I don't think that's what people first see in me.

I stand out. I always have, and I've learned from a very young age to manage attention from people of all walks. I've been much taller than my peers since I was able to walk, and my (natural) blonde hair was a source of pride as a kid. After that awkward stage of Jr. High, I started to get a lot more attention from those pesky Y chromosomes. I learned to adapt to a different type of attention, and I accepted it as a normal part of my life. Like many other women my age, I get some attention from males that is not quite wanted. For whatever reason, if I do not wish to get that kind of response from a person I attempt to remove myself from that situation. But some people feel entitled to continue even when the other party has tried to let them know that they are uncomfortable in that situation.

Now, a disclaimer. I have not been sexually abused or assaulted. I have had a very lucky existence, when 1 in 4 of my fellow college aged women are subjected to this kind of violence. I'm writing this post not because I want you to pity me for being a woman, but because it's so important to me that women are valued for more than their appearance. Women are treated in this manner, partly because we put so much emphasis on appearance. Are you thin enough? Do you have big enough breasts? Is your hair done? Do you have big eyes, red lips, a round butt, gap between your thighs, muscular calves, pedicured feet, and protruding collarbones? Cool. I don't, but good for you.

For just once, I would like to have someone strike up a conversation with me about what I've read recently, or what I think of the gun control conversation. Women deserve to be valued for what they think and what they do more than the way they dress or look. And yes, I know that's funny coming from me, since my future career is in costuming. But I can't get over the fact that my appearance dictates public opinion. I know that "more attractive" women will get jobs over seemingly less attractive ones by a fairly steady margin. And that kind of sucks, doesn't it? Do men go through that same stress of waiting for an interview, looking at all the men in the room who are more attractive, knowing they probably won't get the job? (Honestly, I'm wondering) 

All in all, I'm so proud to be a woman. I love and respect myself: mind, body, and soul. And I'm so grateful for how far we've come in this world, and thankful for the women who have paved the way. However, we still have a long way to go. When people tell me that feminism is no longer necessary, I just can't get my head around it. We have so much more to do, and I'll do all I can to help. But what I do have to say to anyone reading is this:

You are more than your body. 

What finals?

I know, I've got finals...but let's face it, procrastination is the college way.

I have had the weirdest term of my life. It's been hard. I've had crazy shit thrown at me, and been expected to deal with it in an adult manner. And I have, for the most part. Some of the "adult" ways of dealing with things really aren't all that mature, when you think about it. But I digress.

I've come back to the states, and back to the suburbs. That's been hard enough as it. It's a strange feeling coming back, and it's hard. So for anyone else going though that transition, it's normal to hate life a little when you get back to the old ways of the US of A. I've gone through a relationship and a breakup for the first time in about two and a half years. Which, while both wonderful and terrible, was a big growing experience for me. I've learned a lot about myself through that whole situation. I've made my choice of career path this year. I'm going into Peace Corps for sure after graduation, which is terrifying and exhilarating. I just can't wait to get out on my own and explore the world and do something important. But more than that, I've rekindled my passion for theatre and costume design. I made something beautiful, and I have never been more proud of my work. I made my triumphant return to the stage, in a little one act for the directing class. Not much, but it was really great to get back on stage again.

this term:
I adapted
I changed
I loved
I made new friends
I laughed
I was miserable
I worked hard
I almost quit
I put myself aside
I cried
I grew up
I put myself first
I made a home

And next term, who knows?

Easter Egg for Valentines

So, this particular blog is not being posted on my google+ or my facebook or twitter accounts. In a way, it's like an Easter Egg on a DVD for you. If you really care to read my blogs, you'll find it. And if you don't, then you'll never know. Hence the title. Moving on.

When I was younger, I my first celebrity crush was Cary Elwes, of Men in Tights and Princess Bride fame. And that's what I thought I wanted for a long time. Someone valiant, snarky, who would do everything to protect me, his Buttercup or Maid Marian. Then I got older, and I wanted the Doctor. Someone to run around with having all sorts of amazing adventures, learning new things, going new places. Now I'm not saying I'm completely mature, but I think my tastes have grown quite a bit.

Now I want a romance like Marshall and Lily. Best friends that love the hell out of each other, can joke around, are super supportive, and rarely mushy. Because love isn't holding in your farts. Love isn't doing your makeup perfectly every time you see them. Love isn't putting on a fake persona to match what they like. Love isn't abuse. Love isn't a power struggle. Love isn't a lot of things that the world would like us to think.

This isn't going to be one of those posts where I tell you everything like I'm an expert on the subject. Because I'm not. I missed the Juliet phase of my teenage life where I was hopelessly in love with a boy I barely knew. In fact, I had a lot of infatuations in my teenage years, but none of them were love. None of my relationships counted for anything, because I honestly wasn't in love with any of them. But all those experiences have shaped what love is for me now.

Love is: honesty, even when it really sucks. Loyalty, through the really tough situations. Laughter, whenever possible. Playing games with each other. Teaching that old dog a new trick. Cuddling up and watching their favorite movie, even though they recite the lines like a moron. Watching them do something stupid and crazy in front of your friends, and laughing instead of getting mad. Looking at each other, and knowing what's going through their minds. Accepting them where they are. Not trying to change them. Knowing their faults, and not having that change your perception of them. It's friendship set on fire. It's all those cheesy things and none of them at the same time. It's kind of awesome.

And I'll find it...eventually.

So...What are you going to do with that?

Matt Lauer Sucks

Here's to you, art major. And to you, philosophy major! To the majors in Liberal Studies, Gender and Women's Studies, Anthropology, Music, Religious Studies, and History. (Let's not forget my new and lovely major, Theatre.) And this what I have to say to all of the people majoring in these areas, GOOD FOR YOU!!!

I, as a very important member of society, would like to thank you for your contribution to the world. Thank you for choosing to study something that you find incredibly interesting, without focusing on the lucrative benefits for you and you only. Social change majors? You're awesome. I know that a lot of us get the question, "So, what are you going to do with that degree?" followed with a scowl and a heavy load of judgement. You wanna know what we're going to do with those degrees? Whatever the hell we want.

Yeah, I'm even defending this guy.

I have a double major in Spanish and Theatre. So, naturally, the question I always get is: "So, you wanna do Spanish plays?" Maybe. Not necessarily. Those just happen to be the two subjects I find incredibly and innately fascinating. And I love my classes. I'm not miserable in my undergrad, like I was when I was an education minor. Undergrad is too short to take classes that you hate. And maybe you'll never get a job in your chosen field. So why wouldn't you spend as much time as you could learning about it? The world needs more people who are in love with what they do. I love theatre more than anything I've done my whole life. In fact, I've wanted to be an actress since I was 3 years old. It's my oldest and strongest passion. I've gone through spurts in my life where I've wanted to be a mechanic, a lawyer, a teacher, and even a minister at one point. But those things come and go, because I lacked the passion to focus on them. But theatre? That's my love. I know I can always be happy in a job where there's a stage and lots of lights.

So you! The one who chose to study something you're absolutely in love with, and everyone thinks you're crazy for it? Good for you. Keep it up. And if they give you hell, tell them to shove it.

Slice of my Mind

As I get back into the swing of life in the good old US of A, I realize how precious my down-time is to me. And tonight, I have an hour to kill before I go to sleep, and it's a lovely feeling. Although I have plenty of things I need to do (laundry, mostly. But I still have underwear left to get me through the weekend.) I choose to watch some YouTube clips and put on my sweatpants. (Also because I need to do laundry)

You know what I love? Pizza. I know this blog just took a random turn, but keep up with the pace, or get out! I don't need your negativity. Okay, are all the haters gone? Let's talk about pizza.
My one true love, the one that never gets me down, gooey cheesy pizza. While I was traveling, I missed pizza more than my family (sorry, everyone, it's true). Spanish pizza is just too healthy tasting...ugh. When I'm having a bad day, nothing makes me feel better than pizza and a movie. Comfort food doesn't cover it. If I'm having a wonderful day, let's celebrate by getting a pizza! If my day is average, I eat an average pizza. From deep dish, to thin crust, stuffed crust, pan, or frozen pizza, it just makes my day better. You know how if you have type of food too many times you get really sick of it, and just don't want it for a while? That's not the case.

In 7th grade, I started having allergic reactions to something that made my tongue and lips swell. Which was not pleasant for a 13 yr old, being awkward enough. For a while we thought it might have been tomatoes that were causing the problem. Instead of just taking pizza out of my diet, the guys at my favorite restaurant made my pizza with special sauce without tomato. I love it too much.

I realize I just wrote an entire post about pizza. I know that it's a weird thing to put out into the internet, but we all have our vices. If you think you don't have a thing for something, you should step back and look at your life and look at your choices. You all have your pizza, just like I have mine.

P.S. Pepperoni is the best