The Modesty Myth

This thrills me! I believe modesty is good, and bodies are sacred. But I never understood why I was supposed to cover myself as much as possible just because "boys couldn't control their thoughts" and I was provoking them by showing my shoulders.

An excerpt:  "I have a radical proposal: the church and Mormon parents should teach girls that they have value without connecting that value to the sexiness of their bodies, their attractiveness to men, their capacity to make babies. Rather than lessons in which girls make lists of characteristics they should look for in a worthy, Priesthood-holding husband, have them make lists of the characteristics they should foster in themselves to be loving human beings in relationship with others, successful employees, and contributing members of their larger society. Rather than teaching them how to iron their future husbands’ dress shirts, teach them appropriate grooming and behavior for success in the workplace, as civic volunteers, as adult women."

Curtsy Low

Some days just suck and you don't even realize it. Some days it is hard to be a girl. And no, that was a not a reference to Madonna or to the Madonna episode of Glee (which was escandaloso, no?). PMS-ing totally sucks. It sucks to be fine one moment and then be verging on tears the next. Self control = AWOL. Not to mention irritability levels that shoot higher than Justin Timberlake's trembling falsetto.

I was screaming at the TV last night while watching Gossip Girl's season finale. Yes, I know, the finale aired however long ago and I'm the last to see it. But how dare anyone presume to shoot Chuck Bass. Eastern Europeans think they are the you-know-what.

However.

PMS also gives license to my WHO-GIVES-A-______ attitude. Today I did what I have been procrastinating. I finally contacted a few men at work who intimidate me. El Presidente put me in charge of one of his pet projects (why he marked me for this task nobody knows, as a few individuals have oh so kindly pointed out). I was intimidated by these men because

1) I don't know them
2) I don't know anything about their specialties
3) I'm worried they will think I am an idiot because I don't know how to begin to ask about how their areas of expertise can help with this project

Honestly though, you know you're not meant for the business world when: after finishing part of a different project (with good results!) you bound/leap/skip up to your boss and with a final but tiny curtsy show him the finished product.

Today I thought, 'Who cares what they think of me? I'm learning. I can't be expected to know everything. But I can try to not curtsy.' And then I took the plunge, calling and emailing my way to a meeting request.

And then I came home and watched four hours of TV on Hulu. Bless this modern age where I can let the dumb things I do all day sink away in a good episode of 30 Rock. And thank you Alec Baldwin, because you are hilarious.

For the Unbelievers

Miracle of miracles, today marks the third time I've worked out in a week. I am feeling the burn. And the shin splints. Does anybody else itch when they exercise? I do when I'm out of shape and I do cardio. It's like fire ants are attacking my body. I have to stop running every little bit and scratch because I'm a wuss. People driving by probably think I have some irrepressible scabies.

I haven't exercised since November 2008. I don't even know if I was exercising before then, I just counted walking all day every day on my mission as exercise. I lost the weight I gained on my mission pretty quickly (no more daily steak and pasta), but I didn't exercise. Bad idea. My muscles atrophied. I get winded walking up the stairs at work, and I can barely push heavy wooden doors open. Seriously. It's pathetic.

So now I'm trying to reclaim my body and build some muscle. Quite a few of you who didn't know me a few years ago have said there was no way I could have been the chunk I said I was. I got fat because I ate junk food and hid pastries under my bed.

This is for you, unbelievers.

Eating paella in Valencia. The friendly blonde kindly lent me her pink sweater even though we both knew it didn't fit. She never said a word about how much I stretched it out.

In Avila with Meka. One of three full length photos of me the entire four months. And you can't even see my body for the coat.

In Barcelona's famous Parque Guell. Another one of the three full body shots.

Another Barcelona park. I bet you thought chin cellulite was impossible. Pardon the date stamp (incorrect as it is), I didn't know what I was doing with a digital camera.

All of these pictures are from when I lived in Spain in 2005. I was round, awkward, nerdy and had no style--personal or even tacky knock off American Eagle wannabe style. The three "cool girls" in our study abroad group all had ipods and trendy clothes that reflected who they were. But wait, don't start getting all Mean Girls on me because it wasn't like that. They weren't Mean Girls. Everyone was nice to each other and we all got along... even if I had the constant secret desire to punch my squealy Mid-western roommate in the head. Anyhow.

While the cool girls were transferring Ryan Adams and Bright Eyes from their Macbooks (was it PowerBook back then?) to their iPods, I had a case of cds heavy on Jimmy Eat World to play on my Sony Walkman with bulky Over the ear headphones.

In a chic Barcelona boutique I tried on an adorable button front floral top. The extra large didn't come close to buttoning. 'These Spaniards are tiny!' I thought to myself. Minutes later I watched the friendly blonde cool girl sweep my coveted shirt--size small--into the dressing room. She wore it when we went out that night. Later, we met a group of cute French boys on spring break. They all paired off, except me. I was the fat, ugly American girl.

I cried myself to sleep.

You get the point.

The infamous floral shirt that spawned weeks of self-pity and self-loathing.

The south of Spain...Seville or Granda, I forget. An arabic palace--maybe the Alhambra in Granada?

With drunk Scots who were in Biarritz, France for a rugby match.

Baby got back, in Biarritz again.

The fabulous Anabel, in whose home I lived, was an incredible biotch to me. I loved her. She didn't feel sorry for me when I felt sorry for myself. She made me get out of bed to go on walks when I feigned sick so I could sulk in her spare bedroom instead of going to class. After I came home Anabel sent me an email apologizing for being harsh. (I wish I could find pictures of her. Most of her wardrobe was custom made! She always wore this orange, crushed velvet blazer.)

So maybe I wasn't the fattest girl you've ever seen, but that's what it felt like. Even if you've never gained a lot of weight, or haven't been chubby your whole life, you know what it's like on those days you tear yourself down and are miserable for it. If not, you're not being honest with yourself.

It was a bleak life, criticizing myself day after day for the roughly three years I was overweight. This may sound stupid or fake, but every time I see a chubby girl now I want to hug her and tell her everything's going to be okay, that she doesn't have to be ashamed of herself.

Bathroom Drama

I despise using the bathroom at work so much that I avoid going until I'm about to pee my pants or worse. There are simply too many women sharing the two restrooms on the second floor. It consistently smells like an overgrown, dirty vagina is looming over each stall. I can't take it! I can't handle that decaying, sour scent! I don't want to smell somebody's dirty vagina. C'mon people, you must know that you have to wash it every day, right? Not just a rinse, but a thorough washing. Go pick some up some vagina cleanser and make a habit out of it.

To make matters worse, three of the eight stalls are handicap stalls! If you don't know what that means, allow me to explain:
1. The cracks between the stalls are big enough for everyone to see you doing your business
2. Only the overweight women use them, and generally their business, and smell, is worse

I'm about to discriminate and I don't apologize, but let me preface this complaint: There are quite a few obese women at my work and the ones I know are lovely people and we get along well. However. In my experience of having to use stalls after them, their smell is more pungent; their splatters and grunts louder and more ferocious. I'm unsure if it's because of the excess folds of skin and fat that they're unable to reach down there to wash and wipe efficiently or they just don't know that it smells. As far as the grunts and splatters, I'm thinking that their higher food intake (hey, you gotta eat to maintain that weight!) produces a much higher output, if you will.

I'm not saying I think obese people should have a bathroom specifically for them. I don't want to quarantine them for Pete's sake! But I do think another bathroom is necessary to spread out the high traffic. I know I'm not alone on this because in a recent conversation with several other women, we realized we all try to use the ONE stall that has the air freshener above it.

My last grievance: talking on the phone while in the restroom. How incredibly inconsiderate to the person on the other end and to others in the bathroom with you! Don't fool yourself, the person on the line heard everything you were doing and that flush! It's an invasion of privacy for others using the restroom, no one wants their bathroom activities broadcast to all the world. Nor do I want to be subjected  to your private conversation with your doctor about your bladder infection/foot fungus/lactose intolerance. Just last week I overheard a girl advising her sister on what to do now that she had cheated on her husband. Nothing is so important that it can't wait until you're done in the bathroom.

Maybe I'll print this off and submit is as my formal complaint to HR. Also, I don't think there is anything wrong with the word vagina. So many people are scared of it! If I could, I would be a part of The Vagina Monologues.

Trouble

Conversation about joint bank account.

Danny: This would be so much easier (sputter) if you (angry sputter) just.... 

Jane (makes innocent eyes): Hmm. What?

Danny (all angry sputters): If you could just put your name! Your REAL NAME! TOONE!

Uh oh. I think Danny's remembered I haven't changed my name yet. Can't it be Jane Elizabeth Sroufe Toone? I know Sroufe isn't the greatest last name ever (nor is Toone) but I identify with it! I had to wear frumpy, mannish clothes and be called 'Sroufe' for 18 months--doesn't that count for something!?

Shouldn't I be able to scrunch my maiden name in between my middle and married name? It's not even dignified to scrunch it in there, 'Jane Sroufe Toone' doesn't have some wonderful ring to it but I just want it. I need it. Is that so bad?

Desert Flower

Has anyone heard of the Somalian supermodel Waris Dirie? She was discovered in London and became insanely famous in the late 1990s. We just finished watching the movie about her, Desert Flower, and were in tears by the end.

It came out in 2009, and chronicles her life--from being born into a nomadic clan, genitally mutilated at age 3, running away when forced into marriage at 13, ending up London, discovered by a famous fashion photographer while working at a McDonald's, and finally becoming a UN Special Ambassador for the Elimination of Female Genital Mutilation (FGM).

I remember reading her interview with Marie Claire in 1997, her first about being mutilated. I was in seventh grade and lay curled in bed with that magazine, sobbing and thinking about this woman and the other millions like her that had been disfigured due to cultural superstition. I prayed that night and thanked God for being born a woman in the United States.

We hear stories of atrocities that go on all over the world and I always feel helpless to do anything. The least I can do I blog about it.

Somalian women are mutilated because they are thought of as unclean. The only way to ensure cleanliness and virginity is to scrape away some or all of their genitalia, leaving a tiny opening, and then stitching the surrounding area closed (often times with thorns or whatever is handy). This is done without anesthetic or sterile instruments on girls ages 3 and up. Most girl become infected, many hemorrhage, bleed out and die, almost all are affected the rest of their lives: loss of sexual pleasure, inability to bear children, incontinence, etc.

On the wedding night, it is expected that the new husband cut the girl open with a blade before forcing his way into her.

Female circumcision affects 130 million women world wide, with 6,000 girls mutilated daily. Ninety-eight percent of somalian women are mutilated.

Honestly, I had to take a break while typing this because I thought I was going to throw up. Think of this happening to your daughters or sisters or any woman at all and try not to be sick.

Click here for more information, but be warned - very graphic images
Click here to read about the foundation Waris created. You can donate to her foundation to help stop FGM as well.