Haven't written anything for a few weeks, mainly because life has just flown by without me noticing. I have been busy sorting the house out, my continual quest to "just get on top of things so that all I have to do is maintain". The trouble with this is that in order to "just get on top of things" I have to get through several major projects. The latest one is to fence of a third of our garden, build the fence and gate, and then dig up the yard, level it off and then lay paving slabs so that the dogs do not continually drag in dust and mud from the garden into the house.
I think I will just have to accept there will never be a time when "I am on top of things". I am always going to be climbing a gigantic housework hill - but hey at least I will be fit, right?
Friday, 14 September 2007
Wednesday, 15 August 2007
Life marker or scar?
I have been pondering what makes a woman sexy and or attractive. In my younger days sexiness was directly attached to weight. Thin was sexy, fat was ugly and repulsive. Who would want to fuck a girl who was overweight? - even a little bit. Even if you did manage to get yourself a boyfriend and you were overweight, how would you keep him if a thinner girl came along? This was all because I so completely bought into our media driven idea of the ideal body image.
With age I learnt this amazing little secret that what really seemed to attract the opposite sex was much more indefinable than my dress size. It was confidence and the desire to fuck. Men seemed to be driven towards woman who didn't give a toss what anyone thought, who loved who they were and who had a very firm grasp on exactly what they liked to do and have done to them. The less inhibitions the better. Freedom of spirit seemed to hold much more allure than a tiny ass and low BMI.
Yet despite this firm knowledge, despite trying to accept who I am and definately having figured out who I am sexually, I still have that quiet voice at the back of my head that says "Fat is failure".
This brings me round to my stretch marks. A large part of me finds pride in these. They are the direct physical affirmation of my ability as a woman to bring life into this world, they are the ribbons left on my body as fond reminders of the days I felt my babies nestled so wonderfully in my womb. However a part of me on my low days will always see unsightly scars.
So how does one quiet that voice? How do you truly let go to what vogue tells you is sexy and listen to your own inner confidence and the cooing compliments of your lover?
Answers on a postcard please!!!
With age I learnt this amazing little secret that what really seemed to attract the opposite sex was much more indefinable than my dress size. It was confidence and the desire to fuck. Men seemed to be driven towards woman who didn't give a toss what anyone thought, who loved who they were and who had a very firm grasp on exactly what they liked to do and have done to them. The less inhibitions the better. Freedom of spirit seemed to hold much more allure than a tiny ass and low BMI.
Yet despite this firm knowledge, despite trying to accept who I am and definately having figured out who I am sexually, I still have that quiet voice at the back of my head that says "Fat is failure".
This brings me round to my stretch marks. A large part of me finds pride in these. They are the direct physical affirmation of my ability as a woman to bring life into this world, they are the ribbons left on my body as fond reminders of the days I felt my babies nestled so wonderfully in my womb. However a part of me on my low days will always see unsightly scars.
So how does one quiet that voice? How do you truly let go to what vogue tells you is sexy and listen to your own inner confidence and the cooing compliments of your lover?
Answers on a postcard please!!!
Tuesday, 14 August 2007
Rebirth or revinvention.
So since shaving my first mohawk in a couple of months ago I have begun a rather impromptu journey into rediscovering and redefining myself. The hawk came in, the looks started. Then I had some more piercings done - tongue, both nipples and clitoral hood. Now tonight I am having my third tatto done.
Now on the surface this looks alot like me re-discovering my youth, going back to my punk-goth chick roots. However with age and confidence I have gone a step further than I ever did in my teens and twenties. Back then I was the quiet rebel, nothing I did with appearance couldn't be masked so that I could blend again with the mainstream. During my late twenties and early thirties my desire to be a good mother led me to try and fit in as much as possible. Not be the mom in the playground the caused all the eyebrows to rise and children to titter. However with increasing frustration I have realised that I am only ever truly comfortable with those members of society who reside left of center. Who truly take life as it comes, have no stored up hate for class, religion, sex, colour or fetish (of course with the exclusion of those into paedophillia or co-erced non-consensual sex). So I shaved in my hawk, it was a great big "warning, I may very well not be like you so read the label before you open your mouth". I am not a racist, have no issue with travellers, my brother is gay, and I am a devout atheist. So really, first do no harm and we will all be ok.
The piercings were as much a present to my lover as to myself, but also a right of womanhood. I now own my body in a very striking way. Some will understand and others will never. That is the way of the world. Finally in June I changed my name from Joanne to Scarlet. I discarded the name assigned to me at birth, a name with so much negativity and self loathing attached to it that it had become a weight around my soul. I chose a name I had used for many years in multiple online settings and one that I felt affinity to. I did admittedly speak with my mother first as I would not wish to cause her pain in the last few years of her life and if my name change would have upset her then I would have waited another a few years. Does that make me less of a rebel or just a caring daughter?
My message to my children is own yourself, love what you are and be proud of your choices - all of them. Every statement you make about yourself should be full of self belief, and never ever be afraid to set your own drum beat.
Now on the surface this looks alot like me re-discovering my youth, going back to my punk-goth chick roots. However with age and confidence I have gone a step further than I ever did in my teens and twenties. Back then I was the quiet rebel, nothing I did with appearance couldn't be masked so that I could blend again with the mainstream. During my late twenties and early thirties my desire to be a good mother led me to try and fit in as much as possible. Not be the mom in the playground the caused all the eyebrows to rise and children to titter. However with increasing frustration I have realised that I am only ever truly comfortable with those members of society who reside left of center. Who truly take life as it comes, have no stored up hate for class, religion, sex, colour or fetish (of course with the exclusion of those into paedophillia or co-erced non-consensual sex). So I shaved in my hawk, it was a great big "warning, I may very well not be like you so read the label before you open your mouth". I am not a racist, have no issue with travellers, my brother is gay, and I am a devout atheist. So really, first do no harm and we will all be ok.
The piercings were as much a present to my lover as to myself, but also a right of womanhood. I now own my body in a very striking way. Some will understand and others will never. That is the way of the world. Finally in June I changed my name from Joanne to Scarlet. I discarded the name assigned to me at birth, a name with so much negativity and self loathing attached to it that it had become a weight around my soul. I chose a name I had used for many years in multiple online settings and one that I felt affinity to. I did admittedly speak with my mother first as I would not wish to cause her pain in the last few years of her life and if my name change would have upset her then I would have waited another a few years. Does that make me less of a rebel or just a caring daughter?
My message to my children is own yourself, love what you are and be proud of your choices - all of them. Every statement you make about yourself should be full of self belief, and never ever be afraid to set your own drum beat.
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