Fashion Plate

Fashion Plate

–noun

1.

a person who consistently wears the latest style in dress.

Fashion has been on my mind lately because, thanks to a new doctor, I am now taking a medicine to replace what my under active thyroid is not producing, and, as a result, have lost 15 pounds and counting.

I would jump up and down for joy except that my pants would fall down around my ankles.

I have dropped two clothing sizes and one clothing department. What I mean is that I no longer have to shop in the “hopelessly devoid of anything resembling fashion” WOMEN’S DEPARTMENT. I can go back to shopping in the Misses Department.

Now please understand, I am not and never have been, as defined above, a fashion plate. I go for classic styles, dressier rather than casual. What that means in my suburban world is that I prefer suits for work and wrap tops (silk) and heels (kitten) with my (straight leg, dark denim wash) jeans, while others are wearing some kind of non-jean pants with some kind of top for work, and faded jeans with athletic shoes everywhere else. So yes, I am somewhat more fashion-y than those around me. That doesn’t make me a fashion plate. Maybe a fashion fork? Or a fashion goblet? But definitely not a plate.

But I would like to have had clothing more stylish than I found in the WOMEN’S DEPARTMENTS of the stores in my suburban mall. It was pure torture to walk past the Misses Department and see all the nice fabrics and prints and styles, only to reach the WOMEN’S DEPARTMENTS and see nothing even faintly resembling attractive clothing. Who decided that a size 16 WOMAN couldn’t wear the same luscious print that a size 16 Missy could? Only a few pounds separate the two sizes. Who decided that all WOMEN could or would want to wear prints so large that they resemble a map of the world – life size? Who decided that WOMEN don’t deserve to have a waist, so all tops are made to hang straight down in front from the tips of our boobs, changing our shapes to something resembling the box my clothes dryer came packaged in? Or even worse, have gathered bust lines so that we all look fourteen months pregnant.

I ended up doing most of my clothes shopping on QVC, one of the shopping networks. Almost every article of clothing that they offer comes in sizes from XS to 3X. So thank you, QVC, for providing fashionable styles that WOMEN are not ashamed to be seen in.

In the mean time, I bought three pairs of straight leg, dark denim wash jeans in my new size, and those will have to do as I (hopefully) continue to lose weight. Thank goodness my new job allows wearing jeans to work.

Camellia

Are you Beautiful or Ugly?

Whoever said “Beauty is only skin deep,” was wrong.

Whoever said “Pretty is as pretty does,” was only a bit closer.

Whoever said “Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes to the bone,” was actually on the right track. They just didn’t realize it applies to both beauty and ugliness.

The truth is, beauty starts in the heart, or, more accurately, in the emotions. And so does ugly.

We hear a lot these days about how airbrushed photos in magazines and other images of impossibly beautiful women affect girls’ self images, but most times those poor self images start way before that.

If we are unloved, unwanted, and abused we know there must be a reason, and we come to know that the reason is because we deserve it. That we are unworthy of being loved and cherished. Children who are loved and cherished by the adults around them grow up with feelings of self-worth and self-love. And they rarely think they are ugly. At least, not the Ugly that goes bone deep. The Ugly so Ugly that it deserves a capitol letter.

By time I hit adolescence I thought that the only reason men were interested in me was because I was Ugly. That they believed that, since I was Ugly, I would be so grateful for their attention that I would have sex with them. Or at least let them feel me up.

And who were “they”? “They” were the construction workers who frequented the local diner where I waited tables from the time I was fifteen. The manager of the grocery store who offered to “lift me up” so I could reach the item on the top shelf instead of reaching it down for me as I had asked. The clerk who had to cup my hand in his to give me my change. The men in church who couldn’t talk to me without touching my hair or putting their hand on my back – and then sliding it down to my waist.

A lot of girls like us do go for sex because it is the closest thing we can get to love. But my reaction was different. I felt humiliated. And manipulated. And I scorned their attention.

In retrospect I think that was a good thing. It kept me out of trouble, kept me from being used, abused, and tossed aside once they were done. It left me some pride. But I still thought I was Ugly.

I had no clue that they were interested because I was built like a brick shithouse. Even though many of “them” had told me that. Not to mention I had that long, gorgeous blonde hair. That many of “them” commented on. Looking back on photos of myself I can see that I really was a walking wet dream. As many of “them” had called me.

So I got a lot of attention from men and that didn’t stop when I was married at nineteen. To a man six years older than I, who I met in collage. Who I thought only loved me for my mind. Because he told me so. And I believed him. Because I was so Ugly it had to be true.

It took a lot of years for me to understand that I was “physically attractive”. That’s the best I can get. Attractive. But at least it’s not Ugly. And when my now-husband Lionheart sees that it’s me calling on the phone he always answers it, “Hey Beautiful”. Capitol letter. And some days I almost believe it.

Camellia

Diogenes, I have your man

I thought I would take a few minutes out from panicking about getting a job and talk a little bit about how I met my husband, Lionheart. This came to mind because yesterday I listened to Meatloaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights” which was our garter-removal song at our wedding (more about that later).

On the evening of Friday, April 4th, 2003, I went to a book-signing for author Laurel K. Hamilton at a bookstore about 20 minutes south of where I live. She writes the series “Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter”. Not everyone’s cup of tea. I got there early enough to snag a good seat (although referring to a metal folding chair as a ‘good seat’ is the height of irony) and, since I always have a book tucked in away in my purse, I pulled it out and started to read. I was vaguely aware of someone taking the seat next to mine but didn’t look up or pay any attention, since, for me, reading is an addiction and not something I stop doing for trivial things like food or people. This person turned out to be a man, a very persistent man, who insisted on conversing with me. I finally gave in and put my book away and we talked – about the author, her Anita Blake books, her other books, then other books we know and love, and so on, until time got close to the author’s appearance.

This happened to be a book signing where you show up and take a number, then get in line in numeric order. He had gotten there early enough to pick up his number plus four numbers for his friends who were supposed to arrive later. When the time got close and his friends hadn’t shown up, instead of simply giving away the four tickets, he stood up and organized a ‘number exchange’. If your number was higher than one he was holding, he gave you that number and then you had to find someone else with whom you could exchange your old number. Sounds clumsy and time consuming but he accomplished it quickly, many folks were happy because they had moved up a few places in line, and the book signing started on time.

He was in line ahead of me and disappeared after his book was signed (I found out later it was because his friends had finally arrived). After my signing I went up to the registers to pay for my other purchases. While I was standing in line, with about ten people in front of me and about ten people behind me, he suddenly popped his head around a display sign and, right there in front of all those people, asked, “Would you like to go out sometime?”

Now let me explain something: I have naturally blonde hair and big boobs, and I guess blondes really do have more fun, if they are so inclined, because I get hit on. A lot. Everywhere. Although I’m sure the boobs play a “big” part of it, too, pun intended. There is no flattery to me in this. The men who are hitting on me don’t know me as a person and probably could not care less – it seems to be a knee-jerk reaction. Or some other reaction occurring below their belt, anyway. So I mostly walk around in a “shields up” mode (yes, as implied above, science fiction and fantasy are my two favorite genre) with this sentence at the tip of my tongue and ready to fire: “Oh, thanks so much for asking, but I’m not interested at this time, sorry.” Because I was just not into casual dating. I had been single for six years and loving every minute of it.

But something in my brain short circuited when he made his invitation and refused to let me fire off my standard rejection sentence, giving me, as my daughter calls it, a serious case of the ‘uhhb duhs’. You know, when you just stand there and say, “Uhhb duh, uhhb duh, uhhb duh” until your brain finally kicks in again and you can manage a coherent sentence. The sentence that did finally come out of my mouth was, “I’ll meet you over in the coffee area after I pay for my books and we can talk.” He said, “Okay, see you there,” and walked away.

I just stood there for a moment in shock. Then aloud I said, “He asked me out!” and a voice from the back of the line said, “Go for it!” Then I said, “But I’m older than he is!” and a voice from the front of the line said, “That’s okay. My aunt is seven years older than my uncle and they’ve been married for twenty-three years!” Wow! Good advice from total strangers! Who’d have thought?

So I paid for my books and met him in the coffee area and we talked for over an hour and at the end I told him I don’t go out with men I’ve just met, but that the next night was the weekly Parents Without Partners dance and he was welcome to join me there if he was so inclined. He said to give him the directions and he would be there. I was surprised and skeptical. It would be a long drive for him, since he lived about an hour south of the book store.

But now here is the part that I’ve spent all this time building toward. I think it defines the whole basis of our relationship. He said, “I’ll be there, but I have to warn you, I can’t dance.” And I replied, “Well, that’s okay, but I CAN dance, so I’m not going to just be sitting there hanging on to your shoulder all evening.” And he said, “I understand.”

Not in that pitiful, subdued, manipulative way, but in that game show host/announcer sort of way, like “Heeeeeeeeeeer’s JOHNNIE!” “Aaaaaaye understand!” Like it really was okay.

There it is. Total honesty. Are you listening, Diogenes? We say it all, we lay it on the line, and the other person takes it and is okay with it.

I had to be okay that he didn’t dance and he had to be okay that I would dance with other men and leave him sitting. And I did. And he did. Except he found other ways to interact – the monthly birthday cake ended up on our table and he cut and served the slices to folks as they came up, always with a quip or a comment of some kind with each slice. And I danced swing and cha-cha and foxtrot with other men, and some slow dances with him. And then we left the dance an hour early and went to the 24 hour diner next door and sat and talked for another two hours.

And the next day I called to thank him for coming up to the dance and he asked me out to a movie, and I said yes. And six months later he asked me to marry him, and I said yes.

And he suggested “Paradise in the Dashboard Lights” as our garter removal song, and I said yes.

But that is another story.