It's about the Clothes, Not the Pose...

Ever thought modeling and posing was better left to the lollipop-princesses who could cut a can open with their clavicles? Think again.

I believe we should never take life (or ourselves) too seriously. We should enjoy our time on this planet and not be afraid to have fun with new and trivial things. This is how I became addicted to a guilty new hobby, LOOKBOOK.

In an age of selfies, instagram filters and flocks of It Girls parading their top purchases on our social news feeds, I realize that I am still in love with the world of beauty. I say ‘still’ because I have been undergoing a transformation over the past few years where I have often times blamed (or at least highlighted) the problems caused for women, myself included, by the standards of beauty the media constantly shoves down our throats. But swallowing skinny-isms rather than real food is not what I want to talk about today.

Today I want to celebrate my newest hobby. I may not be the Editor-in-chief of Vogue or even a lowly, though somewhat knowledgeable, fashion blogger, but I have decided that if I like the way someone looks, then I like it – no matter what the trending body-shape tells me. If I think a crop top looks cute on a girl who is closer to a size 14 than an 8, then I think it looks cute on her. And that’s ok. In fact, there should be a lot more of that in this world. Our natural God-given diameter shouldn’t dictate how we dress.

 As an ex model who gained a few dress sizes over the years, I have often times struggled with my new body. I wasted so much time hating the way I looked as I filled out, rather than accepting and enjoying the newer, stronger, more energy-filled body I was in. The irony is that I hated the way I looked back when I was super skinny too. It took some time, but I no longer look in the mirror and tell myself I am ugly because of a few lumps and dimples. I now look and go ‘Oh well’, and get on with things.

But it’s not good enough to simply accept. We should love our bodies, celebrate them, and I believe that I should enjoy mine as much as I can while in it on this earth. Why have a Porsche in the garage if you are never going to drive it? (albeit a Porsche Cayenne, the 4x4 version, in my case) I have a wardrobe of gorgeous clothes, carefully browsed, picked and purchased over the years, (and the shoes - Oh the SHOES!) and I love to dress up. So why let that all go to waste over a few centimeters?

I am an awkward size. At 6ft tall, I start out as an almost 14 in my Nordic shoulders, slim to a 10 in other areas, and elongate to a size ‘not-yet-catered-to’ all in one troublesome package. Therefore dressing this package over the years has become something of an art.

But not without its artistic temperament. I’ll look at pictures of models dressed in an outfit and love how they look, but the second I try the same thing on, it looks all wrong. I tell myself that cinched waists obviously just don’t work on my body, or if I could just lose some weight…and give up. Yet, I still love the clothes.

But what if I got it all wrong? What if cinched waists looks just as good on my body, only in a different way, but I’ve been blinded to the fact by comparing myself to a tween in a sexed-up ad campaign? Like comparing apples and cats…How silly!

I decided to stop filling my life with so many outward images, inward judgements, and start enjoying the way I dress. To have fun dressing the way I want, when I want, no matter the circumference of my waistline, is a much better use of my time than waiting and hoping to drop a few pounds before I try on a pair of high-waisted booty-shorts.

Enter LOOKBOOK. It’s like FaceBook, only all about daily outfits. Posing replaces posting, and capturing a perfect outfit for a perfect situation (or just because you love it) is what is celebrated. Sure there is still a strong lean towards the skinny-white-girl, but if you look hard enough you can find normal people, men and woman, all shapes and colours, wearing fabulous things that would brighten any fashionistas day. Look a bit harder and you discover pure gems of delight in the greater blog-verse! Like the poetess who calls her blog ‘I dream of bunnies’, posting her looks with links to elegant prose.

This isn’t a high-school sivvies day, friends. From London to Brazil, Canada to little ol’ me in Cape Town, people are dressing in the things they love and showcasing it to the world. Your number of ‘hypes’ tells you how much others appreciate your garb, but at the end of the day, I only care about feeling good in what I choose to wear, while getting some awesome inspiration from others and seeing what is trending. (A Kimono paired with ripped jean shorts and cowboy boots? That might just have to be my next get-up!)

If you don't mind the American Apparel ads that assault you visually at every other moment, it’s a great place to have some fun in a body-positive, friendly way. No negative comments are allowed and the more you love on someone else’s ‘look’ the better your karma points - not that I know what karma points are for ;) Being an amateur fashion-hobbyist has never been so much fun.

While not every day is an occasion to wear a ball-gown, there are thousands of beautiful (and entertaining) ensembles I would love to try out, bundle on, and swish around in in my world.

I decided to become my own model and pose for the camera once again – only this time - as a full (improved) version of my former self. Why don’t you join me and create your own LOOKBOOK account? Be sure to send me a note if you do so I can follow you – or find me here directly. Good luck and happy dressing!

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust,

Cherry Blossom

3 Surprising Life Lessons CrossFit taught me - and why YOU should give it a try!

I have been CrossFitting for over a year now. Life in the ‘box’ has been wonderful to say the least, but the benefits that have surprised me the most have not necessarily been strength, fitness or even endorphin-rush related. Even though all those things have been a huge hunk of the awesomeness, (including making some great friends along the way, feeling a part of a group of people who are all about support, positivity and leading a healthy balanced lifestyle), these are not the things that have blown me away the most or what will keep me going back.

I have learned life skills that would otherwise seemingly have no correlation to the lifting of olympic weights above my head.

THE MEANING OF YET

The first thing, and probably most important thing, is that I learned the greater meaning of the word ‘yet’.

One of the first coaches I began training with made it very clear that in her class we were not allowed to say the word ‘can’t’ without following it up with a resounding ‘yet’.

For example, ‘I can’t do a push-up’ – or even ‘I can’t do a hand-stand push up!’ (I mean, who can?!?)(…er…besides all those who can, obviously…)(This is CrossFit after all, not a light walk in the park!) was not allowed to be uttered by an upside down huffing me. I had to say ‘I can’t do a push-up - YET’, or ‘I can’t do a hand-stand push up – YET’ and then she would be happy. Even though I still can’t do hand-stand push ups – yet - I learnt that that little word ‘yet’ makes all the difference.

Yet encompasses a vast gulf, the gap between not being able to do it and being able to do it, prop-vol of the unknown and triumph. Thanx to the scaling CrossFit is famous for (there is always a way to scale a workout down to something you are able to do no matter your fitness or strength level) and the strengthening of appropriate muscle groups when doing a particular move, ‘yet’ involves so much more than just doing what you currently can do, or staying in the same place or giving up entirely. Because ‘yet’ is a forward thinking concept. When it comes to scaling, the scale tends to always lean forward.

‘Yet’ has become one of the most important things to me in life now, both in and outside the box. When I quit my job to pursue my dreams, I had no proof that I would succeed, because I couldn’t write a book, couldn’t play the piano – yet. Now I can.

THE CHA-CHA LAB RAT

The next surprising thing I learnt at CrossFit is that I am my own Lab Rat. The coaches, though wonderful leaders and highly qualified trainers who constantly teach and help guide me, have always given me the same message: ‘Pull on your white lab coat and strap on those pink Nanos – it’s your own body and you are the only one who really knows and feels what’s going on inside it.’

When it coms to diet, exercise and even rest, I have become so much more in control of what I do with my body. Joining CrossFit was like being handed the keys to my own future, and now that I am behind the wheel, I am so much happier and have a much better understanding of what is going on inside me. And I like being in control.

I know that CrossFit is not the only way, but for me, it was the first time I really did start to take notice and internalize my progress. Following mapped out schedules, keeping track of my progress in my own log-book app and deciding for myself how far I will be able to push myself each day has done wonders for me. When you really do listen to your body, you need not follow fads or the latest trends in exercise or diet blindly. You can try things out for fun or curiosity, but always in a mindful way.

This means that there is a constant ‘cha-cha-chaa’ going on in my progress. Today I might feel stronger and take two steps forward. Next week I may be dealing with something and am not quite as strong, but then I only take one step back.

I have dealt with a bit of a physical blow the first few months this year after a surgery in December and have not been able to give my workouts quite as much gusto as before. But after feeling really down about it and that I was failing, I realized that I can still do things now in my current recovering state that I could not do before I joined CrossFit over a year ago – two steps forward, one step back. And that’s OK.

No matter how things are going, how my body is healing and progressing, how much I overindulged over the weekend, or how sluggish I may feel after a bad nights sleep, I keep working - and I always end up further along the path to success than I was before I began. This double-sided approach of active patience is extremely helpful to me in this time of recovery.

SLEEP TIGHT AND FIGHT!

Perhaps the most surprising thing of all is the difference CrossFit has made to my dream world, or my nightmare world, to be more specific. 

I suffer from terrible night terrors and have done so since childhood. There is one specific scenario that comes up over and over again in the worst of them, where I am being chased by someone or a group of people, but I am paralyzed in some way – either unable to move my legs, or blinded and can’t see where I’m going, or struck with a voice-sucking black hole inside me so I can’t yell for help no matter how hard I try - and I always get caught. It’s in that terrifying moment when I usually wake up screaming (and freaking poor Husband out).

But ever since I joined CrossFit, I have begun to fight back in these nightmares. I still wake up with heart-palpitations, but instead of getting caught, I am now finding my strength, actively bracing myself to defend, and even doing superhuman things to dissolve the situation. In the most recent one, I jumped up into the air high above my attacking mob’s heads, to give me the time as I came down to breathe deeply and set my core and fists, ready to fight.

Don’t get me wrong – I don’t think CrossFit can make me Super Woman and defy the laws of gravity, but I believe there is a positive change in my conscious and subconscious mind as my body grows stronger. Taking the cha-cha lab rat ownership of my fitness journey (a cornerstone of CrossFit lore) has resulted in me ‘knowing’ I am stronger than before, even in my sleep.

It’s not rah-rah-dead-lift or look-at-me-look-at-me-and-my-muscles… it’s Back-off-would-be-attacker-I-could-kick-your-ass!

So take it from me. If you haven’t joined CrossFit – yet – or you don’t like CrossFit – yet – or if your fitness regime is something you are simply slumping by on in hopes that all the gym-entrance-card-swipes will magically make you skinny, maybe think about how much more you can be gaining while getting fit.

And if you are still anti-CrossFit and afraid of our ‘Strong is the new Skinny’ mantra’s, don’t picture those orange-tanned women on the internet with muscles bulging out left right and center…

Think of me, a girl who couldn’t do a push up. But who can now not only do full unassisted push-ups, but who can also fly!

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom

(Go check out the TaggCrossFit site if you are keen to give it a try too!)

Miley alla Moderato - Cherry Blossom does Sexy

Did you see what Miley Cyrus did now? This seems to have been the underlying (or blatantly in-your-face) theme of the internet over the past few weeks. Ever since the VMA awards, Miley has come in like a wrecking ball and commanded attention. In a society that brought us Honey Boo Boo and Kim Kardashian, it is no surprise that naked, lurid behaviour with a few 'f' words thrown in for effect, is one of the best ways to rise to stardom, or simply to get our attention. 

Miley's recent acts have sparked off a heated debate of women’s sexuality, their rights in general, and the ongoing argument of slut-shaming. First Sinead O’Connor told Miley that she should not allow herself to be prostituted for the sake of "men making money". Then Amanda Palmer encouraged Miley to own it, and let her freak flag fly. I have since read countless blog posts and articles written by mothers, daughters, struggling musicians and even a few men on the subject, (my favourite of which being this) all talking about the rights a woman has, or doesn't have, to flaunt her own body. 

I have to say, I tend to agree and disagree with all of them, from all angles. Yes, we have come a long way from pearls and aprons (the non-Pintrest version), but the world still feels the need to single out female musicians, female fighter pilots, girl gamers, or girl fly-fisher peoples as though they are a separate entity entirely (even I make that mistake). It is a male dominated world, no matter how you look at it. They still make more money for doing the same jobs, they still head up presidencies and they still tell us what to do. Well they can't tell us what to wear. Or can they? (I bet the boys over at Dolce and Gabbana have a few opinions on that matter!)

I think we have been so busy painting our bare breasts with protests against rape-culture, and streaking for freedom from men, that we may have forgotten what sexuality really is. Sex is an act to propagate the species. Our animal urges, if you will. It all boils down to making more of us, to keep the world populated and the human race moving forward. It is an 'anti-extinction' clause built into the core fiber of each and every person on the planet, both male and female, equally. Each one of us own and have all rights to our own individual sexuality, and have the right to do with (our own sexuality) as we please. In short, sex is completely natural, completely human, and completely necessary. But is bending over and twerking it in everyone’s face necessary?

Saying a woman should use her sensuality to get ahead in the world, seems to me to be on a par with saying a man should use his muscles and testosterone-laced aggression to further himself. We can't have our boys taking swords to school to ensure their teachers give them straight A's, or packing guns in their back pockets to win the girl over, or discussing business deals over a nice blooddied fight in a cage - looser dies, winner takes all! No, we have developed as a species and come a long way from that. We all agree that little Johnny should not punch Jessica in the face to get the toy he wants away from her just because he can. Then why don’t we apply that to ourselves too, and say maybe Jessica shouldn't bat her lashes to get the toy away from Johnny, or even to get Johhny to buy her all the toys?

But then again, men do use some of that inner-motivating testosterone to help themselves do better, go further, climb higher up the corporate ladder. And when done right, it is admirable, and deserves to be rewarded with a promotion, or closing the deal, or selling the product he built for millions. Why not? He worked for it. Sometimes the man who has the guts (which is just ego manifesting itself, if you think about it) to try a pick-up line, deserves the (willing and able) girl. But it is still so much more socially acceptable for men to go out there and flex those animal instincts than it is for women to do the same. And this double standard is the conundrum we find ourselves in. How can we as women use our sensuality to get that competitive edge, to Miley it up, to grab the internet by the sledge-hammer without being labeled a slut?

I don't have the answers, but I do have this little tidbit passed down from my Granny, the wisest woman on earth: Everything in Moderation. Eating a red-velvet cupcake for breakfast is an awesome way to celebrate ones birthday, but if one had to eat red-velvet all day every day twenty years in a row, one would soon find one's BMI shooting through the roof, ones organs will be under massive strain, and one would have an obesity problem, at the very least, on ones hand . Moderation. A little bit of make-up to highlight features can be very attractive, but caking the stuff on so thick that it needs to be scraped off with a spatula is neither flattering nor comfortable for the skin. Moderation. A glass of wine at the end of a long day can help take the edge off, but drinking constantly and copiously will eventually end in vomiting, dehydration, mild concussion and a hangover from hell. Moderation. It is one thing dressing with a little tease, but quite another leaving the house like sex on a stick. There is always room for having a little fun with our sexuality, but nobody wants their daughter’s Hannah-Montana themed birthday party turning into a mass orgy.

So I think I will use that wise word from my Granny when it comes to presenting my sexual self to the world. I'll not let my freak flag fly, but rather keep that flag tucked closely around me, synched in at the waist, of course, to accentuate my fabulous covered-up bosoms and CrossFit shaped ass. I'll reveal my sensuality moderato - and I'll leave the tweaking up to Miss Miley.

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom

P.S. Please forgive me for the obvious wrecking-ball and sledge-hammer reference-play; I know it's being done to death right now, but as a writer, I just couldn't help myself.

The Not So Spring Chicken

Happy Septermber all! Down here in the southern hemisphere, spring has sprung! The tree’s are budding, the birds are singing…but wait? What is that I see advancing over the ocean from my kitchen window? Another cold front? Winds so strong and grey that their life-consuming colour swells up and blasts the living sparkles out of all those well meaning early budding blossoms? Well how nice, given that I am sick as a dog in bed.

This dreary, ghosts of winter day has got me thinking. Spring this year, thus far, is a bit like me this year, thus far. Many still consider me a ‘spring chicken’ of sorts, but I assure you that lying here, swathed in the dregs of flu, my thirty-three years of spring chicken has found me a little less chickeny lately and a lot more old-farm-hen. My chicklet feathers are not quite so downy, my fluffy tail is not quite so pert and my cute little baby hen claws have developed the ability to not so much tickle adorably as tear the rooster a new one. I don't like being sick one bit, and so, what did I do? Deny deny deny.

I have realized that no matter how far from the chicken facade we come, we will always need a Mother Hen, even if that mommy is your own self (or Husband) looking out for you. Being sick in your 30’s is a great way to slap you up side the head and say ‘Grow up! You’re an adult now, act like one!’

You see, I did not act like an adult at all preceding my demise. Because sick isn't something that happens to me, sick is what happens to other people; People who don't live a balanced lifestyle; People who work too hard, people who don't look after their bodies or eat healthily; People who are too stressed, too tired - not me! I live my life-party on a daily basis, complete with mood-enhancing heels and matching sparkly dress, and the flu monkeys are not on the guest list. But now, the result is this horrible virus confining me to the gloomy dust-ruffles of my bed, and those flu monkeys are throwing their own party in my head!

I was feeling a ‘bit’ under the weather a few weeks ago, but not too bad. Not ‘too bad’ to simply deal with it the way I used to back in the day when I would pop a sinutab and drink a sugar free red bull and be ready to go again. Not ‘too bad’, to stop me from getting up and doing my CrossFit avidly and enthusiastically, and laughing off Husband’s heed when he warned me of all the germs going round like last seasons shoes at a half-off sale. Not ‘too bad’ to stop me from going off to teach my piano students, having after-work drinks, going out every night in the week, staying out way past my bedtime with a friend visiting from the UK, staying up all hours with Husband even when I was at home, never saying no to any offered event, taking myself with Husband fishing and wading in the ice cold mountain water, and walking around at home with no shoes or socks on, even though my feet were cold. The little voice in my head (my Mother, or perhaps inner mother hen) kept saying ‘Your feet are cold! You‘re going to get sick. Your head is sore! You should be in bed. Your ears are hurting from being in this loud place! Your lungs are hurting from being in this smoky place! You should not be here!’ But did I listen? Of course not. No, the spring chicken in me thought she could handle this snivel, this mere head cold that it surely was.

But as it turns out I could not. Perhaps when I actually was a spring chicken I could, but not anymore. Two rounds of anti-biotics, a course of cortisone and one big fat needle injection later, I have finally succumbed to the flu, and the voice in my head simultaneously. So yes Mom, you were right after all. I am staying in bed, allowing Husband to look after me in his sweet way. And the only spring chicken in my immediate future is the one in my soup.

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom

How Models, Magazines and the Modern World ruined my Perception of Myself

I was never 'ugly'. Not really. Sure there was the year I had braces, and the teen-hormone laced tomato-faced flushes, the stupid fashion decisions any 9 year old makes, or 14 year old, or, OK, 15, 16 and 17 year old makes, with the unfortunate photographic evidence certain brothers harbor of a string-bean sproutlette in a baggy T tucked into oversized high waisted jeans. (For the record, when he brings that photo out at gatherings in an 'oh how cute/ugly she was' way, I blame the 80's entirely). I was actually never ugly. But I was an ugly-duckling of sorts. Pointy, awkward, tall, freckly, flat chested, red headed and pale. Wide set eyes in a world that praised bombshells such as Cindy Crawford, who, I noted somewhere along the way to adulthood, had eyes exactly the right distance apart. My eyes are wider than that. And of course I never ever did grow into my front teeth.

Regardless of all of the above, when I reached my early 20's, my string-bean turned to 6 feet of lean. My gawky turned to graceful. I figured out which way was up with a make-up-brush, and my freckles and red-tinged hair turned to something, believe it or not, desirable. All in all, I was doing pretty OK in the looks department. So much so that I became used to being asked 'Are you a model?' by strangers passing by in shopping centers, became accustomed to offers from solicitors of modeling agencies, and reached expert level at fending off advances from would-be suitors who hunted based entirely on looks.

At some point I allowed my own enjoyment of being seen as beautiful get 'all up in there', and took myself off to a modeling agency to sign up. It went great! A passing whirlwind of photo-shoots, calendar prints, champagne parties, free designer dresses, VIP club passes, catwalk attempts and even a few media mentions ensued. I made some money, I did an overseas TV commercial, I got a few killer shots of myself to keep, I started brushing elegant star-dusted shoulders with some of the hot international talent the modeling scene Cape Town had to offer and I met and started dating a truly sculptured specimen that had catwalked alongside the likes of Kate Moss in Milan. (Seriously - he had abs that looked as though they were carved from stone!) It was nothing if not fun and fabulous. Except that it wasn’t.

Happier times? Look closer. I absolutely hated this shoot.

Have you ever felt beautiful? You had a morning where everything just worked? Your hair woke up on the right side of the ghd, your skin glowed, and any puffiness was situated in your cleavage area rather than directly below your eyes? You managed to dress that particularly toit little ass in a particularly gorgeous little outfit, full of effortless glamour and glowing mirror appraisal - only to walk into a room and find that you are sitting next to Miss South Africa...making your fluff fall flat, your fab turn drab, and basically watch in horror as your so-thought-beauty shriveled and deflated like a popped air balloon?

Well I had that happen to me - literally. Not only with a former Miss SA at the time (Vanessa Carrera) but many times before that, in fact, EVERY time before that when I went to a casting. For those who don’t know, a casting is a nice glossed-up magazine-world word for kick-you-in-the-nads. Before modeling, I would walk into a room and be one of the top 10% best looking girls there. But when I started going to castings, I would walk into a room and be just another one of the models. Just another tall, leggy woman with firm thighs and perfect skin. And in all honesty, not even in the top 10 tall leggy women with firm thighs and perfect skin. I was no Charlize! I was a small-timer, average. I had to keep my diet to below 1000 calories a day, exercise frequently at a bare minimum, tripple-stuff my bra, and I needed, as a smart career move, to keep my looks as 'current' as the agency saw fit to try get work. I had to fry my skin at a sunbed tanning salon, loose all discretion when it came to dressing in public (albeit publically female, thank goodness) and stand while older, raggier women diminished me to a clothes horse with no mind - just a body. And even that was not good enough. I did not like the make-up that was caked on my face, dark contours coloured in to try fake my wide-set eyes closer. I did not enjoy the 5am photo shoots on the beach in freezing conditions where I was told to look 'less pissed off', or the strict 3-weeks-bfore-any-show lettuce and water diet, or the play-monkey demands of casting agents that ranged from 'now turn' to 'squat more like a stripper!' I was hungry, miserable, and felt ugly. Permanently ugly. But the photo's were what needed to look good, and I had to suck in my empty stomach because it wasn't thin enough, stick out my gym-stiff rear because it wasn't pert enough, my chest never did come to the party, and I had to hold my arm above my light-headed head for what seemed like hours in attempts to capture a single magazine moment. Only to be told 'We're going in a different direction for the cover', and my photo's wouldn’t be used. My very hard earned size 8 was simply not enough. I was inferior to the other models, the better models. The ones who could stay super skinny, pout at the camera, and fill out a decent cup-size while doing it. I started to develop that horrible 'Look at her - ugh, I hate her!' monologue I have always been against. I had to fight myself to remember that it's not her I hate, it's the way I feel.

I HATE HER...oh wait...thats me

And I think that's when it started. I started to just blame myself. To compare myself, to judge myself, to take myself down to a disgustingly shallow level of 'Is my butt high enough? Is my chin chiseled enough? Is my upper arm toned enough?' It wasn’t something I verbalized - but I raged against the whole industry till the point where I quit, saying that I would rather be myself than a wisp of what they wanted me to be. But even though I tried to let on that I didn’t care, it was the beginning of a now never ending argument I have with myself in the mirror on a daily basis, internalizing all that hatred. I don’t remember having these worries as a gawky teenager - I accepted who I was then and didn’t place much inner-peace on how I looked. Now, I page through a fashion magazine, a cooking magazine, even a fishing magazine and I immediately feel inferior to the images portrayed in the pages. But it's like heroine. I cant stop. I even use the images here in my blog! (yes, the irony is not wasted on me) But you see I LIKE pretty things. I WANT to see them, admire them, appreciate their beauty...but the problem comes when I then go and hate myself for not being one of them.

I struggle to believe that any man would find me attractive anymore if I was placed in a line-up situation with the models, that I would never be the top 10 but rather left out completely. Why do I even care? I am happily married and do what I can to stay fit and healthy, dress well and look generally acceptable, but still I believe that I am not beautiful. The weight that has found me in my 30's mocks me and I honestly don’t understand why I give it a voice. My now Size 12 practically screams hate-crimes at me every time I see a photo of myself, but why do I listen? Is it this unrealistic image I have learnt to hold myself up to? Is it the image that keeps getting held up to me, on billboards, in shop windows, on screens, on the covers and in the pages of every magazine out there? On my own blog? They even use these models to sell fast food that not only rips our inner bodies apart, but does so with the most spectacular 'Hulk-ish' results! Only instead of muscles bursting out of clothes, its more like the inner Michelin Man making an appearance. Lets admit it, no one ever uses the girl who lives on french fries to sell french fries. So why do we keep portraying these images of the super skinny? And more specifically, why do I feel personally attacked by it all?

On WHAT planet?!?

I know I am not alone in feeling this way. There is a world of women out there who looks at the very same images as me and feels inferior. Perhaps it's a bit more ingrained in me thanks to my own time spent as one of the models in those pages, or do we all feel this way? Perhaps its an escalating problem the modern world is perpetuating, presenting a picture perfect image of what we woman should be. An *ahem* airbrushed image to be precise. It's the 50's housewife all over again, only now instead of rolling-pins, pearls and cinched-in aprons, it's skinny thighs, handle-less abs and sky-high lashes. I mean, what does that even mean!? The world should just be honest, and instead of sporting headlines like 'Have It All, AND Stay Thin' or '5 Minutes to the Perfect You' or 'Wow Him in the Bedroom', rather just say, "What? You don’t have a career, 2.5 kids and a happy satisfied husband while looking like Victoria Beckham? What's wrong with you?!" I feel as though the whole world expects me to be superwoman, when in actual fact, it's just me who expects that.

And today I shall save all the world, one perfect lunge at a time...

I don’t know what the answer is. I don’t believe that the entire industry should shut down, and I am in no way blaming all those beautiful images for my problem, but I don’t know how to stop the self-destructive inner judgment when I do see them. Maybe I should just get over it and moveon.com. Of course skin-deep beauty isn’t the only place I find my value. I have many other facets where I excel and can develop, and so maybe I should just try to invest myself in them rather than the completely useless activity of feeling 'ugly'. Maybe I should come up with a mantra of words, values to chant to myself when I look at a gorgeous tanned FHM model with 0% body fat and feel like blobby insects are creeping around all over my thighs. Words such as Kind, Loving, Good natured; Like Helping people, having Integrity, being Honest; Such as being Creative, Loyal, Companionate...but will that work? I fear that the need for 'thin' is so ingrained in me that it will still plague me. Whatever the anecdote, a bandaid over feeling ugly and inferior won't take that feeling away. And something tells me that this is only going to get worse.

Well, on a bad day at any rate. I guess on a good day I can rise above it, forget about it, ignore it, laugh at it even. There are days where I appreciate my gained mass - love my curves. Now I actually do look like a woman, not a straight-up-and-down skeletal ladyboy. And after all, I do have those photo's that I can keep for the rest of my life to look at and remember when I was still young and beautiful.

Sigh. I don’t know. I just don’t know. If you know the answer to returning to the child who doesn't see or concern herself with these things, please let me know.

The real 'before' picture...

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom