TouchedByMadness

Poisoned

Back when I had my own apartment, I didn’t have much of a social life (realistically, not much has changed in that respect), but I did have extended basic cable.

On the weekends I typically parked my derriere (and laptop) on the living room sofa and spent my afternoons lusting over Hal Sparks while loving the 80s, noting (and disregarding) fashion tips from Stacy and Clinton, and wondering if my sister’s hospital rotations were anything like Scrubs.

But, by far, my favorite idiot box entertainment was the America’s Next Top Model marathon.

ANTM was my heroin. Succumbing to the urge to watch super-thin women vying for the title of prettiest live mannequin violated most of the principles I claimed to hold dear. Yet I couldn’t tear myself away. I’d sit there bare-faced in jeans and a hoodie, completely mesmerized by underweight girls with long legs and amazing cheekbones. During commercial breaks I would make pouty faces in the mirror and imagine life as a model. Sure I had thick thighs, bad skin, a wicked overbite, crooked teeth, and a large nose that looks like it’s been broken a few times, but clearly my career as a Victoria’s Secret Angel failed to take off only because I was a mere five foot three and three quarters inches tall.

I was still perfecting my pout, waiting to be discovered, and nursing my ANTM addiction when I saw an episode where several plus-size girls joined the competition. I remember feeling such sympathy for those women because the skinny girls made them look and feel like heifers by comparison and Janice Dickinson was a real bitch about their curvy bodies.

God, I can’t imagine being them, I thought. It must be a constant battle just to maintain healthy self-esteem.

As I watched with rapt attention, one of the plus-size models broke down and started fretting about her shape. The lithe, svelte, traditional models blamed her lack of self control. They scolded her for eating too much and not exercising enough. Then they belittled her for letting herself go and being overweight.

“But I’m a size eight,” the girl cried.

[insert record scratch sound effect]

A size eight?! That’s not plus-size. That’s not even average. Christ, I’m a size eight, and that girl had to be a good head taller than me. She probably weighed less than me too. And she was the fat chick!

My entire sense of self-image shattered.

Like most women, I’m not always happy with the way I look. I dislike mirrors, and when obligated to stand before one, I usually feel a mix of disgust and shame. It doesn’t matter that I’m in ok shape, all I can focus on are my flaws. I hate that I can’t be comfortable in my own skin. I hate that a thorough search of my house would turn up at least one Glamour or In Style because I think I need advice on how to look more attractive. I hate that I feel guilty for wearing sneakers instead of stilettos. I hate that the total investment put into my makeup bag could probably fund dinner for an entire African village. And I hate that I can’t bring myself to just be done with it all.

When I exercise at the gym or avoid certain cuts of clothing or apply mascara, I try to tell myself that I’m doing it for me. I justify that I’m helping myself to look good and feel good. But as much as I live in a state of denial, I am aware that I’m doing these things just as much for the high school boys who rejected me, the optometrist who told me if I wore glasses I’d never get a date, and the models who think a size eight is equivalent to a fat ass. Yes, you’re one of my sources of motivation to look hot, Janice Dickinson, and for that honor you can go fuck yourself.

Stupid, Stupid, Stupid

I’m about thirty-six hours away from heading out to the airport and beginning my long trade show adventure. So what am I doing today?

Laundry?

Cleaning?

Packing?

Why no, because any of those options might make sense. No, because I will likely be away from my computer for five days, I am smack in the middle of screwing around with my blog design. Something that is going to take a hell of a lot more time than I actually have right now.

And I haven’t started packing yet.

Sometimes my own brilliance astounds me.

Nekkid

I’m a painfully shy person, so it’s not unexpected that the gym locker room is a place of high anxiety for me. After exactly two days I discovered that not everyone shares my opinion on public nudity.

I was changing back into my work clothes when a woman appeared from the showers wearing a towel . . . on her head. The rest of her was air drying, I assume. It gave me a little shock as she was the first naked person I had ever encountered in a non-intimate setting (which coincidentally isn’t many more people).

This is where the Captain interjects, “Stacey, it’s a locker room. That’s pretty typical for a locker room.”

Yes, I understand it’s a locker room. Which is why after my initial surprise I realized that seeing naked people was something I’d have to become accustomed to.

But then the naked woman started talking to me.

Ok, you know what? I don’t care if prancing about bare-assed is completely acceptable in a locker room setting, it’s freaken weird when a naked stranger starts chatting you up. I mean, there I am wondering where to look. If I look away, will she think I’m offended by her cellulite? Will my averted eyes damage her self-esteem? So I try to be polite and make eye contact, but she’s moving around and then bends over and really, that I don’t need to see.

She continues chattering a mile a minute, blissfully unaware that I’m probably scarred for life, while I’m trying to act all natural like I’d totally join this woman’s nudist commune except I’m easily chilled or something. At this point I begin to consider the absurdity of it all. I don’t even know this woman’s name, yet I can tell you that she keeps things well-groomed and probably doesn’t color her hair unless she’s just covering grays.

This is typical? Really? Knowing the state of a stranger’s bikini line and possibly being able to identify her colon in a line up?

Typical? Perhaps. Awkward? Absolutely.

So, excuse me, naked woman at the gym? Call it one of my many neuroses, but while I’m glad you’re comfortable with your body, I’m not.

No offense.

On Being in Sorry Shape

If you’ve been a reader for any length of time, you may remember that exercise and I have never been on good terms. However, the recent addition of discounted gym memberships to our already huge list of kick-ass employee benefits has me ready to give physical fitness the chance it deserves.

I’d like to tell you that my change of heart is due to a personal breakthrough that involves me becoming uber health conscious or that I’ve vowed to treat my body like a temple. Not so. The impetus for this life revolution is simply that the weather just turned nice and there ain’t no way in hell I’d stroll a beach with this body. (That and my pants don’t fit quite as well as they used to.)

Sure, I’m all for being healthier and living longer and having more energy and sleeping better and all that jazz. But I’ll be honest. The promise of better circulation isn’t going to get my lazy ass to the gym. It will get me to eat right, sleep well, and take vitamins. Why? Those things are easy. Exercise is not.

Unfortunately, while looking good is the best motivator to get me to the gym, it’s probably the biggest deterrent keeping me from the gym as well. Cause let’s think about this. Who will be at the gym with me? All my coworkers. Good God! Do I really want the head of finance to see me getting my belly fat measured? Do I need my colleagues to know what I look like in yoga pants? Do I feel comfortable enough with my boss to risk him catching me exiting the pool?

Hell no.

I like my coworkers in a “I’m cool spending time together outside of the office” kind of way, but NOT in a “I’m down with you getting an eyeful of my cellulite” kind of way.

Now I need to get into shape just so I can start going to the gym!

Sometimes It Pays to Be Poor

I remember the days when I bought only whatever food was on special at the local supermarket, when I was barely able to make minimum payments on my credit cards, and when my “nice” clothes came from Target. It sucked living paycheck to paycheck. There’s no doubt about that. But there was one small (yet significant) benefit to being dirt poor . . .

I actually got a tax refund.

Nowadays I’m not poor, but I’m certainly not rich either. I foolishly assumed that my obvious not-wealthiness would translate into a decent tax refund this year. (This is where I’ll point out that accounting was never part of my school coursework.)

While I’m still at least a decimal place off from owning, say, a luxury car, I have managed to elevate my financial status into the “You’re getting hosed” tax bracket.

It would be one thing if I owed a little money. I’d be disappointed, but I’d get over it. I don’t owe a little money. I owe a LOT of money — something that would have been nice to know before putting a down payment on my new (used) car. So although I should be thrilled that I make twice the salary today than I did several years ago, in reality I spent my Sunday hollering about how I was being raped by the government.

The Captain informed me that the problem is that I don’t have enough deductions. I figure that means to prepare for next April I’d better start house-hunting since at this point my chance of popping out a kid by the end of the year is iffy.