Oh how I lurve this world wide web. I love it. I do. Sometimes however, more times than I should admit, I find that I do not like it so much if only for the way all that fabulosuness out there makes me feel. I am often inspired, quite often inspired...mostly inspired at least when it comes to recipes and crafts and diys and pretty things. It is the fashion posts that make me shrink in confidence and I wonder what happened to me?
Really. What happened?
|see? no shine.|
There are an incredible number of beautiful women out there blogging their stylish selves to the moon and back. Truly gorgeous. They have shiny hair, I have never had shiny hair. They have straight white teeth...me? Not so much. They look fantastic in tights or knee socks, in cowl necks and v-necks, kitten heels and lumberjack boots. They take their own photos and are in focus. Glowing focus with a secret smile on their faces and they look so casual and unposed in their perfection.
When I take a fashion shot of myself, really something like thirty shots, I look like a bad 80s catalog model all stiff with Spiderman wrists. I try making silly faces before the timer goes off. I think serious face, puckered mouth, sunshiney smile and I try but end up looking like a madball.
Remember madballs? Maybe that is my problem. I'm old. And fat. Sure, I have great skin and a right dandy personality (so I have bee told) but I also have a waist size that used to be my bust size. I have a neck that crinkles. It crinkles, people! And my quirky outie belly button of yore is now an...innie. Gasp! If I look down, even partially so, like I do when I read, or tippy-type on the keyboard, my face...and neck get lost in the uninvited guests of my chins. Plural. Yeah, I said it. I have CHINS. A serious case of the CHINS. I get so caught up in this dilema of mine that I've taken to stretching my head up and jutting my chin out you know, to camouflage the whole mess...I do it especially if I want to appear beguiling to the mister, sometimes I might even casually rest my hand somewhere under the whole mess thinking I can pull of a sultry Meryl Streep (seriously, Merly Streep? I AM old and she is too but she is stunning. STUNNING). All this accomplishes is a confused mister asking me if I am okay and why do I have that funny look on my face.
|a laughng smile, wonky but me|
I laugh about it. I do. A lot. Laughing is good, it makes one appear engaged and happy and dare I write it...sexy. Mister gets quite unhappy with me when I peevishly get all wrapped up in my imaginery non-looks. I wouldn't mind this fat dealio except I feel all ugly in the face (and no I am not trying for some ego boosting, I'm thinking of sharing this weakness in myself because I am certain there has to be a club of other like minded, like bodied ladies in search of a coffee kvetch. I really hope there is and I wana be a part of it and if there isn't, I say let's start one) and when I look at "plus" size models I wonder "why are they all so freaking gorgeous?" and really...they are not at all PLUS. Sniff. I think...who cares if yer fat when yer pretty and I have to honestly say I have never felt pretty. Never. Cute, I think I have mustered cute. When I was thin...from behind I was considered hot, from the front I was called dog-face (yes, really) and well, when a girl hears that enough she kinda carries it around with her and it is a stupid heavy load to carry. I need to put it down already.
Why do we do that? Carry around the crap that people feed us but doubt and disbelieve the nice things people say? I do this and it drives many folk around me nuts and all I can say is that I feel like I have had more people say unkind things than kinds things but then I get all caught up in the thought that I cannot believe the good things because then I would be bragging or big headed and if only my head were a smidge bigger, it might make my hips and ass less bulgy. Oh, and ranty rant onward, I seriously don't hate the fat (except the chins, I really don't like those buggers)...dimpled thighs aside, I'm still curvy and curves are good unless you want to wear clothes and well, society kinda dictates that we don't run around all nekkid (though nekkid dance partes at home are good as are nekkid jumping photos in national parks) and such and so I struggle. I struggle to find something, anything that will cover this large person who often misses her smaller self (a self which went AWOL back in the early 90s). Not only do I struggle for coverage but it would be nice if it both flattered the curves and made me not feel like a sloppy sad raccoon. Oh yes..and it would be nice if it stayed in place and did not ride up or slip off or creep down are cling from all the static that my doughy thighs are good at producing. Is that too much to a for?
|go ahead...try it.|
I would like to wear a dress and not worry that the skirt has creeped up under my bag (I carry a bag, not a purse). It has happened. It does happen. The first time it happend I was cute and 18 and wasn't at all embarrassed because hey, I had a great behind, I did. It rocked. In fact it rocked so much it didn't pass the pencil test. The boobs did, they were once perky and yes, the behind was as well but golly it could hold a pencil. What. Did you never try the pencil test...there? Well...um....nevermind that.
I would also like a pair of jeans that didn't slip off when I sat or squatted. Waists are either too high or too low. In the rare cases they do fit their pockets are usually sick with glitter or rhinestones. Bedazzled to an inch of their lives or they have distressing that makes it look like I participated in a sexy car wash ...with bleach. What's up with all that? On our BIG ROAD TRIP, I was so fed up with ill-fitting jeans, shorts and the like that I purchased a pair of shorts (which maybe were labled culottes, I cringe) that had an elastic waist. ELASTIC WAIST.
I am old.
|see? patchy. patchy.|
So...I love this world wide web. I do. But I would really like to return to my fashionista roots as I had them. BIG time. I'm good at clothes for other people not so much for myself. My closet looks pretty good and my imagination has paired up some lovely ensembles but when I put them on, I fall to the floor in defeat and return to my old-too-big-for-me patchy patched jeans, a tank top, maybe a genie bra*, and an eight dollar grey t-shirt from Target...crew neck because v-necks are icky and why, oh why are v-necks the only necklines in the store and why, oh why can I only find skinny jeans. Skinny jeans, really? But hey, if they fit and don't slip off, I will wear them....at hme, not in pictures. In fact, I picked up a pair of the skinnies that have tiny white polka dots all over them (I do love a polka dot) and they are on the dresser with tags still attached but I think it is passed the return-by date. In my head I see them on me slightly cuffed, with crazy clunky white nursing shoes (a want), a long sleeved pale grey tissue-t, a dozen colorful skinny beaded necklaces, funky plaid old man vest, chunky watch (hee-hee...chunky), and dark grey messenger bag.
It is time for a coffee kvetch. How does one set something like that up?