Tag Archives: perfectionism

It’s OK to Buy Bigger Pants

Last Saturday some friends hosted a lamb roast at their house. I had worked in the morning, then visited with a family friend in the afternoon, so the fumes I was intending to use to get through the final social engagement of the day were not quite sufficient to get me through the evening. I’m generally an articulate person, but that night I found myself staring at a friend, child on my hip, realizing that a whole chunk of dialogue had passed and it was my turn to talk, but I had nothing to say. I think I nodded and said, “Yeah.” I say “yeah” a lot lately.

So “yeah”, that’s been happening.

On Tuesday night I had a whole night free to myself since my son hasn’t realized that the time change has occurred, and therefore has been falling asleep an hour earlier than usual. There were a million things I could do with my extra time. I chose to watch four episodes of Gilmore Girls while eating pickle flavored potato chips with ranch dip.

So “yeah”, that’s happening, too.

Neither of these stories are newsworthy or even that interesting. But I have found myself really down lately, wishing that I could make choices that got me more in the direction of where I want to be: namely, well rested, articulate, back in shape, consistent with times of reflection and contemplation, balancing work and friends and family. And I am so unbelievably not in that space right now.

To be fair, I don’t know that I have ever been in that space. Except maybe in college, but I guarantee I had too much angst to fully appreciate it.

My friend tells me that the key to getting a healthy relationship with myself is to treat myself with kindness and curiosity. Doesn’t that sound just wonderful? Like, “Hmm, it’s so interesting that I ate a bag of potato chips, I wonder why I did that?” Or “Wow, you must have really needed to watch those four episodes of Gilmore Girls to help unwind. I’m glad you took some time for yourself.” Instead of the tired script in my head that says, “Why did you waste so much time again? Why didn’t you just GO TO SLEEP?” Or, “Do you really want to be fat forever? STOP EATING!”

At the lamb roast, during one of the conversations I did manage to track, one of my female friends was lamenting the fact that her pants weren’t fitting well anymore. Another woman joined in the conversation and said that she makes herself go on week-long diets so she can fit back into her clothes. The first friend just looked at her and said, “Nope, I’m gonna buy bigger pants. I’m gonna do it this week.”

And I laugh thinking about it right now, since it is literally the monologue that goes on in my head, the tension I ride between restriction and resignation. And it isn’t just about the size of my jeans. It’s about everything. My use of time, the hot and cold of relationships, the way I spend money, my commitment to generosity toward others, carving out space for prayer and contemplation.

My husband and I had a heart to heart this past week. It’s been a rough couple weeks for both of us. The ebb has been more than the flow. He said he had been feeling badly about not running lately. A five time marathon completer, he has been hoping to get back into the pattern of running again. When he said something about it to his father, also an avid runner, his dad just said, “Why? When you were a baby I didn’t run for years.”

And so we talked about how there are seasons of life, and having a small child may just be one of them, when maybe we have to lower the bar for ourselves a little bit. There are seasons of our life during which our triumphs are less about the fifty pound weight loss, and more about our ability to convince a fourteen month old to eat green beans. There are seasons when we need to buy the bigger pants, not out of resignation, but out of grace.

My friend Brittany, after reading one of my blogs about my body image issues, said, “You know what, Rachel? That stuff is hard. It takes time, but you’ll get there. And don’t even bother getting into shape between the first and second child. ”

It’s amazing how easy it is to treat others with curiosity and kindness, and how hard it is to do the same for myself. But in the midst of everything else, I admit that right now, I like the idea of buying bigger pants more than the idea of going on a week-long diet. At the very least, it seems much more manageable. Maybe that’s giving in and giving up. Maybe it’s resignation.

Or maybe it’s grace.

grace not perfection

261755_10150290602379874_2436766_nRachel

The Brutal Honesty of a Photograph

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My dad recently posted some photos from our family’s time together at Easter. They are beautiful. They all show our smiling, happy faces, many surrounded by the lush and rich foliage from the nature conservatory we visited. I loved them all.

All except one. There was one I didn’t love. It was the one of my dad, my son, and me. Actually, it was the only one of me. And let me be clear, my dad and my son look great. But I look like a total bummer.

There are a lot of reasons for this. Like, the intensive sleep deficit my husband and I were rocking, due to our choice to drive through the night to get to my family’s house. We got there in record time, without the requisite hourly stops made when my son is awake. We also got there at three in the morning, and two weeks later I think it is safe to say we haven’t fully made up the sleep gap.

Also, my family has this thing about using local and organic and natural (the real natural, not the natural stamped onto Cheetos so you can fool yourself into thinking you’re being healthy) products. I am in favor of this completely. Except when it comes to shampoo. Natural shampoo is the equivalent of rubbing Aquaphor by the handfuls into my fine and oily-prone hair. So besides the bags under my eyes, my hair looks like an Italian mobster’s toupee.

But the biggest bummer of all, perhaps, is the fact that the picture is breathtakingly honest. That’s pretty much what I look like these days. Even without long distant late night drives and lotion shampoo, I generally have bags under my eyes and greasy, sloppy hair. This is what my life has become.

When I saw the picture I started down a shame spiral. How in the world had I become one of those women? You know the ones. They find a guy, settle down, and let themselves go. Also, everyone else looks put together in the photographs. Why couldn’t I at least have brushed my hair? Was that sweatshirt really necessary? Why so baggy and dirty? Is my face always so splotchy? Oy vey. You get the idea.

I started making resolutions about what I wouldn’t eat and what I would buy to make my hair shiny. I thought about the manicures and pedicures and hair cuts and wardrobes necessary to return me to my pre-baby, pre-“letting myself go” glory. I even wrote a full ending to this blog about taking care of myself and prioritizing mommy’s needs. Which I think is important.

But the more I have thought about it, the more I have been remembering the day. The day that the photo was taken.

That day, after months of waiting, I woke up in my parents’ house and got to have breakfast with my dad. I watched my son play with his cousins. I had lunch with my mom. My dad and I took the dogs to the dog park and met really enthusiastic dog owners. (Are there any other kind?)

Then we went to the conservatory and looked at the flowers. A hush fell over my son the moment his stroller entered the fern room. He was mesmerized by the plants, often close enough to rip off chunks and immediately eat them. We took the mandatory family photos by the fountain with the naked girl and my mom got her grandma/grandson snapshot. We breathed deep the rich, oxygenated air, filling up on the green we’ve been missing for the past six months.

We went home and twelve of us squeezed around a table growing too small in a kitchen growing too small to hold the abundance of new members, married and birthed in over the past three years. While eating bowls of lentil soup we laughed until we couldn’t breathe. Because that’s what my family does. Then we played games and laughed some more. And ate some more, of course, because that’s also what my family does.

All of this I accomplished with greasy hair and baggy, out of date clothes. All of this, with the food stains and the glasses that are askew from being grabbed by my curious son too many times. All of this with the fatigue that is my familiar blanket. All of this.

I want so badly to be the person who can do it all. I want to have the career. And I do. I want the perfect house. And I (mostly) do. I have the husband and the kid, the car and the memberships. But I want to do it all with nice nails, long hair that wasn’t poorly cut during a disastrous Groupon mistake. Oh, and clean, trendy clothes. Maybe even a little make-up.

And those are things that I feel like I could have if I just tried a little bit harder. If I just bought the right cream or took the time to blow dry my hair.

But remembering that day makes me feel foolish.

Could I spend more time on my hair? Of course. Will I ever? Probably not. Because frankly, my dear, I just don’t give a damn. Or at least, not enough of a damn. There’s just too many other things that I care about too much more than whether or not my hair is washed with Vaseline, or if it is washed with Aveda.

Hear me out, I’m still going to buy the Aveda shampoo, mind you, next time I go to the salon (which should be soon because honestly, the Groupon hair disaster is still haunting me). I still like to pretend that there will come a day when I will buy the magic soap that will transform my skin in a single use. Or the super shampoo that will erase the need for blow drying, styling, and productifying. (I told you, I don’t do those things. I don’t even know the appropriate words for them.)

But in case I never do, and because I know I won’t (at least for not any meaningful length of time), I have to remind myself that a picture is just a picture. Sure, it will scroll across the computer screen at my parents’ home forever and ever amen. But it is just a picture.

And I choose the moment and memory. Even with the greasy hair.

261755_10150290602379874_2436766_nRachel