This blog will take the average adult reader about four minutes to read.
The premise of this blog is this: I am not a dude.
I’ve been treated dudely since I was a kid. (Yes, I just turned “dude” into an adverb. Deal with it.) My mother will recount the story of how I came home from school from the first day of kindergarten—after she bought me all dresses (and I apparently loved them)—and demanded pants as my primary butt coverer. My favorite toy in elementary school was my roller blades. I wanted to be a speed skater. I wanted to run the Iditarod. I joined my first sports teams in the second grade. From then until the time I graduated from high school, I played basketball, volleyball—and twelve years of softball. I wanted to be the first female to pitch for the Mariners. (I’ve since let go of that dream.)
(This blog will take the average adult reader approximately 5 minutes to read.)
Hi. I am a woman. And I am the worst.
I have a long history of judging other women. For what they wear, for what they do with their lives, for the way they handle their emotions, for their interests, for their hobbies—if there’s a thing that women do, or are, I’ve probably judged a woman for it.
Likewise, I have a long history for being judged by other women. For what I wear, for what I do with my life, for the way I handle my emotions, for my interests, for my hobbies—I’ve been judged by other women countless times.
This blog is the pot calling the kettle black. Continue reading
There are 1,328 words beyond this point. This blog will take the average adult reader about 5 minutes to read.
So long as the body precedes the soul, equality cannot exist.
So long as we see people primarily as the bodies they inhabit, rather than the souls that they are, there will never be equality of any kind.
This specific thought, “So long as the body precedes the soul, equality cannot exist.” came about in my head after spending some time over the last few years thinking about how the porn industry feeds misogyny. Porn reduces the actors of it to their bodies—and nothing more. Porn consumers’ actions say to the actors, “Your personhood—your soul—you—do not matter to me, because you are nothing more than a body.”
(This blog will take the average adult approximately six minutes to read.)
I don’t think I’ve managed to keep it a secret how I feel about women’s ministry. Like. Ever. I’ve probably erred on the side of being a total arsehole when it comes to my opinions of women’s ministry.
And I want to be clear, before I go any further, that I fully acknowledge that women’s ministry is a huge blessing for many women—for some women, the various forms that women’s ministry is extremely helpful and edifying. I get that. But I also want to be emphatic that much like pants—yoga or otherwise—women’s ministry is not, and I don’t think can be, a one-size-fits-all ministry. I’ve seen it treated largely as such.
This blog will take the average adult reader approximately four minutes to read.
A friend recently pointed out to me that, in all aspects of life, I am a data collector. I know I do this consciously as part of my job—and I know I do it as a bit of a hobby. I never realized until very recently that I do it non-stop in my head in my personal life. It is an adequate way to describe how I process much of the world around me, though.
I collect data by observing behaviors (intentional and otherwise), language, and my environment—I sort it into data sets—and then I draw conclusions. I can trace this behavior back to when I was about five years old—I’m sure people that knew me as a wee tot can trace it back even farther. It is how I process information. All of life, for me, is data collection and analysis.
This blog will take the average adult about four minutes to read.
As you probably know by now, I’m an overweight woman.
I first became self-conscious of my body around seven years old when a friend told me to suck in my gut if I wanted the boys to like me. Photographic evidence suggests I started actually getting chubby around the fourth grade. Once I became aware of how terrible my body was as a child, I started dressing like a boy—because even at that young age, boys’ fashion was more forgiving (and comfortable!) than girls’. It was all baggy pants and baggy shirts for years. With the advent of fleece vests in middle school, I spent much of my life in one of my vests—to hide the midsection, I suppose. In high school it was more of the same—baggy pants, baggy shirts, baggy hoodies—baggy pirate clothes (<- truth).
(This blog will take the average adult roughly 4 minutes to read.)
“Indifference is the opposite of love.”
The pastor of the church I attend spoke on this some weeks ago. And I’ve been ruminating on it in my head and my heart ever since.
I wax indifferent when the storm tide rises. I can be a very calloused, apathetic person. It’s nothing shy of a defense mechanism. It’s how I’ve learned to deal with the storm surge in my life that has yet to recede.
(This blog will take the average adult about 3 minutes to read.)
They say it takes one to know one.
Consider me an authority on manipulators—because I am a champion among them.
I can spot a manipulator and a liar from a mile away—because I know it intimately within myself. Continue reading
This blog will take the average adult about 4.5 minutes to read.
I see a lot of drivel on the internet about “self love”. (Perhaps the fact that I used the word “drivel” to describe it might cue you into how I feel about it.) I just can’t get on board with it from an emotional, spiritual, or intellectual standpoint. And honestly, after a handful of discussions and months of observations, I don’t think many of you really can, either—if you’re honest with yourself. It’s why attempts at self love always crash and burn—it’s not because we’re “just not there yet”—it’s because we know it’s a fucking crock of shite.
It’s like that scene in Inception where Saito asks Cobb & Arthur if inception is possible, and Arthur explains why it’s not. (And yes, over the course of the movie Cobb proves Arthur wrong—but let’s not forget that, to the best of our knowledge, there’s not really any dream hijacking going on in real life.)
(There are 1,465 words after this. That’s a little less than five minutes of reading for the average adult. This is a continuation from An introduction to being overweight.)
“Oh my gosh, I’m so fat.”
*shoves food into mouth* “Haha I’m gonna get so fat!”
*is telling a story from the day* “… and this fat woman—and she was huge—did this *mildly offensive thing*…”
“He was like—disgustingly overweight.”
*after eating a meal* “I feel so fat.”
“Oh my gosh did you see the fat lady on the bicycle? She looked so ridiculous!”
Those are all things I hear on the regular—from people who I love, and from people who love me. They’re not about me—but it feels like they are. The ones I listed above actually come from specific memories—I recall each of those moments clearly because they felt so uncomfortable.