Modestly Yours

A Weighty Subject

Last year I unfortunately injured my left knee while hiking in Arizona with a couple travel friends. The orthopedic surgeon I visited Thursday suspects it's "patello-femoral syndrome," which is technical jargon for "messed-up knee cap." He literally crossed his fingers when I asked if physical therapy would solve the problem. (How very reassuring.)

Upon my questioning what I could do to supplement PT, he asked me about my weight. Punch one.

A purely scientific, mathematical question, the purpose behind it only to benefit me as an athlete in the upcoming ride. I told him that I'm in the process of trying to lose some pounds, kidding that "just as I wouldn't go for a jog around the block with a backpack full of bricks strapped to me, it doesn't make sense to cycle across the continent with extra body fat." And then he concurred. Punch two.

Knockout in the ring. I was down for the count.

I guess I was hoping to hear from him what my girlfriends always say: "What? You don't need to lose weight!" or "You're in great shape! Why would you ever consider dieting?" But that's not what I got. And as much as my brain knew that Doc only had my best interest in mind, it still hurt. To receive confirmation from another that there is in fact something about you physically that needs improvement... well. It's not all that esteem-boosting.

I'm conscious that I am not fat, but I am aware that I do have some gut to lose. The knowledge of that should - SHOULD - be easy to digest. Yet the above scenario reminded me how sensitive I can be at even a medical professional's confirmation that what I already know to be true, is.

My question to you, dearest reader is: How do you separate yourself from your body? How do you step on a bathroom scale and let the numbers represent nothing more than an arbitrary measurement? Any woman in western society knows why we react to the issue of kilos in such touchy manners: media, industry, meanly targeted marketing, etc. But how do we detach ourselves from it? Please comment, I'd like to hear everyone's opinion.

Dressing for the Wrong Person

Last week my friend Field came over for a visit. It was one of the nicest afternoons I've spent with anyone in a long time, mostly because neither of us had any pressing obligations, and because we're both rather gifted at witty banter and appropos Seinfeld references - which can keep a conversation going into the wee hours of the morning, trust me. We had lunch at an Indian cafe, and he introduced me to a wonderful German boardgame of strategy called Ricochet Robots. (Check it out, it's a lot of fun!)

He and I talk about nearly everything under the sun. He's very educated, eloquent and a few years older than me, so it's interesting to get his perspective on various topics, esp. those which apply to the differences (and similarities) between the sexes. One subject we broached this particular day I recall was women's appearance and men's opinions regarding it.

My theory is - and if memory serves me well, Field concurred - that women do not spend big bucks to look good for men. They spend big bucks to look good for... other women.

I hypothesize that heterosexual men on the whole are not particularly scrutinizing our apparel. So long as the female in question walks with some air of confidence, appears well-groomed and clean and appropriately attired for the occasion, a man will find a woman attractive. Many 20-something guy friends I've questioned (who I feel answered honestly) reveal they most like a woman in jeans and white t-shirt, or a flattering sundress, or a tailored dress suit. They find those outfits attractive. Beyond that, they don't bother to scrutinize femme fashion.

I told Field that, oftentimes, I am more comfortable - i.e, I am less afraid of being judged - when I'm hanging out with 'the guys' at a sports bar than, say, when I attend a bridal shower. Do Jon, Blake and Eric really care what brand of jeans I'm wearing, or if my belt matches my shoes? Do they take note of my blouse and, when I leave the table, wonder aloud how little I paid for it? Probably not. In a room oozing with estrogen, however... Everything about me feels on display - potential target for criticism.

Wardrobe spills over into cosmetics and physique. Poll after poll, online and in mags, men state frankly that they really do not prefer the lipstick look, that women's eye makeup is usually overkill, and that they appreciate a proportionately sized gentlelady compared to a Twiggy.

And despite acknowledging these statistics, we women still drop millions - billions - of dollars each year on Prada, Louis Vuitton, pounds of Maybelline, mascara, jewelry and dieting.

You see, modesty to me is multidimensional; it is not a thing strictly defined by how much cleavage is covered, or how 'mini' a skirt is. Modesty includes our spending habits, our words, our humility, our self-interest. Is it not immodest to spend hours and entire incomes on our appearance? And mostly in vain, for the opposite sex doesn't take nearly as much note about it as do our sisters; men would just as soon see us in Hanes' v-neck tees and Levi's.

We don't dress for men. We dress for women. Too bad we can't just dress for our individual selves.

The Music Wave of the Future?

If you have not yet heard of a rising star named Leela James, heads up. If her debut album is indicative of what we can expect of her in the near future, soul music may be headed in a modesty-driven direction.

I caught James's late hit "Music" on a local Austin station and fell in love with the lyrics, the video itself, and her strong, spirited attitude. Take a glance at the words:

(Verse 1)
Somebody play on the guitar strings
Makes me think of my favorite songs
Reminds me of when I heard Aretha sing
Gladys, Tina, and Chaka Khan
Can't go back to yesterday
But can we just put the thongs away

(Bridge)
And fall back in love with music
Nothin' but the music
Oh

Everybody knows that Marvin's gone
Still I gotta tell you what's going on
Said the music gone

(Chorus)
Where'd the soul go?
It's all about the video
We don't sing no more
Where's the music gone?

Where'd the music go?
It's all just for the dough
It ain't soul no more
Where's the music gone?

(Verse 2)
Still hear Donny playin' them keys
Singin' one day we'll all be free
Can't even turn on my radio
Somebody hollerin' bout a bitch or a ho

(Bridge)
Right now I'm missing music
Black folks count on music

Chorus

Is it too late for us to return to Gladys and Aretha? Or is Nelly's 2004 "Tip Drill" song/video an X-rated sign of there being no turning back?)

With artists like Leela James getting airtime on major entertainment channels, perhaps there is in the making a rebirth of true soul - that which concentrates on the rhythm and heart of music, not on fantastical pornographic sexuality and obscene profit.

Another KIND of Epidemic

Recently I met with my new friend Carol, a former Peace Corps volunteer, to ask her a few questions about the program, what expectations I should have, what the assimilation process is like, etc. One issue that came up that I did not anticipate - but probably should have, retrospectively - is this:

When Carol was in Lesotho (the small country islanded by South Africa) she worked closely with AIDS victims, educating them and their families about treatment, prevention, detection, and safe practices for future reference. The responses she got from more than a few patients were "pot-kettle" scenarios. "How is it that we Africans are so highly infected, when it is you westerners who are so promiscuous?"

An example. One afternoon Carol was in her house (a crude shack, essentially) with two other volunteers, both male. They were just having a friendly visit over tea and coffee, catching up on local politics and current events. The next day, a villager asked rather bluntly if it was a 'group experience.' Confused, Carol politely asked for elaboration as to the meaning of the question. As it turned out, an assumption (you can guess what) was made by the locals who'd seen the men enter her home and emerge hours later. This assumption was a result of two things:

One: Women in Lesotho are only in men's company alone if a sexual encounter is expected.

And two (more disturbingly): American women are presumed promiscuous due to our very own media that represent (or MISrepresent) western lifestyle.

It appears our collective reputation -- whether applicable to our individual selves or not -- precedes us. It is a shame that our media have third-world countries thinking we're running around willy-nilly, as if everyone here is sexually active, and with more than one partner.

Carol is not the first female American traveler to give me such an unfortunate report. Mrs. Bargmann, my journalism teacher in high school, was a businesswoman for two decades before she decided to become an educator. On her trips overseas for corporate purposes during that time, she occasionally came across European, Australian, and Asian men in her field who hinted at her promiscuity, despite her never having given that impression. (Mrs. B. is an extremely modest person, has been happily married for many years, and the suggestion of her supposed infidelity is even humorous to her.) It was American films and adverts, she discovered after inquiring, that were the sources of this confusion: the entertainment industry here in the States exports its material all over the world, and the recipient nations' audiences take it at face value.

Do western movies, television shows, and/or literary publications illustrate an inaccurate portrait of the majority of American adults? Or is it not such a stretch? Does our actual promiscuity rate parallel that which our media represent? Is sex really that casual here? Am I being too romantic in hoping that it is not?

Either way, it makes me uncomfortable to think that when I do travel -- my tentative Peace Corps destination is Chad, North Africa -- my white skin, blond hair, blue eyes, and American accent will betray me as, sexually speaking, 'loose and free.' And I pray it does not prove problematic or dangerous for me.

"Two for 40-Year-Old"

OK, last week I dedicated myself to composing essays and studying for exams, as it was finals crunchtime on the UT campus. But now that I do have some freetime, I'm redeeming myself by catching up on EVERYthing! Current events, book lists, getting together with old friends here in my hometown, etc.

To celebrate my newfound freedom (well, not really--I love school!), my mom and I went to the movies last night to see "40-Year-Old Virgin," with Steve Carrell. All criticism aside (i.e, I won't be buying it on DVD for my home collection), I was surprised when the message it presented by the end was actually quite sweet, thoughtful, and a MODEST message: good things are worth waiting for.

For those of y'all who have not seen the film (and you may want to), over-the-hill protagonist Andy is an employee at TechEdge, a sort-of Circuit City. He leads a mostly happy life as a single man, and though he's initially presented as the stereotypical I-collect-sci-fi- action-figures-and-play-video-games-and-ride-a-bicycle-to-work-therefore-I-am-a-nerd  profile, he turns out to be a witty, dynamic and sociable guy.

During a round of poker one evening, his coworkers discover he's "never done the dirty deed." They philanthropically rally to get him "some action," to put it politely, taking him to hot night clubs, fixing him up with a hooker, sprucing up his image (in a particularly funny chest-waxing scene). But over the course of the two-hour feature he realizes he wants to find LOVE before any ACTION. I won't spoil the ending for you, in case you do see it. (Disclaimer: The rating is R for sexual references, language, nudity, and drug references.) But I will say that I appreciated the heart behind the plot, and Andy (Steve Carrell) is a character that easily wins the audience's sympathy and even adoration.

There are many topics to extrapolate from "40-Year-Old Virgin," so if you have seen it and wish to comment, please do. One topic that comes to mind is the stigma around the word 'virgin.' (When my mother was getting tickets at the box office, she asked for "two for '40-Year-Old,'" making a point not to mention the taboo v-word.) Why is this? Where and in what decade did the stigma really begin? The word is uttered, hm, perhaps five times throughout the movie - and always in a whispered, apologetic manner - whereas other choice vernacular are strewn about carelessly - you can imagine. Just an observation...

What's your two cents?

Makes Me Happy

Shelley and the Senecans invited me to join them at Flightpath, a coffee place at 51st and Duval. I am here now, using Vinyard's laptop, and I must confess I rather fancy the shop. My decaf steamer is smooth and flavorful, the barista was worthy of a tip, the wall art and lighting are warm and simple, and the furniture is mod deco and notably cleaner than Spider House and Metro. I fear this may be a new favorite.

And as I tip-tap type out my thoughts, Shelley's voice in the background speaking Norwegian on a study conference call, I run through the lists:

of papers yet to start
of things to do before end-of-term
of people I need to call
of media contacts waiting for responses from me
of books friends have told me I 'must' read over break
of bills to pay before next Thursday
of those I want to visit during holiday

And all these are important to me and require full attention, focus, energy.

But then I think of him.

His smile. His flirtatious glances. How he makes me feel safe. How he told me I'm beautiful and smart. His hugs, his height, his confidence and self-disclosures.

Ah! But I must focus! Homework. Fitness routine. Job. Scholarship apps. Responsibilities.

When I sit on the couch, however, to read an assignment or start an essay draft, the scent of his cologne lingers on the throw pillows. And I can no longer concentrate on school or novels or paragraphs or numbers or exams or words.

How can I concentrate?
Head spinning, heart afflutter.
Never felt this way this quickly about someone.

I'm everywhere. My head's in the bathroom, my feet are in the kitchen, my belly's in the bedroom. I can't seem to organize myself. Envelopes and documents and letters are in their proper folders. Notebooks are stacked up. Clothes are folded, socks are darned and put away.
But I am a mess.

To be honest, I'm tiring a bit of English. I'm getting restless. Want to break out. I will get my degree, of course, but I doubt I'll go on to grad school. Or if I do, it won't be to study literature.

This is where my mind is:

Where I will be in five years - 10, 20, 50 - the only things that truly matter are: that I'm with someone who loves me and whom I love in return, that I am helping others, that I am in generally good health and at peace with God, and that I have caring friends.

Whether I have children, whether I ever see Europe, whether I own a Better Homes & Gardens house... None of these are determinable right now. And really they don't matter to me as much as the aforementioned.

To me, the beauty of being a woman in the 21st century is that I can be whatever I want. I can be whatever makes me happy.

And one thing's for sure: he makes me happy.

Summer Plans

Words can't describe how excited I am about this coming summer, but I can tell you that I expect it to be one of the most memorable times in my life.

So what am I doing June thru August 2006? Check it out.

That's right: four thousand miles from Austin to Anchorage. On a bicycle ...

Last year, when I first heard of this ride through a friend and in the press, I thought it was an amazing opportunity for whoever those "crazy" students were, but it wasn't until this past semester that I seriously considered doing it myself.  I checked out the website and read the messages that the team had posted along their trip.  I was inspired by the stories: the people they met, the sights they saw, the conditions they endured, and the survivors that touched their lives... It was all so incredible!  I was convinced and decided then and there: I have to do this. I applied, was accepted and am now super-pumped about the organization!

While Texas 4000 might seem like a huge just-for-fun cross-country bike ride, it is first and foremost a cancer research fundraiser.  I'm hoping that you will help us reach our goal of $180,000 this year… and then some!  Mid-December is our first "checkpoint" if you will; each member should have collected one third of their $4000 by this time, so we'll be working hard through final exams (and beyond).

(Texas 4000 is a non-profit, 501c3 tax-exempt organization, and any donation is tax-deductible, and we can get all the paperwork arranged. If your company or organization would like to sponsor us, it may contact us on the site. Corporate donations are very welcomed!)

Twenty years ago I was diagnosed with cancer. Fast forward to the present, where I'm now in remission. Without research and advances in science & technology - things funded mostly by orgs like ACS - I wouldn't have the chance today to participate in this fantastic journey; in fact I probably wouldn't be here at all. I thank God for my present state of optimum health, and I hope you can ride with me - vicariously!

Please contact Texas4000@modestyzone.net if you would like to support my ride.

Yours Truly with all my Love,
Lily

Update from U.Texas

Howdy, Y'all!  Taking E 340 ("American Novel Before 1920") with none other than Dr. Kevorkian. Really. But not THE Dr. Kevorkian. He's just an excellent English professor who's last name is Kevorkian, and he has a PhD - making him "Dr. Kevorkian." :o)

Decided to join Torchlight Society for this semester. The girls are super nice! It's virtually the opposite of a sorority.

TX Crew practice has been great. Rowing? At 5:20 am? Everyday? No prob.

My job (recording grad textbooks on audio for blind students) is super sweet.

Fraternities in West Campus are soooo loud!

I’m having major body-image issues lately. Ugh! Thought I'd gotten over them, but just when I start feeling relatively secure, the thing coils around me like a python, crushing the spine that took me months to renourish.

I spout strong, proud ideas of self-love, -confidence, -appreciation and -esteem to my girlfriends. I encourage, assure, and remind them how all-encompassingly beautiful they are. (And foreseeing accusations of my being sexist, I maintain that I would do the same for any of my guy-friends if one put himself down in my presence.) Yet like many young women, I still grapple with accepting myself.

My parents are so supportive in building me back up, and I thank heaven for that. Still, I feel a responsibility to myself to deal with these insecurities independently, of course. I think, God, I'm 20 years old, a capable, well-educated, level-headed female.  At this age, I should first of all be beyond a stage typical of pre-, mid-, and post-pubescent teens and, second, able to battle it solo, with grace and ease. Right?

I went to a bookstore and browsed the women's studies section, I suppose for a little confidence boost from a fellow struggling sister.  In perusing the shelves, I found this:
The Body Project: An Intimate History of American Girls, by Joan Jacobs Brumberg, published 1997.

I LOVE it! I highly recommend Project to daughters, mothers, and anyone remotely interested in the cultural and sociological exploration of female adolescence (which ideally would be everyone).

I’ll pontificate, though not in this entry. For the moment, I’ll quote the most thought-provoking excerpts so as not to misrepresent the author or not do justice to some brilliant writing:

"The traditional emphasis on ‘good works’ as opposed to ‘good looks’ meant that the lives of young women in the nineteenth century had a very different orientation from those of girls today. This difference is reflected in the tone of their personal diaries, a source I use extensively to tell the story of how the American girl’s relationship to her body has changed over the past century. Before WW I, girls rarely mentioned their bodies in terms of strategies for self-improvement or struggles for personal identity. Becoming a better person meant paying less attention to the self, giving more assistance to others, and putting more effort into instructive reading or lessons at school…" (Italicization my own doing, not in Brumberg's original text.)

"In 1892, the personal agenda of an adolescent diarist read: ‘Resolved, not to talk about myself or feelings. To think before speaking. To work seriously. To be self restrained in conversation and actions. Not to let my thoughts wander. To be dignified. Interest myself more in others...’ A century later, in the 1990s, American girls think very differently. In a New Year’s resolution written in 1982, a girl wrote: ‘I will try to make myself better in any way I possibly can with the help of my budget and baby-sitting money. I will lose weight, get new lenses, already got new haircut, good makeup, new clothes and accessories.’"

"Like many adults in American society, girls today are concerned with the shape and appearance of their bodies as a primary expression of their individual identity… "

"Life in the world of the micro-bikini [that, to many women, necessitates hair removal] is obviously different from life in the world of the corset… but there are still constraints and difficulties, perhaps even greater ones… Although elevated body angst is a great boost to corporate profits, it saps the creativity of girls and threatens their mental and physical health. Progress for women is obviously filled with ambiguities."

"Shouldn’t today’s sexually liberated girls feel better about themselves than their corseted sisters of a century ago? Although young women today enjoy greater freedom and more opportunities than their counterparts of a century ago, they are also under more pressure, and at a greater risk, because of a unique combination of biological and cultural forces that have made the adolescent female body into a template for much of the social change of the twentieth century."

More on this subject soon...

Entirely Yours,
Lily Lou