The sexy

I meant to write this blog post something like a month ago, I forgot about it, but was having a conversation tonight that reminded me of it. What triggered this was a Facebook status update about looking sexy or something. I correlated it to looking good, and someone I respect, love and admire said that sexiness is about attitude. I definitely agree with the sentiment, but I don't know if I agree that that is exclusive to what sexiness is, at least for me.

I don't consider myself as some epic sexy icon, in fact for the longest time, I didn't feel attractive at all. Before that, I KNEW that I had it going on. I was a size 12, young, full of piss and vinegar and rocking the hourglass figure, mind you, my hair wasn't nearly as fabulous! As time went on, I gained weight, got up to a 22 at my highest, but maintained a regular 18. Logically I knew I wasn't ugly, but I didn't feel it. Needless to say my self esteem in that regard dropped to an all time low at the time of my separation. It was at that point I made a decision that no matter how shitty I felt, I was going to look well put together. Fake it until I make it, that was my idea. In a completely unrelated move to my looks, but affected it wildly, I pretty much stopped eating well. That was pure stress, but needless to say, it took me down from a size 20, to a 14, which is pretty much ideal on my body, or at least my ideal.

Anyhow, every once in a while, someone would comment that despite how awful my circumstances were, I looked fabulous and that gave me a little boost. Now while I shouldn't tie my happiness to how others view how awesome I look, I needed that superficial bump. Slowly, as time went on and I continued to fake it until I make it, I noticed here and there that I was being noticed. Again, superficial, but much needed at the time. What slowly started to happen though, was that every now and again, I'd catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and be taken away by that pretty person looking back. It was a split second before the Critical Joy jumped up from her coffee break to take that moment away, but it was something I hadn't experienced in the past several years.

My therapist mentioned that it was important as a sexual being to have your loving partner desire you, not that I had a partner, but I think to a degree, knowing that I could turn a head now and then, it somewhat woke up that Joy who remembered that I was sexual and desirable, at least to a few people. However I realized that I was still tying my confidence to how others see me. It would give me a boost, but it was short lived and very surface like. When I noticed that a certain fella was making eyes at me, then something really jumped, because here was someone that I was interested in, who I could see found me easy on the eye. Some months later, the affection is based on so much more than my looks, but it's once again nice to feel desired when I use my eyes or smile to evoke that reaction. That said, more and more, those split second glimpses in the mirror started to grow longer and Critical Joy started to shut her yap. Confident Joy was clearly sitting on her giving her noogies because I started saying "not too shabby girl" to myself.

Then I went and did something radical, I had a tummy tuck. Really, probably the antithesis of sexy truly coming from within, but strangely enough, now I feel it. My body is far from the Hollywood ideal. I'm not 90lbs soaking wet with insanely huge tits. I have fat, cellulite, wrinkles, greys, my arms flap, I'm a solid size 14 and without more surgery, or serious boob deflation, I don't see that changing anytime soon and I spend enough time tweezing that if I ever were granted three wishes for myself, one of them would be to have every stray hair removed forever without any pain, just so I can be fucking done with it already! However, I feel good about myself. Well sometimes, it's hard for me to get rid of that old critic that reminds me of the time where I didn't feel so good about myself, but I feel like I can hold my own. Interestingly, my plastic surgeon told me that I was the ideal candidate because I didn't want an unrealistic image, I just wanted get rid of a part of my body that had been warped due to pregnancy. I guess if I were truly "I am woman, hear me roar", I would have worn that battled and bruised part of my body with pride, but I guess I need to not feel so at odds with something so changed in order to feel a bit more normal about myself.

So obviously my sexiness is very much tied to my appearance, which I wonder how healthy that can be. I mean, I know I can flirt up a good storm, I'm funny and playful. I'm pretty smart and what I'm most proud of, is that I'm a survivor of shitty situations in life and that has given me a confidence and swagger. That helps to give me self worth, but it doesn't really make me feel sexy, unless that self worth is what is to be considered sexy, which I guess in the end, can count for a whole lot of it. I think also, sexiness tied to appearance isn't necessarily awful. I mean, it's a pretty demanding thing if your ideal of sexy is unrealistic, like what Hollywood projects, but if you're a size 14, 16, 18 and you are rocking it, maybe that is a good thing because you're brave and open enough to see your beauty outside of the norm.

So I dunno, sexiness is attitude deep inside and not tied to how you look, or its something based on how you look and your desirability, or it's a little bit of both. Like just about everything in life, it's probably sitting somewhere close to the middle. I do believe that confidence is your sexiest asset, I'm just not sure where or what that confidence is based on is appropriate. I guess one of life's riddles for me, obviously enough to keep me blogging at 12:30 at night, but enough said on the topic, now it's time for me to get my beauty rest. ;)

Aging Gracefully...or not!

Okay, for all the ranting and raving I do on having a positive self image around one's body, I do not have one. Do many women? It's ridiculous when you think of it really, that so many of us do not see the good qualities about ourselves, and I am the Queen of the Ridiculous, except where it concerns my hair, my hair is amazing.

My body on the other hand, well me and my body have had issues since the arrival of first child. Mainly, that post pregnancy pouch that so many of us get after our offspring has twisted and warped our abdomens into something NONE of the pregnancy books warn you about. Now since last year, I've been working hard on taking better care of myself, I lost close to 70 pounds, began drinking more water, eating my vitamins, saying my prayers (sorry, stupid pop culture reference, I'm curious to see who gets it) but all in all, it's been a work in progress.All except that damn pouch. After doing 50 sit ups a day for close to 6 months and not a sign of any change, I started thinking of that option the crazy raging "I am woman, hear me roar" Joy is not supposed to ever consider.

In November, I made an appointment to see a plastic surgeon.

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself lying on a surgery table, my arms spread out like Christ (not very comforting) terrified, but also wildly excited. I also had the rude awakening that my surgeon was my age. See, I've lived in this fantasy world, where surgeons are all people older than me because it take so much time to get that level of expertise...that world was shattered about 3 minutes before the anesthetic kicked in. When I first woke up, I was thrilled that I was alive, then I was thrilled that I had gone through with it. Then I begged for some more morphine and a drink of water. Morphine came, water did not, they were afraid of me throwing up, and despite my assurances that anesthetic does not have that affect on me, they erred on the side of being diligent, but shutting me up and gave me some ice chips.

Somehow I managed to get dressed with the help of my mom and got home, thankfully the hospital is less than 5 minutes away. I lay in bed for a few days, being well taken care of by my loved ones. It was an effort to get to the washroom, which is an ensuite, but by Sunday, I was feeling pretty freaking good. By Monday, I had taken myself off the really heavy painkillers and by Wednesday I was down to a couple of Advil as needed. So, by this I conclude I have mutant healing powers. Anyhow, I'm back up and running largely. I'm not allowed to lift heavy objects, have a bath or have sex, so I've been taking cold showers and eating copious amounts of chocolate.

So why? That's the million dollar question. Because I hated my body. I didn't hate the curves, I didn't hate the stretch marks or the flappy arms or even the two new lines in my forehead (though I'm not overly fond of them either). I hated that damn pouch. It felt like it wasn't a part of me. When I went into the plastic surgeon, I told her that the goal wasn't to lose weight, I was fine with the 186lbs of Joy that I was, I just needed to stop looking like a kangaroo. It's a drastic measure and for someone who is always railing about how the media pushes forward an unrealistic image of women, I sure drank the Kool Aid. That said, I've so far lost a grand total of 3lbs. I took a look at myself in pants today, which has been the first time I've been able to wear anything other than oversized PJs or stretchy tights and I smiled, I was thrilled. I fit an image that I wanted, which I have to say is still far off from that size 2, perky tits and perfect ass. I still sag, I still flap, I still have my lines and greys, but all those signs of aging I can live with, I accept them. The one part of my body that felt insanely out of place was gone and I had (as a friend who is handling far more significant body issues like a woman with ovaries of steel, once told me) "my body on my terms". So while I did fall into that trap, I like to keep a shred of "I am woman hear me roar Joy" in thinking that I did it to become a 180lb woman who is still fat, but pouchless, and I'm completely fine with that.

Contradictions

So while I'm a big proponent on women staying with their own natural beauty and not letting the media get to them about why they have to be a size 2, or blond or white, I'm pretty poor at practicing what I preach.

I've been trying like Hell to lose weight. I have been taming my curls with a hot iron into a straight and smooth style. I dye my hair instead of letting my natural colour, complete with greys show, I feel prettier when I wear contacts and makeup and I'm pretty sure I've decided I want plastic surgery. So obviously I'm doing a piss poor job at absorbing my own message. But isn't that always the way? We tell our friends that they are beautiful, they're wonderful and need no enhancement, maybe because we can see what is inside them and we hate the thought of them going through the same type of emotional turmoil we are going through when it comes to our bodies and self image.

I've lost 7lbs since mid December. I just got a pair of pants back from the tailors being altered for length (apparently, all plus sized women are 5'10 or something!) I put them on, the length is perfect, but they're drooping. I'm thrilled, happy that I've just recently purchased a bunch of pants I'll no longer need in a month or so. Either that or go back to the tailor to have them taken in, that should be the more economical of the two right? My tops are huge! I bought some dresses that were a 1x, and they look like sacks on me. Again I'm thrilled, but so much for my message of body acceptance. I'm not happy with my body and I'm not sure whether it comes from deep programming that fat is bad and only thin is beautiful, or is it a genuine feeling. I know I genuinely hate my arms, every picture I see of them I cringe. I don't hate my legs, my breasts or behind, but wouldn't mind them trimmer. Is that me or the Kool-Aid?

I'm at the point where I want plastic surgery. I need a breast reduction, I plan on losing more weight for that, but they're huge, heavy and will look really out of place if I drop another 20lbs, let alone the 40 I'm aiming for. I'm looking forward to relief on my back, shoulders and the ability to buy a bra that doesn't cost $90.00 minimum! So that I can justify as partially life changing in terms of my health and well being. Having them lifted, well that's purely cosmetic. And the truly optional part I'm looking at is a tummy tuck. I was fine with my tummy, excess weight and all before having kids. It was pudgy, but it was attached to me. Since having kids, it's become a pouch...seriously! I look like a freaking kangaroo! So it has to go, and I'm pretty sure no amount of diet and exercise will get rid of it in its entirety.

My hair...well nothing about my hair is real. My colour, the style, the fact that it's straight. But I loooove it like this. It's so much easier to take care of and it makes me feel good and powerful and sexy. I was whip my hair back and forth...okay bad way to put it, but I don't have to worry about whether it's grown a mind of it's own and started snatching squirrels off trees.

So where does this leave me, again, a whole lotta talk and no action. I admit it, I'm part of the Matrix! However what I do have going for me is, my weight. I'm not trying to get down to a size 2. A size 12 would be ideal because I need curves, I love curves and I do not want to see any of my bones jutting out. However a size 14 would be fine, although in that weird zone of nothing truly fits well. I'm in this mode where I have an ideal image of my body, I'm not there yet, but it's not really anywhere near the ideal image of what constitutes beautiful nowadays. I think of all my actions, I'm having difficulty coming to terms with a tummy tuck since that is so out of place for me, but it's a part of my body that has changed and not for the better, so it's something I want to reclaim.

Anyhow, despite all this, I want people to listen to me when I'm saying don't drink the Kool Aid!!! At least not all of it. We all have our perception of beauty and I'm sure some of it was moulded by the media, our peers, our parents, our SOs. I guess we just have to make sure it is our voice that is the loudest and determine if we are committed to changing our bodies for ourselves or someone else.