The Land of Squee

This is gonna have to be my new tradition. I also did 2009 and 2011.

( Seems to me now that the dreams we had before are all dead, nothing more than confetti on the floor )

Ew I ended it on a sour note. Well this has been kind of a sour year. I mean for other people I guess it would be a fine year (minus nearly dying and finding out your friends don't care about you) but to fill out this quiz I was deleting my answers from LAST year when I had become the world's best groupie and recently been deflowered by my then-celebrity crush and followed that up with three first dates in one weekend, so like... deleting that and throwing in how stupid this year as been made me crankier and crankier.

Let's hope next year I'll be able to delete these answers and fill in something a lot perkier.

Remember the guy who told me to lose weight?

Well, he sent me a lot of apologies and that time I was drunk I told him to calm down and go to sleep.  That resulted in him messaging me a hundred and seven more times about how sorry he was some more.  When I didn't answer, he tried telling me he had a friend who was going to be in Paris and had seen my profile and had a HUGE crush on me and was desperate to meet me, and I was like

Hey, just wanted to let you know that I met a guy from the site yesterday and we got along really well, so I'm not answering messages for a while so we can see where it goes.

and he was like

great, happy for you, but we can continue talking ! i wasnt necessarily talking to u just for flirting, as u would appreciate..
bonne nuit

and, a day later, when I hadn't answered that, he said

grr

Now, something like TWO WEEKS later, I get this:

how are you, is everything allright with you ?
and why don't u think of writing me without me writing to you ?

I... there are so many ways I could answer this.

PS I have a date tomorrow with Samuel, the cute one with the nice smile who seems to actually get stuff done.

So I was having a pretty cool conversation with an okay-looking French guy on the dating site I joined, and suddenly out of nowhere he said this:

an arrogant but really sincere advice : lose some weight. u’re somebody really beatiful, but whose beauty can easily be a bit concealed by weight, i know it from myself.
and in any case, it’s paris ! :)

ps: hope it wont be offending !!!

Even six months ago hearing something like this would have shattered me. But thanks to the great curvy appreciation blogs on tumblr, the support of my friends, and the reactions of A LOT of other men on the same site, I was able to respond like this:

That actually is pretty offensive. I’ve struggled with self-image issues my whole life because of people saying things like that, and it’s the main reason I left the United States. Because of people like you I went on my first diet at the age of eight and have continuously emotionally abused myself ever since, but I’m finally starting to come to terms with myself. If you think I need to change what I naturally look like to impress other people, to starve myself or hurt myself again the way I used to, then I’m perfectly content to let future messages from you go unanswered and spend what little free time I have talking to the all other guys on here who aren’t telling me that I’m not good enough for them. I opened my profile on Sunday night because I just got out of an emotionally abusive relationship that I let go on for months because I have believed my whole life that I wasn’t pretty due to my weight, so I thought this guy was the only guy I would ever get. I opened this profile to show myself that I was wrong and that I could find people who were interested in me without me having to keep on being miserable about what I looked like. I already have dates this weekend with two different people.

If you think beauty can be concealed by weight, you really need to redefine your definition of beauty.

Good luck with everything though. It was going pretty well for you for a second there.

I’m not upset. I’m proud.

(Also, I exaggerated a little by using the phrase "emotionally abusive" and I know that, but still.)

I feel pretty good about everything, mostly myself. When I get scolded for not doing something well instead of getting despressed it makes me want to immediately prove I can do better. I didn't expect that.

Today for instance, I did awesome. I let the kids watch television while I ironed their clothes without being asked, then I sent them to do their homework while I colored with the littlest (he drew me a picture of "my friend Mozart"), then I gave the littlest his bath with no tears and rough-housed with him while he got dressed. The other two joined in and soon they were desperately trying to convince me to play with them instead of fixing dinner. That culminated in all three of them battling me while I tried to get to the door. It took me fifteen to get myself downstairs, especially since they all ended up clinging to my legs and I had to alternate between dragging them across the floor and tickling them to get a chance to step forward. Then they finally released me once I had gotten to the kitchen without killing them (try dragging three children down a spiral staircase with nothing but the muscles of your calves) and then I fixed a dinner that was completely chosen by me. Usually I either panic or wait for the mom to give me instructions. I got the kids to the table and we were chatting about some song the oldest had learned in school when their dad got home.

And instead of commenting on anything positive, he told me there was laundry outside that had fallen to the ground. I was so proud of myself for ironing without being asked, and then it turns out that not only was that what was expected, but it was LESS than what was expected. I was a little disappointed but instead of getting disenheartened I just made a mental note. I can do that too. I can do all of this. I can be a better au pair than the girl from last year. I always have to hear about her--oh, she was so outgoing, her French was great, she was so good with the kids, blah blah. My French might not be as good as hers, but it's still better than ALL the other girls with the agency. Believe me. I might not be outgoing, but I'm determined. And you know what? I'm AWESOME with the kids, so suck on that. They'll see.

Meanwhile, tumblr and the Frenchman and Kelley have done wonders for my self-esteem. I don't hide from my reflection in the mirror anymore, I don't limit myself to clothes that hide my body shape... the lights around my bathroom mirror are super flattering; this morning my appearance pleased me so much that I did a happy dance. And I'm wearing a tight stripes-around sweater that practically accents my gut. Who cares? I choose sugary food and temporary happiness. As long as my clothes don't stop fitting, I'm fine. Every time I go out I get catcalls. It might be going to my head. But I love it.

I found a sticker when I was helping Mimi clean her room yesterday that says "I'M in charge." I stuck it to my mirror, right in the middle, and I force myself to believe it in the mornings. I'm tired of feeling apologetic for entering a room and shuffling around in corners. It's time for me to feel like a badass, and permanently this time.

Me every year at Carowinds.

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PS I know there is a picture from 2007 because I went with a bunch of people from my job... or maybe that was 2006.  No yeah, 2007 I went with friends from high school and there was no group photo, and the year before, 2006, I went with friends from my job.

Man I go to Carowinds a lot.

BY THE WAY MY VISA CAME IN TODAY AND IT'S BEAUTIFUL

 A day with Kelley includes a whole lot of "You look so hot!" and "You're such a sexpot!" and other such things I had never heard before this past year.  KELLEY.  YOU ARE REALLY GOOD FOR MY SELF-ESTEEM.

If I ever mention this whole self-image thing to my mom she protests that my dad used to tell me I was pretty all the time.  But the thing is, he's my dad and he never said it seriously, it just seemed like a thing he said to fill silence so I never took it seriously or listened to the meaning of those words.

And today at the end of a long conversation with my mom I finally said, "Do you like my hair?"  She shrugged and went, "It's not as bad as I thought it would be.  Daddy doesn't hate it."  Fishing for a compliment I said, "I think it makes my eyes look bluer."  She wrinkled her nose and said, "Maybe, but you'd have to get your hair out of your eyes first.  Your bangs are too long."

She wasn't being rude or anything, she just doesn't really say unnecessarily complimentary things.  My mom has never complimented my looks before.  I know because they have been complimented so rarely that I remember every time.  Except with Kelley because she does it repeatedly on a daily basis.  KELLEY YOU ARE FIXING MY SOUL WITH YOUR OVERLY KIND WORDS.

One time I overheard that guy I dated when I was seventeen telling a mutual friend "she's so pretty!" and when he saw me standing there he blushed and tried to shut the door on me.  And one time my Frenchman called me "guapa," which was incredibly adorable of him.  This is why I love the dragueurs so much and the ooh là làs.  Also Mikele told me I had sexy eyes.  There.  That's every compliment that has ever been paid to me by a male human.

However.  The thing is.  I don't know where the line is between confident and vain.

There are pictures of me that I really like.  Usually I try to credit things like the lipstick I'm wearing or the fake lashes or whatever.  My brain keeps rejecting those pictures I posted the other day because I don't believe that I wasn't sucking my gut in, but I really wasn't.  I think I wasn't.  I remember forcing myself not to.  But that can't really be what I look like when I'm relaxed.  So I said it was because I was wearing a great bra.  I really don't see that body when I look in the mirror.  If I did, this would be a lot easier for me.

I recently lost fifty pounds, as most of you know.  That's about, what, 22 kilos or something?  It's a LOT of weight.  A huge difference.  I've always considered myself vastly overweight.  It was always my defining feature in my mind.  But I think I've always been wrong.  I think I've blown it way out of proportion due to my insecurities.

Today I really liked my outfit and I kept running to look at myself in the mirror before I left to work.  And at work I went to the bathroom to check it out.  I was hoping my mom would say something about it when she saw it, but she didn't.  Well, she asked why I was wearing knee socks if I had gone through the trouble of using an epilator.  I told her I just liked them, but actually it's one part Patrice Maktav tribute and five parts to hide the tattoo she doesn't know I have.  It's just not in her nature to bestow unnecessary compliments.  She's not cold or mean by any stretch of the imagination, just... practical, I guess.  She hasn't ever felt good about her own looks, so she doesn't point out others' features either.

I like my haircut, I like my outfit, I like being a little bit overly friendly with customers and watching the tip jar overflow.

My new hair color makes me feel really confident.  It's vixen hair and I'm a little bit obsessed with it.

Look at my hairrrrr

 
and my sonic screwdrivers

I was going to take a picture of my outfit today just because I liked it and it looked hot but I couldn't think of any justification for posting it.  I felt like it would look vain just to post a picture of myself for no reason.  The sonic screwdrivers feature in that picture up there just because I wanted a reason to post a better picture of my new hair color, so I did it under the guise of showing off my sonic screwdrivers.

This paranoia of vanity is only crippling me.

I want to get this obsession with self image sorted in the next twenty-seven days.

TWENTY-SEVEN DAYS!!!  That is such a short time!

In unrelated news, today I decided to get a new phone number when I get back to France.  There are two people from whom I no longer wish to receive texts, both of them... unbalanced... fans.  I'll text my new number to the people who won't cause me drama.

BYE OLD PHONE NUMBER!  BYE OLD LIFE!

I am gonna be Ehreen and I am gonna be such a badass.  With vixen hair, an epilator, and two sonic screwdrivers.

 I'm trying really hard here.  I'm trying to believe that I'm fine the way I am, but even on the days when I wear tight clothes (I've been doing that a lot to try to force myself to own my belly rather than hide it) I look in the mirror and find myself thinking "I'll look great once I lose this little bit of weight!"

That's the thing, I picked up my mom's obsession with dieting but not her willpower to actually diet, so I live in a constant mindset of thinking I'm in the process of losing weight and striving for a specific goal.  I'm not.  Every time we go to Harris Teeter I eat at least four free cookies without blinking an eye.  I don't care enough to actually diet or exercise, so this is what I'm gonna look like.  I don't want to constantly worry about what I'm eating and whether or not it's going to make a number on a scale go up.

The problem is, in the way I've always seen the world, there's thin-as-a-model and fat.  No in-between.  It does make me feel better to see images of curvy girls (on tumblr) and I am in a much, much better place than I used to be, but I'm still not "there" yet.  And the problem is, I'm not sure what else I can do to get "there."

So I did this.

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 I love my tattoo so much.  I can't stop looking at it.

Also, my Frenchman messaged me telling me to make sure I call him when I get to Paris.

I am really excited about both of these things but I cannot tell my mom about either one.

Buh.

Pictures and videos of the tattoo experience to come!  Though since I've been posting the picture everwhere I figure I can go ahead and say
LOOOOOK

 

Yay!

It hurt a lot, but I didn't mind.

ETA:



And I wore a tanktop again! Hmph.

 Blah blah blah I thought this would be a good idea and now it seems weird but I'm gonna do it anyway so feel free to just keep scrolling. :D

Last time I was painting my nails I remarked to myself that they looked really good.  Then I suddenly remembered in high school when I was dreadfully insecure about my fingernails.  And I realized... there is not one thing about me that I haven't gone through a phase of being insecure about.  Not.  One.  Thing.

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I'm working on it.  I am so tempted to post this as private because I feel like it looks so, so vain.  But I'm going to force myself to at least friends-lock it if I can't bear the thought of leaving it public.  Confident people shouldn't be incapable of admitting that they're desirable to some people.  (I want to delete that sentence so badly but I'm leaving it, oh god.)  I want to be confident.

Livejournal, you are my therapist.

 I think I've figured it out.  Every time I talk to my mother I end up crying about how miserable I am when I'm not *that* miserable.

Well, I won't be back in France before September 12th, but since I plan to stay this time, I guess I'll do what I can to take advantage of my last month or so here in America.  Of course, if I was in France that would mean visiting museums and historical sites I'd neglected or checking out shows I'd passed up.  Here that means... um, I don't know, eating Papa John's pizza and Kraft mac and cheese, I guess.  I'm kind of over my addiction to ranch dressing.  Maybe I should get ready to bid skim milk farewell too since I never really drank much of it when I was in Paris.  It cost too much and the fact that it sat out on the shelf without being refrigerated still weirds me out.

I'd say that also means saying goodbye to my friends, but I can't help but notice that a whole lot of them haven't made any effort to reunite with me since I got back.  Some of the people who trolled my facebook all year telling me they missed me can't be bothered to drive their asses over here and say hi.  Okay.  Hope I see them before I take off again, since from this point forward if all goes well they won't see me anymore unless they come visit Paris.

Seriously.  I'm going to do everything in my power not to come back.  Unless of course I find out I hate France when MOR is gone, but... well, I don't know.  We'll see.  Let's just say I kinda doubt that'll be the case.

I could have gotten used to America again, but I didn't give it the chance because I saw myself slipping back into my old habits and my old self-doubts and my old miseries.  I can't have that.  I was almost *there* before I left France.  I was almost happy with myself for the first time in my LIFE.

Yesterday I was driving between my parents' house and my apartment and I asked myself whether I was going to or from "home".  The answer was neither.  In the apartment I feel trapped by the humidity, the lack of transport, and the lack of anywhere to go.  In the house I feel completely suffocated by my parents and by the ghost of the judgmental child I used to be.  If these aren't it, I asked myself if "home" was the yellow garret room in Bois-Colombes, but it couldn't have been.  I was always so quiet and withdrawn there, terrified of disturbing the family that was good enough to house me.  That was when I realised: "home" was freezing my ass off or getting sunburned in the midst of a crowd of girls my age whose parents were (mostly) nowhere to be seen, girls who knew the difference between Corentin and Guillaume and thought Patrice Maktav's behaviour around me was remarkable, girls called me "l'Américaine!" or, even better, "la fan de Patrice qui tricote!" and asked me how many French swear words I'd learned and how their names would have been pronounced in English.  Approaching the hotel after some kind of harrowing journey on foot and hearing people cheer when they saw me arrive or run out to hug me and bisou me was almost as good a feeling as rapidly telling someone why Patrice was the nicest man ever in French and hearing them respond, "Mais ça c'est juste avec toi, il n'est pas comme ça avec les autres!"  Home is unlocking the door to my hotel room and flinging myself onto the massive bed for the first time, spending all morning rolling around in the big bathtub or all afternoon dancing as hard as I can to my iTunes.  I don't even have to mention the way Florent Mothe's face lit up when he saw me or Mikele's lifeless, glittery stares and never-ending hugs.

Home was being a MOR groupie, and that's gone.  When will I feel at home again?  Maybe it'll be in my little flat next door to my new host family.  Maybe I'll find some kind of Frasier-esque café where I can spend my mornings waiting for class to begin.  Maybe it'll be years from now when I have a steady job and am paying rent on an even tinier flat somewhere near Paris.  I don't know.  So I feel so strange because, for all intents and purposes, I'm kind of homeless.  The best thing I have right now is you guys, tumblr and the Florum.

I tried to express this to my mother on the phone and she picked out random details of what I was trying to convey and tried to suggest ways to correct them.  She told me to make new friends, hang out with my coworkers, go to hipster concerts at bars, try to identify with the people around me.  Every time she did that I felt like she was undermining my problems, like she was telling me that it wasn't so bad and it was my own fault I was unhappy, so I'd bring up something else that I didn't like about my life and the whole thing would start again.  The more I told her about things that made me unhappy, the unhappier I became until I couldn't keep myself from crying.  I don't want her to tell me what I *should* do, I want her to commiserate with me over what I've lost.  My friends understand that, you guys understand that, so why can't my own mother?  She also has a defense mechanism wherein she turns things around to keep them from being her fault, so I often feel attacked by the way she words things.  I feel like she accuses me of being judgmental all the time and she constantly says things about how *I* think poorly of *her* which beg me to correct her and tell her how great I think she is.  If I complain about something someone did that seemed closed-minded she'll say, "Now that sounds judgmental."  Then I was telling her that of all people it's Anais who has sent me the sweetest messages of encouragement and she said something about random like "What does that tell ya?" and I said "Huh?" and she admitted that she wasn't listening.  Then she asked me if I want to get counselling.  She tells me that internet friends aren't real friends and I'm only comfortable with them because I don't have to talk to them face-to-face.

I *know* I talk too much about myself and don't listen enough, she has made that EXCRUCIATINGLY clear to me in my life.  Because of her I always feel incredibly guilty whenever I'm spending too much time harping on about my time as a groupie, recounting my adventures or whining over how much I miss Patriiiiiiice.  It's probably good that I'm conscious of this because there are plenty of people who don't want to hear it, but it also makes me ashamed of my desire to jabber on and tell my stories over and over.  I HAVE REALLY GOOD STORIES DAMMIT.  And I need CONSTANT validation.

I am not a miserable person.  I am an incurably cheerful person.  When things are bad I make a mopey post about it here on lj and then within a day (or two if it's REALLY bad) I do my best the focus on the good or to move on.

I tried to explain to my mom that it's good for her that she found the right guy while she was in college, then found a job in which she was happy, then got married, then had kids, raised them up, retired from the same job, and can now sit around doing nothing or whatever, but she needs to understand that the world isn't like that.  She needs to understand that there are some people who don't meet "Mr Right" before they've had sex, there are some people who don't know what job they want, there are some people who don't want to be retired and have no goals for the rest of their life.  I told her that I am no longer proud of my sheltered childhood, that I feel like I missed out by not learning how to socialise normally (ie go to a bar or a club) and never watching the shows or listening to the music that defined the childhoods of so many of my friends.  She glibly replied that I could go to a club right now if I wanted, I was just saying that because I didn't want to leave the computer.  Okay mom.

I don't care about my crazy-ass childhood "values" anymore, even the ones that I held up until a few weeks ago.  I don't care about the integrity of dying without ever tasting alcohol or "saving yourself" for some magical prince charming or not even knowing what different drugs looked or smelled like if I were to ever encounter them.  I wasn't being "good" by avoiding all of this in high school, I was limiting myself because I was afraid the "cool" groups who were blundering their way through these things wouldn't accept a tubby dork like me.  It never had anything to do with Christianity or values, it had to do with fear.  But I learned to stop being scared this past year, and now that I'm ready to stumble out into the world and learn how to socialize, experience things and figure things out and learn through trial and error how I want to conduct myself, I'm geographically back in the place where I had surrounded myself with people who saw the world the way I did, people who had built walls around themselves too.

Wake up, guys.  This is probably your only life.  Try the weird green fruit with the mayonnaise on it.  It might be the best thing you ever tasted, and, better yet, it might be good for you.