What Does "Beautiful" Mean to You?

Internalizing the obsession with "beauty."

But what if I'm fat AND "ugly"?

Our national obsession with beauty and the "perfection" of form has finally toppled me over. Although I see beauty everywhere and in every face I meet, the face I see in the mirror and in the occasional "selfie" picture fills me with self-loathing and disgust. My natural defense mode is to become a trouble-shooter and determine a plan to "fix" the problem. So, I have spent hours with my trusty yellow legal pad and special problem-fixing pen, trying to determine exactly what I need to do to transform myself into something pretty, or beautiful. The problem with formulating my plan is that it all has to be based on a definition of attainable beauty. Trouble is, beauty holds a different definition for everyone and is elusive and shifting. It's been dictated by a marketing industry that cares little for the damage it has done, also by the gender-driven social "standards" that  been in place for centuries. Those standards have been shaken quite a bit in recent years, but the main pillars still hold and refuse to be toppled. In noodling through this issue on scratch-paper, I've discovered I'm not only having difficult defining beauty, but I'm stuck in a pigeon-hole between cultures that define beauty in extremely different ways. 

I might be more confused now than when I started.

Like so many good little lesbians, I grew up being utterly inundated with propaganda about what defines "pretty". I was brainwashed to think that without make-up, the correct clothes, and without the proper shoes and accessories, I was ugly and destined for old-maidenhood. Try as I might, I was an epic failure at all those "pretty-making" things. Make-up was baffling to me-I didn't want shit near my eyes. Frilly, softly-colored clothes made me cringe, especially when forced upon me with the often used question: "don't you want to look pretty?" Accessorizing to me meant wearing a whole bunch of gear that could strangle me, damage me, or would be lost/left behind while I was playing sports, climbing trees, riding my horse, getting into mischief, or reading any one of my many books. But I tried anyway, because I didn't want to disappoint the people around me, and because of how much they gushed about how pretty I was on the occasional days when I got the look right. This gushing taught me that I certainly must be ugly every other day when I was just plain old, unaltered me. Until recently, I was unaware of my complete internalization of these societal norms, and how deeply they affect how I view myself and others.

What if I'm neither, or both, or some of each?

When I finally came out of the closet, I was excited because I thought that coming to terms with being gay meant that I got to be a part of community that wouldn't judge me based on my clothes or make-up or accessories, but instead on the quality of my heart and the authenticity behind my smile. DAMN! I was so wrong. Years of experience have taught me that every society and culture contain a set of "norms" that help to keep things "organized" for lack of a better term. There are so many labels for people and how they style themselves in the LGBTQI community that I just had to ask a friend about the current proper set of initials to use (and what at least what one of them meant). However, if you boil it down, with the lesbians, there two general groups: "Butch" and "Femme" and about a 100 subgroubs. (This is all just my personal view of it, so if my understanding offends you, feel free to horsewhip me relentlessly in the comment section, or start a mature discussion on the topic-I leave the choice up to you).

Don't fence me in.

 What I don't understand is the seeming rigidity of these groups. I currently have short hair and often wear a hat because my hair does what it wants. It is has been assumed many many times that I am therefore "butch".  There are several reasons being labeled this way displeases me. First of all, I don't like being labeled. Don't fence me in. Second of all, I don't identify with much of what I perceive in the "butch" persona. I like sharing roles. I like doing what I want to do when I want to do it-even if it's a traditionally "girly" thing, a traditionally "manly" thing, or just a totally random thing I just made up. Thirdly, sometimes I like to get all girly foo-fooed up because it makes me feel good. And dresses really do make more sense in the summer time (see: proper crotch venting). Honestly, I just like to dress comfortably and am too lazy to work hard on long hair. (I'm also kind of scared of the curling iron-but that's another story).  And, the rigid parameters within the assumed "label" I have been sorted into, have led to baffling ridicule when I have innocently made comment about owning a purse, or dresses, or discussing make-up, or anything outside of the perceived norms for being butch. Yes, I also have internalized homophobia about the perception of being "butch" that comes from the LONG LINE of people who have treated me poorly when they see me in the restroom, the earlier aforementioned brainwashing, the well-intended yet totally obtuse questions from straight people (who is the man? etc...), and from the societal perceptions of what is accepted as beauty and what is not. I freely admit to all that. 

My perception of self.

But why is all this important to the idea of beauty? It's important because the complete deluge of negative messages that drown each of us daily, are sweeping me away right now. It's like someone stole the drummer I've always marched happily along to. Now I'm frozen by the loathing I have for myself within my own heart because deep down, I've been convinced that I'm not and can never be "pretty" because of all the things I'm not. I can never fit in because I don't fit any of the molds within the LGBTQI community-no matter how hard some try to force me into one. I can't be loved because I'll never have a perfectly blonde, blue-eyed, lithe, and perfectly tanned form. (Shit, I burn if I think about the sun). Just like our current society has become completely blinded to all the beautiful people that don't fit that model-perfect, after-picture, Biggest-Loser-Success-Story ideal, I've become completely blinded to all the things I DO possess that make me uniquely beautiful. I look in the mirror and all I see is a person is too fat, too butch, too unplucked-of-eyebrow, too thin-lipped, too solid, too short-legged, and too pumpkin-headed for even her mother to love. 

And that makes me mad! At myself, at the world, at the paradigms and parameters that force us down these little chutes of self-loathing. I have the eye of an artist. I see beauty everywhere. It's not fair that the constant rain of negative messages should encourage me to so harshly scrutinize and judge myself lacking. It's not fair that the world thinks it can set the ideal of beauty FOR ME. It's not fair and therefore, I am going to exercise my right to choose.  I'm going to choose what beauty means FOR me and TO me and live that ideal. I'm going to do my very best to realize that I might already be beautiful. Somewhere in there I also need to QUIT comparing myself to others and the societal ideal. And maybe, just maybe by sharing this thought process, maybe I can convince other people who are struggling with the concept of their own beauty to stand up and choose for themselves too.  Now where are my yellow pad and problem-fixing pen?

  

What makes you beautiful? 

I Need Your Help

Dear Friends,

I need your help.  If you could provide encouragement, motivation, a swift kick in my ass, kind words, helpful anecdotes, clean eating recipes for one, ideas, inspiration, prayers, directions, or any other kind of assistance that will help to get/keep me moving in the right direction, I will be eternally grateful.  There is some kind of wall-some kind of heavy, dark blanket that I can't seem to get around, or out of, or through. I've become my own worst enemy.  I must find my motivation, and I must get moving and get healthy. My life depends on it.  There are 70 vital pounds to be lost and fitness/health to be found. Can you help me?  I'm completely exasperated with myself and am at my wit's end.  (Please keep in mind that I am not wealthy).

Feel free to post your awesome and most welcome help in the comment section on this blog, or:

Send Motivation Via E-mail

Send motivation via snail mail (it works too)
Tracy Sand
P.O. Box 821506
Vancouver, WA 98682

Bless all of you for listening....

It's a RECORD!!

There is scary stuff chasing you.

It IS a record: I've run 3 days in a row!!

I did REAL running-not just from a spider, because hitherto, that was my main motivation for running.  It was also my motivation for practicing my "straight-up-and-sideways-about-10-feet" magic jumping skills. The other time I ran was out of my mom's basement. When I was little, I was convinced that demons lived in the crawlspace beneath the stairs, as well as in the closet in the sewing room that was down there. (No doubt this information came from an older sibling-just like my rampant arachnophobia. Older siblings are such fun.) Later, I saw the biggest spiders of my life in that basement. Therefore, when I grew older and more rational, I did not change my behavior one iota. I still sprint the hell up out of there no matter what. Something is always right behind me-I firmly believe that. Mom is considering remodeling the house into a one-story, and I fully approve. For now though, we can just be comfortable in the knowledge that at any given time, my best running speeds could be clocked coming up the stairs out of the clutches of Satan's Lair at my mom's house. 

Here is where I am so far in this formal running thing...

15 minute mile-I'll take it!!

DAY 1  

Ran for the first time on purpose in a long time.

Ran in the dark to save the masses from seeing all this fantasticness

flopping around and gasping mightily for pure, sweet air.

-Did my best imitation of "Pete Rose meets Concrete" when I 

tripped over a downed tree-branch. (Was thankful for the cover of darkness. Hard to even swear when you can't breathe anyway).

-Was so freaking proud of myself that I made it a whole mile without dying that I started singing "Eye of the Tiger", and my neighbor tested my "straight-up-and-sideways-10ft-magic jumping skills when he clapped. (Must remember the cover of darkness hides scary shit, too).

Shaving time off!

DAY 2

Wonder of wonders, ran on purpose two days in a row. Normally I tell myself I need a day of rest in between runs, and then like a year and a half later I go on my second run. MAJOR triumph here.

-Got assaulted and chased by a cat. I was running past some black-berry brambles and this enormous black and white spawn of the devil jumped out from the tangle and attacked me!  Little bastard, I could get THAT treatment at home. It chased me about 20 yards and gave up. 

-I shaved almost a minute off my time!!  Whoo hooo!!  I blame the sprint away from the evil cat...

I might get better at this...

DAY 3

Everyone remain calm!!!  I ran THREE days in a row-and no one was chasing me. There wasn't a ball involved, I wasn't having zombie delusions, and I wasn't sleep-running (although that will become a concern down the road if this running thing becomes a habit. But I'll save my sleep-walking stories for another post).

-I TOTALLY ran faster and longer, and didn't have to walk as much to keep my heart from exploding. 

-There were no notable run-ins with either branches or felines, although I may have stepped in something suspicious-really hoping it was leaves.

I'm feeling good, I'm burning calories-and my mood is improving quite a bit. Plus, I have this sense of accomplishment I haven't had in a long time. Last night I even went to the gym AFTER my run to do more stuff. I'm not ready to admit running could be a good thing-my knees are still telling me I'm a fat jackass, and I have a stubborn streak a mile wide...but I'm willing to continue to see where this running thing leads. Thank you to everyone who has been encouraging and supportive. 70lbs from now I'll even let you say "I told you so."

And for those of you keeping score from the Bandanna-wagon, here they are! (Remember, it's one bandanna a workout, and then I'll start over again when I hit 50-who is joining me on this go-round?)

The Struggle with Running

A Possible New Cure for a Bad Day?

This has been a fairly awful week. Several large things have laid me low, but the icing on the cake has been the little things that can really just pee on a person's parade. Stuff like, stepping in dog poop and not noticing until it was tracked all over the carpet, or cornering poorly in the dark and mangling a shoulder, can just tip me over the edge. I already fight daily against the depression that is a side-effect of the post-concussive disorder that came from contact sport injuries and the occasional klutzy moment. Regular exercise can combat this depression, but sometimes I forget that fact. Occasionally, I'm wallowing around in my dark cloud of doom, feeling lower-than-a-snake's-belly, with a super crummy attitude about the state of the world. This is not rational, and days like this kick my ass. I spend them just feeling bad. 

100 miles by March!!  141 by June!

I used to just run when I felt bad. Way, way back before there had to be a ball involved, before I fell into years of soccer, then rugby, then football, and then too many dozen donuts-yes, I used to run.  My teacher in third grade was this super-dynamic guy named Mr. Milliman. He taught us all about the solar system, how to write in cuneiform, challenged our parents to race us in multiplication table tests, and encouraged us to run. He set up a program where we could choose to run at recess and he would keep track and record how far we ran. Everybody ran in the beginning of the year-when it was sunny and warm-then slowly dropped off as they realized running could be hard work-and that it rains a lot here.  A handful of us ran every recess-

1982-tiny kid

rain or shine. For me, it was an escape-an escape from being awkward and shy, and from the early realizations that I was "different". Yes, I did already know I was different when I was 8 years old-and I ran away from it. Even a third-grader knows you can't have crushes on other girls. I felt free when I was running around the perimeter of the school grounds. I felt proud that I was often the only girl out there running. In March, I reached 100 miles during recesses. When we left school in June I had run a total of 141 miles during recess.  Only Travis C. ran more.  He ran 142 miles...bastard. I had been ill one day. Needless to say, I was fit, athletic, and a scrawny little booger after all that running. 

I continued to run when I felt bad, but not in as structured a way as I did in third grade. I participated in track in junior high as an 800m runner-which is essentially a race created by Satan to punish the short-legged people of the world. It's a two-lap scramble around the track. All of us built-near-the-ground, low-riders who weren't long-limbed enough to run the 400m, or fast enough to be in the 100m or 200m races were relegated to the 800m. It was social, and relatively fun in it's own tortuous way.  Then, I hit a bodacious growth spurt that brought the searing lightning bolts of sheer fire to me in the form of shin splints. I entered the 7th grade at 4'9".  I left the 8th grade at 5'3". I was having none of the shin splints bullshit, so that brought an abrupt end to my competitive (and by default) recreational need to run.

Fast forward through all the years of sports that required chasing a ball, to my current state of "blobosity." I'm out of shape. I'm in poor health. I am down and depressed. I need to get moving...now! Also, it has often occurred to me that if the zombie apocalypse, Armageddon, or other disruption of current society occurred, I would be unable to outrun the hordes and would have to cut down the people around me in order to survive.  This doesn't seem very fair since it's my fault I became a regular at McDonalds.

So, today I ran for the first time.  Like for real.  Like faster than a walk. And no one was chasing me. Now, I did wait until it was dark to go out running to avoid scaring small children. (I must remember to double-bag my bodacious boobages next time. They are not helpful to my running form. It was rather like fighting the incoming and outgoing tide with every step... I didn't have them when I was a young runner, and they've been strapped down under my football pads for the last 10 years, so I'm still adjusting.) I ran further than I thought I could. Granted, I only made it about 20 squares of sidewalk before I thought I was going to die, but I RAN.  My biggest problem (other than the saddlebag twins) was keeping myself from running too fast. My body wanted to revert to 800m form. My knees said "OH, HELL NO!!"   Also, there are very few street lights on my block. Last night there was a wind storm and many a branch had blown down. I don't THINK anyone saw me lay down my best four-point landing-complete with audible OOMPH and required expletive-after I tripped on the first branch, but I got pretty light-footed and careful after that. Tomorrow I won't be able to get out of bed, but I RAN.

It takes me 18:00 minutes to walk the mile around my block (don't judge-I only have a 27" inch inseam and these little legs have to flash like the Road Runner's to to hit that 18:00 minutes). I made it around the block in 15:00 minutes. YES!  I felt like a freaking HERO!! I started singing Eye of the Tiger on the last few yards.  My super-nice neighbor startled the shit out of me when he clapped-so much for running in the dark to avoid attention-but the appreciation from the crowd was lovely. 

The best part of it all-I felt better.  I felt great. Other than the mountainous, over-the-shoulder-boulder twins, I felt free again. I felt like I could come inside and write a new blog post like I promised.  So I did. Here is the bandanna for today's run. And now I shall go find the Icy Hot and the ibuprofen. Tomorrow I will try to run again.  I'm not sure I'll ever become a "runner" per se, but as I did not die, and it is the cheapest and most available form of exercise, I think I will be doing more of it.

"Either move or be moved." -Colin Powell 

The Year of Finishing Dangerously

Back in the Saddle Again

Writing is hard sometimes. Life sneaks up on you and before you know it, it's been days, then weeks, then months since you last used your skills to soothe your soul while making others laugh.  And sometimes you're just lazy as hell and don't really give a shit. Life and the occasional lazy streak have combined to make quite the gap in this fabulous blog.  I apologize and now move on...

For those of you who read this blog for the weight loss stories, I have a great one for you!!  Since starting the 50 Bandanas to Fit weight loss wonderment, I have lost 25 lbs.  And have kept it off.  That means I still have some excess baggage to drop. However, this fits perfectly in with the theme of my blog today...

Finishing What I Started

I was sitting in my office chair, looking out the window and pondering the meaning of the universe (not really, I was watching the geese fly over and wondering how their honkers don't seem to ever run out of honks) when it occurred to me to look around my office/studio space. Scattered across my desk, the work table, and my drafting table were the skeletons of several 1/2 finished masterpieces. Wondrous creations that I worked on like I was hell-bent for Sunday, but I stopped short on Saturday when something sparkly or shiny or a squirrel happened by.  Such is life with ADHD.  

However, it really pissed me off.  Why can't I finish stuff? I started off with a full head of steam in the weight loss department, then I fell off the face of the earth. This blog was started with the best of intentions, but I disappeared. What good is it to have a brain full of ideas if I don't finish them?

Thus, I am beginning The Year of Finishing Dangerously. Why "dangerously" you might ask?  Because just imagine what a force I will be to reckon with if start finishing the shit I started.  I could be dangerous!!  I could be a freaking master mind!!  Yeah!! Yeah!! I could wear a cape and have a super-hero name...oops. Sorry about that.  Just a little ADHD sidetrack sample for you. 

Seriously though, my goal is to finish one project each week, and everything I start this year while working toward my weight loss and fitness goals. It is a lofty ambition. If I can do it, I'm going to feel like the freaking QUEEN OF THE WORLD. AND DAMNIT, I WILL DESERVE A CAPE AT THAT POINT.  And and invisible plane-because that's just cool.  :)

The other part of my goal is to make sure this blog stays alive, and well and keeps you all laughing. Because no matter what my goals and dreams may be, or how they may shift over time, one thing has always remained true in my life.  Weird and funny shit happens to me.  All of you may as well benefit from the healthy laughter-even if it's at my expense.  I'll be laughing too.  

An Open Letter to All the Politicians in America

An Open Letter to All the Politicians in America

Dear Politicians,

The people that you truly answer to

would like to know if you care

 about more 

than you, yourself, and more of you.

Turn off the noise.

Turn off the drumbeat.

Turn off the press.

Turn off the sound.

It's time to earn our respect,

so open up your ears and

sit your asses down.

Hang up your party hat,

kick the lobbyists out the door,

put your wallet back in your pocket-empty-

just like all the people you're supposed to be

fighting for.

Close your eyes on your prejudice learned,

open your arms to citizenship earned,

walk away from the needy hypocrites

who are drowning you in their Party Politics.

STOP funding the lazy

START properly funding the brave

Invest in the future

and quit being a bitchy

partisan slave

Quit qualifying your quantifications

and check your ever-growing paychecks at the door.

Turn off the symphony of speculation

Sit down together at the table

And use COMMON SENSE 

to save this broken nation!!

Sincerely,

Tracy Sand

A Patriot

The Mean Girl

My Inner Voice is an Abusive Bitch

She is mean, volatile and cruel. She works me over in ways the" Mean Girls" could only dream of.  Every time I look in the mirror she mercilessly tells me how ugly, fat, and worthless I am. If I were to draw  what she looks like, she would be different from every angle. Each angle would reveal that she resembles some one from my past that told me I'm ugly, fat or worthless. She seems to have no soul.  She criticizes me constantly. She whispers, she laughs at me, she screams. 

And I listen to her.

It feels almost impossible to tune her out. She is unpredictable. When I get all fired up and determined to change, she is my best friend, but if I slip just a little bit, even for a second, she becomes my worst enemy. She just doesn't know how to be supportive or kind to me. This puzzles me because I work so hard to be supportive and kind to everyone around me, yet I can't seem to be kind to myself. When the voice really gets going, I feel like an unlovable loser. Recently, I've felt like that all the time. And when I feel like that, food is often my comfort. 

Two weeks ago I was riding my bike, walking, eating right, and feeling good. My weight was starting to drop, my clothes were starting to loosen, and I was four bandannas away from my first 50 bandanna goal. Somehow this taste of success must've threatened the hell out of my inner voice, because she kicked her nasty criticism into high gear and sent me sailing off track. I lost my appetite, and then when I did eat, I only ate garbage. That abusive, ever-present voice was a constant stream of "I told you so" and "I knew you couldn't do it."  I sank lower. 

You know, I have never tolerated and will never tolerate anyone abusing anyone else-physically, emotionally, or verbally.  Why do I allow my inner voice to do it to me? My illustrious, super-smart counselor and I were talking this week about this and she asked me to consider what it would be like if my inner voice actually liked me. Sadly, I couldn't even guess at what it might be like. My inner voice has been this way for as long as I can remember-brutal, unforgiving, and always demanding perfection. However, they say that the definition of crazy is doing the same thing over and over expecting a different result. Crazy is not the title I want, so it's obviously time to try something different. 

How do I do this?  How do I change how my inner voice speaks to me?  How to I rehab her from Mean Girl to Sister Supportive? I want to do this, but I have no idea how. And the idea scares me to death because sadly enough, like a long-term victim of abuse, I am comfortable with the Mean Girl. She is least a known entity. The unknown of having a supportive inner voice for the first time scares the heck out of me. What is she even going to respond to?  Do I force the change?  Does it happen over night?  Seriously, how does this work?  I guess I will figure that out as I go.

In the meantime, I am going to resume the bandanna wars. The first 46 bandannas were certainly for learning. I'm starting over with a new 50, and those will be for growing.

Stay tuned....