Don’t define my feminism for me – I can do that myself

Let’s have a chat, shall we?

Yesterday, I made a post in a personal blog in which I asked readers to vote on what sort of dessert I should make for my boyfriend’s parents. I will be visiting them in Ireland this year when I go to visit him, and I was looking forward to making them something special and fun to take along as a gift. I already make bath products, but I thought that a dessert of some sort would be memorable as well. A while ago, I was legitimately worried that I would be unable to make a good impression, but this fear has since mostly dissipated to the normal pre-meeting jitters that anyone gets before meeting the mother and father of their significant other. Because of this, I made a joking reference to impressing them, as well as taking good-natured pot shots at myself and my family’s somewhat conservative views of how a “proper young lady” should act.

And somehow, this is an affront to feminism.

I’d like to state before I go on that I do not, have not, and most likely never will declare myself a feminist. This isn’t because I do not believe in the ideals of the movement or have a conservative view of a division between the roles of men and women. Far from it, in fact. To avoid going off on a long tangent, I will just tell you that I am quite liberal across the board, including women’s rights. However, like so many other good ideas and movements, feminism seems to be plagued by a social hierarchy that declares that you are not truly a feminist unless you…fill in the blank there yourself. It happens in many movements – environmentalism, religion, humanitarianism – but no matter where it happens, it’s tiresome. You aren’t a feminist unless you buck every social convention, no matter how harmless or even good it is. You aren’t a feminist unless you act in only your own interest, as anything else is bowing to the patriarchy. You aren’t a feminist if you perform traditionally feminine tasks for others, especially if that person is a man. Especially if you are involved with that man romantically.

The patriarchy declares that you are less of a woman if you don’t wear lipstick. The matriarchy declares that you are less of a woman if you do. And so it goes.

Please excuse me if I decide that I wish to bow out of the cycle and define for myself what I will and won’t consider personal liberation. I am old enough to make my own decisions on the matter, as well as whether or not I wish to disclose the reasoning behind those decisions. Making your own decisions based solely on your personal values, beliefs, and mores? That, to me, is feminism, just like the following points:

-Being a “good girl”
I often describe myself as being a “good girl” in a playful manner, but this is often misconstrued as an admission of cheerful subservience. Nothing could be further from the truth. I am not “good” to satisfy the demands of a patriarchal society – were that the case, I would most likely not be writing this blog. Society’s good girls, after all, do not complain.

No, no. By “good,” I mean decent. I mean following a code of social conduct that works for me, a code which includes respecting others and treating them as equals, regardless of their sex or gender. For me, part of this goodness is following positive, kind and affirming traditions, such as giving gifts to others should the need or desire arise. In this case, the tradition is giving a gift to the parents of my significant other. I see nothing wrong with this, for the act does not speak of deference or a need for approval, despite my jokingly referring to it as the “please like me” gift (a reference which, in light of the recent confusion, I will no longer make).  It is instead an acknowledgment of the special role that these people now play in my  life, as well as a way of thanking them for welcoming me into their lives. This is  especially important given the unusual circumstances under which I met their son, coupled  with the very real possibility that I will not be able to see them very often. The decision to give them a gift was made by me long before giving thought to any social niceties. I give gifts because I like to give them, because I respect the receiver, and to celebrate an occasion, even one as simple as our meeting. Showing respect and thanks to others? That, to me, is feminism.

-The destiny of being a family matriarch
Another thing I often joke about (but will no more) is my “destiny” of being the family matriarch. My mother’s side of the family is traditionally divided along the lines of male and female – a man’s work is done outside the home in the role of the provider, while the woman’s realm is the home, the children, and the tasks and involved therein. It is an arrangement that has softened through the years, though one that is not yet completely unchanged. (For example, my mother is supportive of my career, but also expects that I will eventually settle down to raise my children.) I am my grandmother’s eldest granddaughter and my mother’s only daughter – in other words, I will most likely be expected to carry on the traditions of a hundred mothers before me in this, my matriarchal mother’s side.

But that’s not to say I can’t change some things. That’s not to say that I can’t celebrate the good while quietly putting away the bad. That’s not to say that I can’t act as a role model for those who come after me – girls and boys – by showing them that one’s gender is not indicative of worth, ability or destiny. I look forward to this inheritance, as it will allow me to set forth a new, progressive precedent that I hope will have a positive influence on my descendants long after I’m gone. Changing a long-standing system for the better? That, to me, is feminism.

-Cooking, cleaning and caretaking
Ah, here is the sticking point that inspired me to write all of this in the first place. You see, I made mention of my lack of housecleaning skill and a hope that my culinary skills would off-set all of this. That was a bit of an exaggeration on my part – you see, while I am capable of keeping an area clean, I don’t particularly care for it, nor give myself undue worry if the area in question is not spotless all of the time. It’s a laid back attitude that used to concern the above-mentioned mother and grandmother, who follow an adage that states, “If you can’t keep a house, then you can’t keep a man.”

While my set of values disagrees sharply with that statement (if a man will only stick around because I keep his house tidy, then he won’t be the one walking out the door first), I do believe that a relationship is an equal partnership, and that I must be willing to do my fair share in both the domestic and professional spheres if I want to avoid conflicts that could tear that relationship apart. I expect nothing less in return – just as my boyfriend would not be pleased if I expected him to support me financially, I would not be pleased if he expected me to do all the household chores on my own. (For the record: I hold both full time and freelance positions as a professional writer, and he always insists on helping with chores, cooking and other household odd jobs.) It is this balance that I hope to demonstrate to his parents when I meet them, not so they know I’m a worthy match for their son, but to show them that I love and cherish him when we are together. Given that he will not only be leaving behind his family, but his entire country when the time comes (he’s in Ireland, I’m in the United States), I can only imagine that his welfare and happiness is a concern to them. Through a subtle display of show and tell, I want to assure them that he will be in good hands. Cherishing the love of your life and assuring his friends and relations that you see him as an equal and will honor and love him as much as they do? That, to me, is true love. And feminism.

I could go on, but I think I have made my point with these examples. Feminism, in my opinion, should not be about the limitations of any woman’s beliefs, desires or decisions, be they traditional or modern, concrete or abstract. Dictating what is or is not feminism kills the very spirit of the movement and its ideals – namely, that women can think for themselves, act for themselves, and do what they feel is right to be awake, alive, satisfied and happy. My feminism is not your feminism, just as yours is not anyone else’s. In the end, feminism is whatever you decide to make of it, with its only limits being those you impose upon yourself. And maybe you disagree with me. That’s alright.

Having your own beliefs on what it is to be a feminist?

That, to me, is feminism.

Ano sora ga takasugitakara

Back when everyone was listening to yo metal (late 1999 to about 2003), I was heavily into Japanese rock music, known to most American fans by its shorthand nickname, J-rock.

I was a pudgy, insecure girl from the suburbs with little metaphorical backbone whose main escape mechanism was losing herself in music. Some things have changed – lost some of the pudge and released my Inner Snark Bitch – but some haven’t. The near-constant stress of the past year and a half or so, coupled with my apparent inability to move my career forward, has given my self-esteem the pummeling necessary to drive me back to that place in my psyche where I’m unsure of just about everything, especially if I’m directly responsible for it.

In response to this emotional turmoil, I seem to be once again seeking out the music that comforted me in the past. Thankfully this is no bad thing, as it gives me the opportunity to tell you about one a rock star who is one of the three who have most profoundly affected me – and I’m pretty sure that many of you have never heard of him.

Hideto Matsumoto is better known as hide (pronounced “hee-day”). Born in Yokosuka, a seaside town that hosts an American naval base, he was already famous as a member of X Japan when he embarked on a solo career. I came to know him in this capacity first – I caught a five second clip of one of his videos during the 1998 MTV VMAs (it was up for an International Award) and spent the next several weeks plaguing every record store employee in the area about it. Naturally, none of them knew who the hell I was talking about, and I soon forgot about. Only I didn’t, or rather, I couldn’t. Even those five seconds had been enough to hook me – a testament to the power of a song that would become both comfort and anthem to me over time.

The song in question was “Pink Spider,” a piece whose cryptic lyrics and enigmatic imagery continues to entrance and haunt fans due in no small part to the tragedy of hide’s death on May 2, 1998. It’s easy to listen to the song and hear suicide note, but it’s just as easy to hear a joyous song about personal transformation. For me, the song has always been about the ultimate need to change or die. It’s a knife edge that I’ve danced along plenty of times, and finally finding a song that laid out those feelings for me was a relief. It still is.

The best way I’ve found to describe hide is by referencing my other two most favorite rock stars, John Lennon and David Bowie. The music and lyrics are hard-edged and more rock-based, like Lennon’s, and less inclined to the folk or ambient tinges that are the hallmark of many of Bowie’s tunes. At the same time, hide’s ever-changing style and flair for the dramatic is reminiscent of the Bowie asthetic of fusing music, fashion and stage presence into a parade of masks, or rather, personality facets. Just as we saw Bowie as Ziggy Stardust, Aladdin Sane, The Thin white Duke and finally just as himself, one can follow hide’s career and watch him change from metal guitar god to long-haired glam bohemian, and from there to spiky punk until finally arriving at himself – or at least the self he settled into prior to his untimely death. However, like both Lennon and Bowie, hide never lost himself through his transformations. Physically, he kept his penchant for eccentric outfits and his trademark pink hair. No matter how he looked, friends and family uniformly described him as funny, intelligent, cheerfully impulsive and endlessly kind. The only dark side they spoke of was his penchant for alcohol – he apparently made an angry or mean drunk – but even this was forgiven, as he would always call the next morning to apologize for his behavior, remembered or no. Sadly, it has been speculated that alcohol could have played a role in his passing.

Musically, hide was a force to be reckoned with. While most of his solo works tend to put his considerable guitar skills behind his singing and lyrics (a notable exception being “Genkai Haretsu,” one of the pieces that permits him a fairly long and active bridge solo), one only needs to look back to his work with X Japan to see that he could easily hold his own among Western musicians, if not surpass them. He also possessed a talent for juxtaposing melodies and lyrics, resulting in songs that could cheerfully tell of nearly overwhelming despair (“Hurry Go Round”), or express hope in hesitant, almost mournful tones (“Goodbye”). Something about this comforts me, disarms me and allows me to feel emotions I’d normally repress without being overwhelmed by them. A musician who can do that once is someone to be treasured. A musician who does so repeatedly while making it look effortless is someone to be celebrated.

The language barrier is always a sticking point when it comes to J-rock; while it doesn’t bother me, I know many people for whom it is an insurmountable annoyance. That’s why I was so pleased to find that someone on YouTube has taken to adding subtitles to many of hide’s videos. I’ve learned from experience that J-rock is an acquired taste for some Westerners, but these songs and videos are worth experiencing, even if you elect never to listen to hide or J-rock again. If nothing else, it will hopefully give you some insight as to why I hold the man in such high regard.

For a nice bio and overview of hide’s career, check out this Wikipedia article.

<b>Videos</b>

hide: Rocket Dive

hide: Junk Story (posthumous release)

hide: Goodbye

hide: Genkai Haretsu (a term hide coined meaning “limiting explosion”)

WARNING: The subject matter of the song and video is an abusive relationship; the video appears to depict date rape (no nudity). May be triggering, most likely NSFW.

hide: Hurry Go Round (posthumous release, no subtitles)

hide: Pink Spider (probably his signature song, winner of an MTV Best International Video award in 1998, “Japan Viewers Choice”)

WARNING: Due to female artistic nudity, this video may be NSFW

Just Like A Woman

Why doesn’t anyone talk about Boudica anymore? Or how about Theodora? Why is Cleopatra remembered as a seductress, and not as a multilingual diplomat and ruler of a major ancient civilization? Where are my Boudica dolls, my anticipated films about the lives of Theodora and Cleopatra? Will my future daughters know their names readily and seek to emulate their strength, dignity, intelligence, leadership and determination? What about their peers?

I worry for the latter. I know if I have daughters, I can at least try to teach them about the great women in history – the leaders, the fighters, the “uppity women,” as author Vicki Leon would call them. There have been many throughout history, far more than even she has been able to catalogue in her book series, and each woman serves as an example of true womanhood – the good and the bad. (Boudica, for example, avenged her flogging and her daughters’ rape at the hands of Roman occupiers by having her armies destroy Roman towns and kill any Roman who didn’t manage to escape.) I want to learn more about these women, and I want to pass that knowledge on. But what of other girls? What do they have?

Paris Hilton, it would seem. Paris Hilton, Anna Nicole Smith, Pamela Anderson, Britney Spears, and a seemingly never-ending list of wild women. But not wild in the sense of the women who blazed so many trails so long ago. Instead, they are wild in their conduct, their partying and promiscuity, their lack of self-respect and lack of respect for others. They’re everything I’d pray my daughters would never be, but we still give them room on the front page. Worse yet, few parents anymore bat an eye when their daughters set out to dress, talk and act like these less-than-stellar examples. Why?

People offer plenty of shallow excuses – standards have changed, it’s what’s “in” right now, girls will be ostracized if they don’t participate. But the most puzzling answer is that somehow, the behavior exhibited by the likes of Hilton and Spears is liberating and a form of feminism. Men, it is argued, can engage in this sort of behavior with no consequence or subsequent stigma, but women cannot. Is this not sexism? Why can’t women do the same things as men? The questions of double standards, societal expectations and the upbringing of our sons aside, this final excuse also begs a deeper and more serious question – why, after so many thousands of years, does our society still fear powerful women?

America seems to think of heiresses, models, actresses and singers as powerful, but are they really? We seem to like them best when they are partying, saying moronic things in interviews, being indecent in public. We like them when they’re hooked on their drugs of choice – and keep in mind that not all drugs are substances. Taken from this perspective, these women are not powerful at all – in fact, they’re rather harmless. They have no causes but themselves, and that keeps them powerless. What would happen, I wonder, if one of them got serious about something? What if they suddenly decided to study law, or undertook a lobbying campaign? Would they still be on the news? Would their cleaner, more respectable antics still pique interest? Or would we change the channel, click another link, or find another magazine, eager to put the thought of a powerful woman out of our mind and search for another harmless, mindless pin-up girl?

Which brings us back to Boudica, Theodora and Cleopatra. What would it take for society to remember, admire and honor them? How do we convince our media that we want to hear their stories, as well as the stories of the thousands or even millions of women who are fighting to leave this world better than they found it? You could argue that it would take a miracle or a complete change in cultural norms. You could even say that it would be impossible, that we’re too far gone to change.

Or you could pick up a book, watch a documentary and learn. Think. Perhaps change your perspective. And if you have children, teach them well.

A few announcements

First, I’d just like to let everyone know that I’ll be back to blogging this weekend. Thank you for your patience – as I said, I had some freelance work come up, and that obviously takes precedence over my work here.

Second, I’m very excited to announce that “The Secret To Being A Dupe,” one of the columns originally published on this blog, is currently being featured on The Footnote! You can click this link to see it there. I may be submitting more columns there as my schedule permits, so watch this space for more news on that front.

Finally, I would like to let everyone know that I have signed up for LinkedIn in hopes that I may make some connections. If you would like to see my personal LinkedIn page, please click here. I’ll also be adding the link to my sidebar. Cheers!

Postponed column

While I normally try to get one column written every weekend, I’m currently working on a story for Scene’s annual Summer Guide, and that obviously takes precedence. I hope to be back next week, as I’ll hopefully have a majority of the work done by then.

In the meantime, I wanted to alert you to a link that I’m putting on the sidebar – my Scene article archive. It doesn’t list every piece I’ve written (most of the Night and Day stories I’ve written aren’t archived), but it does highlight some of the pieces I’ve written for the Music section and so on. I hope to boost those numbers soon, so be sure to check back and stay tuned.

The Secret To Being A Dupe

I like to think that I’m a rational individual. I have a healthy dose of skepticism – some would call it cynicism – that comes into play for any number of supposed man-made miracles. I don’t put any stock in those get rich quick infomercials, nor the ones that tell you how you can get in shape by standing in place for seven minutes a day. I’ve never tried a diet pill, never thought that a five minute phone call could change my life, and am slowly putting to rest my belief in fortune telling. But I’m really, really pissed off about something. You see, like so many other people over the past year, I got sucked into the most cunning, successful and utterly disappointing pile of crap masquerading as a miracle that I’ve seen in my 25 years.

Yes my children, it’s true. I bought into The Secret.

For those who have been fortunate enough to escape its siren song, I’ll sum up the basic premise for you – find Something you want. Focus all your positive thoughts and energies on the Something. Keep doing this and the Something will come to you, lowered out of the sky like a divine blessing, most likely accompanied by its own angelic song and dance troupe. You, of course, leap in the air and flail like a crazy thing, because it works! You can have whatever you want, whenever you want! You can fly to Fiji, own a fleet of Bentleys, rule the most powerful nation on the planet! It doesn’t matter if you get panic attacks on airplanes, can barely pay off your ancient Nova, or have the intelligence of a drunken frat boy and the emotional volatility of a toddler! You can have whatever you want! Just ask the president!

Of course, the premise is ludicrous. If it worked, we’d all have had ponies or giant, world-destroying robots when we were children. We all would have been popular and well-liked as teens, with our pick of prom dates. And as adults, we’d all be living the dream. After all, why be an accountant when you can be some billionaire sipping margaritas in Cozumel? And yet, it sucks you in. It sucks lots of people in. It sucked me in. Why? The answer is plain and simple – desperation.

Some background – I’ve been looking for a new job for the better part of two years, sending resumes across the country to any job that seems to hold even the faintest interest for me. Working a stressful, underpaying job in the meantime wasn’t helping my state of mind. But when I picked up the book and flipped through it, I was hooked. Rhonda Byrne’s tone pulled me in, lulled me into a sense of security. Of course I wasn’t succeeding – I wasn’t being positive enough. All I had to do was think positive! Imagine that perfect job! Visualize it every day! Believe deeply enough and it would be mine! And of course, all I needed to do was plop down my $19.99 and she’d teach me how.

I read the book, and for a feel good, warm and fuzzy read, it’s excellent. Byrne’s tone is soft and encouraging, gently prodding you with its, “Yes, you can do it!” rhetoric. Somehow, she taps into whatever soft core you have and manipulates it masterfully. You finish the read with the feeling that you really are capable of anything if you believe hard enough. You’re tempted to start manifesting all sorts of things. You half expect to wake up with a Dodge Viper in your driveway or Jann Wenner on your phone. And so you go out, full of the Bright Shiny Happies, wishing and hoping and believing and knowing that it’s coming. It’s just around the corner, and it’s coming for you. Whatever beautiful dream you’ve been holding onto, it’s here and more wonderful than even you thought it would be.

It all works really well until reality sets in. Events become little hints and teasers – hey, So-And-So Company wrote back to me! – and it fuels the fire of belief. Surely, this is it! After all, it’s too perfect not to be. It’s a job you want, one you know you could do. You know you’ve made a good impression, and now it’s going to happen. And when it doesn’t, what happens then? Adherents to The Secret would say that it was something you did, or didn’t do. Perhaps you didn’t believe hard enough. You put too much effort into it yourself, when you should have let your cosmic benefactors handle it for you. After all, The Secret never fails. The Secret is always right. The Secret never lies, and it will always take care of you. It’s all you need.

Funny. Isn’t that what people say when they want you to drink the purple Kool Aid?

My adventure with and belief in The Secret died the same day my latest job prospect did. I got as far as an interview (which I nailed) and waited patiently for a follow-up. And waited. And waited. I called back, received a response, and sent in what they told me to. The next day, I got a short e-mail. “Thank you for your interest. We’ve decided not to go forward at this time.”

Neither have I. Not with The Secret, anyway.

In an attempt to explain my newfound un-faith to my boyfriend, I showed him the lyrics to the John Lennon classic “God”. He countered with the refrain from “Revelate,” by one of our favorite bands, The Frames. As I was commenting on my fruitless attempts to wrest a revelation from any higher source, he interrupted.

“That’s not the part I wanted to you read,” he said. Instead, he highlighted the refrain’s last line. “This time I’m making my own now.”

Faith is fine. But in the end, the only thing you should believe in is yourself.

A monument stronger than stone

What can I say about Virginia Tech that hasn’t already been said? The media has been awash in the traditional video, words, and people – fleeing students, the sound of gunfire, mourners, quotes, sound bites, pundits. There was consolation, speculation, accusation, pontification. We saw rage, bravery, anguish and strength. But as a nation, we saw very little hope.

That’s understandable. It’s hard to have hope in the wake of disasters – and make no mistake, that’s exactly what the Virginia Tech shootings were. It was not an unpreventable disaster, but like a hurricane or a tsunami, it caught us off guard and forced us to face the senseless death of innocents. It’s jarring for us, as all young deaths are, and it rips apart the carefully insulated bubble in which many of us live. People die in any number of places, for any number of reasons. But until now, we did not equate college with horror and madness. Now many of us will add this to a never-ending list of fears that revolve ceaselessly in their minds. Others will feel great compassion and send money to the memorial fund, but will still feel hollow. People will ask themselves if they’ve done enough, and even if they find themselves lacking, they still won’t know what they could have done.

But as in all disasters, what is needed now is not talk and despair, but hope and action. There was a common thread that wove all of the victims together, even as it seems that they had nothing in common. All of them, professors and students alike, were described by those who knew them as passionate. They loved life, but more than that, they sought to make it better. Many were studying with the goal of someday changing the world for the better. While we are right to mourn the fact that they will never have the chance, we should not despair without action. Instead, we should do each of these victims the greatest honor we can and work on in their stead.

It does not have to be deeds in their name. There is no need to choose, for they were all precious. Instead, take each day as a gift and bestow a gift to another. Plant a tree, write a letter, donate time, or whatever you fancy. There is no right action, and the only wrong one is to take no action at all. Memorials in stone soon lose their meaning, but deeds can last for all time.

Nothing can bring back the victims of Virginia Tech, and we will all need time to mourn their passing. But we can make sure it is time well spent.

Fat? It’s all in the mind. Maybe.

Yesterday, I was a size 12 for the first time since high school.

Disclosing this information to someone usually causes the same, predicatble reaction. There are congratulations, requests for the diet plan I used (answer: I didn’t), and probably the strangest, if most well meaning, comment. “So, how does it feel to go down a size?”

The only answer I can give is that it felt like any other day. I woke up, showered, ran some errands, did some shopping. No one stopped me in the street or held a parade in my honor. The parents were happy for me, but they wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t told them. The jeans I wore felt different than the ones I normally wear, a little tighter than the other ones a size up, but not to the point of being uncomfortable. I have lots of clothes that has been hanging loose and baggy for a while, and I know that at some point, I’m going to have to go out and buy new ones. There’s only one problem.

I’m still fat.

Some people would readily agree with this statement. Some would vehemently disagree. Some would worry that I suffer from poor body image, body dysmorphia, or anorexia. And there are some people who know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s the last group who would best understand what I’m currently going through. I don’t know if the last group has a formal name, but at the risk of sounding insensitive, I’ll just call them the Formerly Fat.

That’s not a judgment call. That isn’t to say that the currently fat are bad or less, or that thin people are good or more valued. Weight doesn’t speak for character, though our society likes to think it does. Nor does it say that one group is happier than the other. Being satisfied with your body is good, no matter how that body looks to the rest of us. But for those of us who have struggled with their weight (losing it, in particular), the success of seeing scale or pant sizes go down is haunted by the fear that we’ll see those numbers go up again. And again. And again.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be truly thin, but I have been fat. I’ve been chubby for as long as I can remember, from elementary school through junior high and on into high school. It was college that did the most damage. Embarrassing as it is to admit, there’s no way around it – I was a tight size 16 at one point, and extremely embarrassed about it. It wasn’t just mental and emotional suffering, either. While my body isn’t made to grace the covers of fashion magazines, it also isn’t designed to carry that much weight on its frame. I was masterful at denial at the time, but as I look back, I know that I was not healthy, that physical activity was more difficult, and that my diet was crap.

I think it was the graduation pictures that did it. I saw them after the ceremony and immediately decided that no one would ever see them again. And that it was high time I did something about my sad and sorry state. I started with exercise, since the denial of diets sets me up for automatic failure. Healthier food choices came next – be it either psychosomatic or a true physical change, heavy, salty or sugary foods no longer appealed to me. Rather, they were sickening, sometimes literally. I didn’t have a set goal in mind – no magic scale numbers or dress sizes. I just did what felt good, including occasional indulgences like a burger and a cherry Coke. I noticed changes in how I felt and how clothes fit, eventually dropping a size. Friends noticed differences and remarked on them. I’d thank them for what they said, but I wasn’t sure if I was right in doing so. Because I was still fat.

I know now that I was (and still am) “suffering” from D.J. Kirkbridge calls, “Fat Boy Syndrome”. (Is there a female equivalent, D.J.?) With the exception of timelines and methods, his story sounds similar to mine: heavy as a child, heavier as a teen, and finally, a “release” from fatdom, at least physically. Though we’re both no longer dealing with the physical, mental and emotional repercussions of being heavy, it’s our pasts that have shaped our present self-perceptions. And in our minds, in the present, we’re still fat. Maybe we always will be.

One one hand, it’s beneficial. A large part of why my past efforts to lose weight failed was the mindset that diet and exercise were just temporary. Once I’d dropped some pounds, I could go back to eating whatever I wanted and spending long hours of doing nothing, just as my thin friends could if they wanted to. I know now that my body doesn’t work that way; my weight issues may not always be a struggle, but they will always have to be managed. I have no problem with this now. I’ve grown up and learned a lot about responsibility, especially when it comes to my own affairs. Ultimately, I am responsible for my health. I like the way I feel now, I like wearing clothes that are designed to enhance rather than conceal, and I like the whole, unprocessed foods that have become a much larger part of my daily food intake. I want to keep it that way, and the knowledge that I could start seeing numbers creep up again is great incentive for those days or weeks or even months where nothing seems to go right, and all you want is cheese or ice cream or fish and chips.

But on the other hand, there’s the worry and the fear. My past experience has always seen at triumph such as this turn into a failure as I lapse back into old habits. I’m pretty certain that it won’t happen this time, as I’ve worked hard to make these lifestyle changes permanent, rather than a temporary fix. I’ve cut portions, learned to eat slowly, learned to eat when I’m hungry without feeling guilty, and not to eat for reasons like boredom or emotional distress. It isn’t always easy, but it’s becoming more routine and habitual. But I still have to fight the nagging insecurities, the little voice in my head that says, “This won’t last. It never has. It’ll be over in a few months, you just watch. And don’t get too excited. After all, you’re still fat.”

It’s the last sentence that’s hardest to extinguish, despite evidence to the contrary. My size 14 pants are too loose. Co-workers tell me I look thinner. Friends tell me I’m not fat. My boyfriend tells me that as well. In fact, while he is supportive of my efforts and has cheered me on about my latest accomplishment, he’s also requested that I, “don’t get too skinny, ok?” It’s all overwhelming evidence that while plenty of fashion designers may beg to differ, to the people that matter most, I am not fat.

But I am.

I don’t really know how to silence that reasoning, or if I really want to. It keeps me in check and helps me avoid excuses. (“Eh, I can have one more. I’ve lost weight, it’s cool.”) It’s not altogether bad. But then, it also makes me a little paranoid about backsliding. Even today’s breakfast (one egg, scrambled, no butter; one small piece of ham, cut up and tossed in with eggs for flavor; one piece of toast, touch of butter, strawberry jam; coffee with skim milk and one packet of Sweet n’ Low) came under my mental scrutiny. Was it too much? Should I have left that butter off the bread? What about the ham? Would this wreck all my hard work? Should I just have had some fruit instead? It’s no different than any of the other Sunday breakfasts I’ve had since my health and weight loss quest began, but since yesterday I’ve been a changed woman. On the outside, anyway. Whether I’ll ever change within remains to be seen.

Today’s Tune: The Smiths – What Difference Does It Make

Slumming It

Ah, the joys of managerial impunity.

It must be nice to make money by screwing people over, unencumbered by morals and empathy. It’s a proud tradition after all, carried on by the overlords of tenements and sweatshops right up to the present day. Of course, back then conditions were unbearable and inhumane. Why, it got so bad that the government eventually intervened. It’s all so very quaint.

Today, of course, landlords know better. Money is the name of the game these days (kind of like in the 1920s – odd, that), so even a hint that there’s a mint to be made is enough to shut up the politicians and bureaucrats. Makes you wonder if that’s what’s going on over in Studio City, California, where one blogger is chronicling the conversion of her apartment complex into condominiums. You know, while tenants are still inside.

You read that right.

In a display of jaw-dropping arrogance and idiocy that must be seen to be believed, the owner of an apartment complex in aforementioned Studio City has decided that waiting for tenants to vacate the premises is too large an obstacle for his grandiose plans. Instead, he decided to issue notices in late December of 2006 giving tenants 180 days to relocate, then changed his mind and sent in the construction crews in February. Residents have had the adventure of living in a full-on construction site, complete with missing railings, shattered patio windows, dangerous scattered debris, missing walls (oh yes!) and toxic chemicals that are sickening both human and animal inhabitants. But that’s only half the fun.

You see, while workers have been busy threatening the health and safety of hapless residents, they’ve also been systematically denying them basic services. Maybe the owner of the place just wants to make sure they really appreciate the little things, like hot water, gas for cooking and privacy. After all, you don’t miss things until they’re gone.

So far, Rental Refugees has attracted a slight online following, but minimal interest from lawyers or media outlets. It’s quite a pity – why pass up a chance to expose corruption and exploitation of the middle class?

Maybe they’re all looking for some cheap condos of questionable integrity.

Today’s Tune: The Pogues – Boys From The County Hell

Why Bother?

A few months ago, I would have called what I’m about to do a useless gesture.

I’ve been applying for jobs for several months without success, and it was beginning to grate on me. While I have comparatively little experience as a writer time-wise, it’s obvious to those who know me that I have plenty of experience when it comes to volume. It’s not at all rare for me to write two or three feature length stories a month for my day job at a trade magazine company. These pieces range from anywhere between 1,000 and 3,000 words, depending on the publication, subject, and so on. Couple this with my freelance work – small articles (300 words on average) that still have to convey a lot of information – and I’ve done quite a bit. Or at least I like to think so.

However, this doesn’t seem to be the assessment of any prospective employers. I’m still not quite sure what they’re looking for, but lots of articles alone evidently isn’t it. I’d been obsessing about all of this for a while, getting disheartened, and generally just being a real pain to deal with. I live in a deadline-oriented world, and I set timetables for success. When things don’t come to fruition right away, it makes me wonder what I did to fall short. The self-doubt eats at you after a while, which no doubt affects your job performance and application processes. It’s a cycle that’s taken longer than it should have to break.

Fortunately, I feel that I’m finally starting to get back on track. I’ve been branching out, applying for jobs that are a little different and outside my normal scope. Marketing, advertising, PR, television…all of them have piqued my interest. I’m not limiting myself anymore, which has, in turn, has helped me sell myself better in both my resume and my cover letters. “Duties” on the resume became “Accomplishments,” and cover letters that once detailed strictly my tasks as a writer have been replaced with cover letters highlighting my dedication, desire to learn and my philosophy about what journalism should – and could – be. I don’t know if it will work any better in my favor, but for now I don’t want to worry about it. For the first time in a long time, I’m enjoying the job application process, and I want to keep it that way.

In that same vein, I’ve decided that in addition to applying for job postings, I’ll also be sending out resumes, cover letters and writing samples to a number of “dream jobs.” Many of these companies may not be hiring, but right now, that’s not the point. Rather, the point is to get my name out there and let them know where they can find me. The wider the net, the bigger the potential catch. It certainly can’t hurt.

It’s something I never would have considered before. I’ve had it drilled into my head that employers look for experience before looking for initiative, drive, creativity, or other positive traits. Perhaps that was true in the past, but I have a hunch that the times are a’changing. Perhaps what would have been laughable even 10 years ago will be seen as a desirable asset today. It’s what I’m banking on.

The New York Times Editorial Board can expect my portfolio in the next couple of weeks.