Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Carpe Boob-em!
When I was fourteen, I remember stuffing balloons down my dress to see what it would look like if it wasn't drooping in the boob region. I gazed longingly at the full-busted image of myself in the mirror . Despite the persistent miniature status of my boobage all through high school, I never went so far as to seriously stuff my bra (in public) with socks or Kleenex or something like that -- I was always deathly afraid of an errant tissue making itself known when I least expected it. I figured having a small bust, although mortifying at the time, was still less embarrassing than inadvertently dropping boob-stuffing for all the world to see.
In my early twenties, I continued to bemoan my resemblance to a flea-bitten wall. I am embarrassed to admit that I once went so far as to order stinky cream and "special pills" from the internet. Those women looked so happy... and so full of cleavage. Needless to say, this investment left me with nothing other than boobs that smelled like the vitamin aisle at a health food store. For months after I had given up on the witch doctor's brew, my bras continued to give me an odor of herbal laxatives. (I haven't ever actually smelled an herbal laxative, but I imagine if I did, it would smell like my boob-cream-encrusted bras).
I have been pussy-footing about admitting it, but once, at personal low, I even tried a torturous suction device to amplify my "assets." While I enjoyed the temporary ta-tas, the results were not lasting, and the process was more painful than the emotional trauma caused by a baggy bra.
So here I sit, miles away from being able to hold out hope that puberty might actually set in, and too afraid (and proud?) to go under the Pam Anderson and Jenna Jameson knife. I have finally realized that no matter what I do my boobs will always be bigger or smaller than someone else's. If I am constantly comparing, I will never be happy. With that in mind, I am currently on a quest to embrace my boobs as they are [block out mental chiding about what a small embrace that would be]. In that vein, I have found some things that help me feel at one with my cleavage, or lack there of.
My favorite boob-ego salve (that doesn't even smell like vitamins) is the song "The Boob Fairy" by Deirdre Flint. This clever singer/song-writer makes my small bosom swell with pride. By coming out of the closet with her own less-than-ample rack, Deirdre inspires me to do the same, and even encourages me to sing along with her torch song for the boobies that never really were.
Another thing that gets me feeling more boob-positive, is when I see other women, both media divas and my peers, embrace their natural not-quite-Dolly-Parton-ness. I was inspired recently when I learned that the beautiful Keira Knightley refused to let the movie marketing mavens digitally alter her chest to make it appear larger in publicity photos for the upcoming movie, The Duchess. Apparently, she'd been dissatisfied with her electronically inflated bosom in posters for a prior film.
I know hoards of women who, like me, are members of the itty-bitty-titty committee. Heck, my membership is a birthright; thanks to my mom, I was automatically enrolled. It can be entertaining to commiserate with petite peers, but they also inspire me. When I see them looking super hot despite the lack of ample perkiness spewing forth from beneath their collar bones, I feel all warm and tingly inside.
While I admit to being, at times, a small-breasted woman undercover (the cover being push-up, ultra padded, chicken fillet-ness), it has recently come to my attention that there are other ways to go about accessorizing my small chest that might be more enjoyable. Designers are finally getting hip to the fact that not everyone is equally endowed, and new designs reflect this. Lula Lu offers a wide variety of bras and undergarments that aren't so... wide. This cute shop, which happens to have its brick and mortar home practically right in my backyard, sells delightful and, dare I say, sexy lingerie geared specifically toward the multitude of women who have a handful or less [ignore that little voice in my head chanting: "Two! Two! Two boobs for the size of one!].
I checked out Lula Lu's website, and I was thrilled to see all sorts of fabulous stuff that looked really sexy on their petite models. I even learned what a bralette is.
Wow. I have to say that I am feeling better already. I am all boobed up and ready to go! Let's see, first load the car with a gaggle of my fair, flat-chested friends, then sing-along proudly to Deirdre Flint whilst on our way to a shopping spree at Lula Lu, followed by a screening of The Duchess! Go, boobs! it's your boobday! Now if only I could figure out what to do about my ass...
Labels: body image, boobs, clothing, hero, rant
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 11:22 AM
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Joy to the World
This morning, whilst climbing the stairs to nowhere at the gym, I was reading. I was reading The Six Pillars of Self-Esteem by Nathaniel Branden. Most of my reading happens aboard some exercise contraption surrounded by sweaty strangers and bad morning TV. Sometimes these distractions steal my focus. Not this morning. This morning, Branden said something, and I felt he was talking just to me. I delighted in the "ah-ha!" moment I had when I read Branden's description of "An intelligence that takes joy in its own function":
"The natural inclination of a child is to take pleasure in the use of mind no less than of body. The child's primary business is learning. It is also the primary entertainment. To retain that orientation into adulthood, so that consciousness is not a burden but a joy, is the mark of a successfully developed human being" (73).
I could almost see Nathaniel Branden's clear blue eyes peering out of the pages, looking directly at me as he said this. For the last few months, I have been noticing that when I want to access my feelings of joy, I turn to my childhood. I still relish an opportunity to play dress-up, and I delight in make-believe. These "childish" activities bring me great pleasure, and a weight is lifted from my soul.
As I explore who I am and what I want to be doing (yet again), I keep coming up with two answers. First, I love to play. I love to fall on the floor laughing, tears streaming down my flushed cheeks. I love games and pretending and funny voices and puns. I love dress-up and whispering and singing silly songs and wrestling. I laugh at fart jokes. Recently, I was complimented when an seven year-old friend of mine chided me for being a big kid. Damn straight.
The other thing I love is sex. I love connecting deeply with other people. I love learning new things about my body and how it works. I love anticipation and flirtation. I am mesmerised by the human form, and I admire those who embrace their sexuality fully.
For a while now I have been trying, and failing, to integrate these things. I imagined they were connected, but I couldn't really see how. I had hit a wall. This morning, Branden's words sent bricks flying everywhere. He made me want to take a closer look at what he was saying.
"The natural inclination of a child is to take pleasure in the use of mind no less than of body."
Call me childish, but just like it is my natural inclination to sing songs and play dress-up, it is my natural inclination to find pleasure through my body, including sexual pleasure. The joy that I find through my body is one more manifestation of my love of play. While I derive immense pleasure from the use of my mind and learning new things with it, it is matched (at the very least) by the pleasure I glean from the use of my body. We all are born without knowledge of the taboo associated with deriving pleasure from our bodies. Religion and society tell us sex is bad and masturbation is worse. Imagine if we could take into adulthood, without a lick of fear or shame or guilt, the unbridled joy that our bodies are capable of giving us.
"The child's primary business is learning."
When I think about it, it is really rather extraordinary how much children learn and absorb as they age. I never cease to be amazed by how much children pick up, both consciously and not, from the environment around them. What amazes me more though is the ridiculous notion that so many of us have that learning stops when school is over and/or adulthood is reached. The most youthful adults I know are the ones that are constantly learning new things, uncovering new ideas, trying some new activity. Being in a constant state of inquiry keeps us young.
"[Learning] is also the primary entertainment."
The other day we went to visit some friends and their three year-old son. The living room floor was covered with the packaging from an electronic keyboard (the piano kind, not the typing kind) that had been opened and set up only moments before our arrival. It was a pleasure to watch this child fully engross himself in the wonders of his new treasure. He was completely entertained by learning how it worked and exploring all of its features (most noticeably, the volume control -- ouch!). He was utterly enthralled.
One of the reasons I am enthralled by the topic of sex is that I find that there are, seemingly, limitless things to learn about it. Given the fact that our culture persists in being so secretive and quiet about it, I imagine there are many things yet uncovered. For example, it wasn't until 1981 that the term G-Spot was even coined. I am excited just by the prospect of all the secrets that still lay hidden. Learning about sex, both with my mind and my body, gives me great joy.
"To retain that orientation into adulthood, so that consciousness is not a burden but a joy, is the mark of a successfully developed human being."
As an adult, I have tried all kinds of things to block out my consciousness. I have kept having "just one more glass of wine" until I couldn't see straight. I have slept. I have watched with intrigue to see which one of the fabulous celebrity dancers would make it to the next level of the lavish, over-dramatized televised competition. I have successfully avoided looking at, or being conscious of, things that cause me pain. Self-anesthetization is frighteningly easy.
The more I embrace my childishness, the easier it becomes to remain conscious. In fact, when I am learning about things that fascinate me and doing things that I love, just like a child at nap time, I fight to maintain consciousness for as long as I possibly can. Thanks, Nathaniel Branden, for the much needed wake-up call.
References:
Branden, Nathaniel. The Six Pillars of Self-Esteem. New York: Bantam Books, 1995.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/G-spotLabels: book review, hero, rant, review
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 10:43 AM
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Dolly's Home
Alaska. I think bears, snowy mountain peaks, glaciers, whale-watching. I don’t think prostitution (let alone legalized prostitution). When my mother invited me to go on a week long cruise to Alaska to celebrate her sixtieth birthday with the rest of my family, I didn’t imagine that learning about a notorious prostitute would be on the itinerary. What’s more, I didn’t think I’d come away from the experience with such a profound sense admiration and appreciation for the prostitute in question or “sporting woman” as she preferred to be called.
Dolly Arthur, born Thelma Dolly Copeland in Idaho in 1888, was the most popular sporting woman in the small town of Ketchikan, Alaska. Leaving her troubled home at the age of thirteen, she migrated north. It didn’t take long for Dolly to realize that prostitution was the most lucrative and fulfilling career option available to her. In 1919, at the age of 31, Dolly purchased a home on Creek Street in Ketchikan, where she worked until prostitution was outlawed in the early 1950’s (and even after that, by some accounts). She lived in the house until shortly before her death in 1975. Dolly Arthur remains the most famous person to have lived in Ketchikan, and she seems to be respected and appreciated by locals and tourists alike.
Alaska is a cold harsh place. Ketchikan in particular gets an average of 152 inches of rain per year and 37 inches of snow. In fact, the average high temperature in July is just 57 degrees Fahrenheit. When I was there in August, wearing my scarf and a disposable poncho, it was easy to see that such a place could make one feel not only cold but desolate. I can almost imagine that Ketchikan is an underwater village; it is located on an island and rain blankets the town in a sea of wetness most days of the year.
On the cold rainy day of my visit, it was very easy to see how Dolly’s house might have served as a respite for the loggers and fishermen of yesteryear. Her home is a beckon right in the middle of town. It is a quaint little mint green house with red and white trim. It looks much like the houses that I drew in my childhood – two windows with window boxes evenly spaced below an A-frame roof with a chimney on one side. I half expected to see a bright yellow quarter of a sun wearing sunglasses drawn hastily in the corner of the page. Maybe if the rain had let up.
In this cold dreary place Dolly sold sex, but more significantly, she sold comfort. In fact, if her customers paid for their liquor, she would just sit and visit with them, if that is what they wanted. (Interestingly, for much of her career, it was the liquor, not the sex, that was illegal.) As is the case with many sex workers, even today, companionship is a prized commodity. Dolly made a pretty penny supplying it. It is said that she would not close her doors until she’d made at least one hundred dollars in a day. That’s all the more impressive when you realize that her clients paid as little as two bucks a pop, so to speak.
While prostitutes are often portrayed as lifeless leeches, Dolly appears to have been quite the opposite. Evidence of Dolly as a symbol of nurturing comfort is all over her house-turned-museum. In her well-stocked kitchen I could almost imagine her 5’10” frame stooped over the recipes she’d carefully collected in a large scrapbook. Dolly was also a seamstress (coincidently, “seamstress” was a common front used by prostitutes of the time). Her upstairs bathroom shower curtain is adorned with delicate flowers that she fashioned from French silk condoms (I would like to talk to the fellow who invented those; Dolly clearly put them to better use). Downstairs, she made a urinal for her guests by cutting a hole in an old water tank. Dolly even had a secret back door entrance for those who wished to do their business more discreetly.
Looking at the many photographs of Dolly that adorn the walls of her former home, it is easy to feel her presence there still. The staff of the museum have brought it all to life with their animated storytelling and flamboyant costumes. The personal touches of the museum seem to be just as Dolly herself would have wanted them: post-it notes indicating what ought not be touched; grainy sound recordings placed throughout the building explaining various displays; gold foil star stickers lovingly adhered to picture frames to indicate all the actual photos of Dolly. Even as a museum Dolly’s house feels like a home.
Dolly’s creativity and ingenuity are inspiring. In a time when many women did not dare hope for more than marriage and motherhood, Dolly thrived doing what she loved. She was an entrepreneur – she took stock of her skills, saw where there was a market and went there. She is a fantastic counterexample to the crack-addicted dependent whores we see in the media. Dolly made her life what she wanted it to be, despite the circumstances.
While I certainly can appreciate whales and glaciers, the most inspiring part of my trip to Alaska was learning about a self-made woman whose pioneering spirit allowed her to live, and thrive, by her own standards. I came away with a newfound appreciation for the freedom the West of yesteryear had to offer and the culture it spawned.
(Dolly's House at 24 Creek Street, Ketchikan, Alaska)
(Shower curtain flower made of silk condoms)
References:
1. http://www.sitnews.org/JuneAllen/050702_dolly_arthur.html
2. http://www.margaretdeefholts.com/dollyarthur.html
3. The fabulous tour guide at Dolly's who wore her flapper dress even in the cold
Labels: hero, law, prostitution
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 10:02 PM
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(Dolly's House at 24 Creek Street, Ketchikan, Alaska)
(Shower curtain flower made of silk condoms)