Assault of the Suit

This weekend I was assaulted by a suit--a bathing suit that is.

Most people living in landlocked cities with normal seasons can safely tuck away their bathing suits after the first brusque fall day and don't have to dig them out until after spring. They have ample time to whip their bodies into swimsuit shape before exposing their skin to the surf, sun, and scrutiny of their 100 closest beach going friends.

We poor citizens of Southern California have no such luck.

Our bodies must be tanned and primed and ready at all times. EVEN IN MARCH.

This weekend San Diego charmed us with near 80-degree beach weather. For those of you reading who don't live in Southern California, please hear me out before you roll your eyes and stop listening.

It was rough.  Are you ready to sport a swimsuit?  Like right now? I didn't think so. 

I'm pretty good at not being swayed by pop culture. I've never been an impulsive shopper. I'm pretty responsible with my money. I've always been a step behind the latest fashion craze and that suits me fine. It took me three years to even consider wearing skinny jeans.  I'm not vain or particularly shallow. I fall hard for guys with sharp minds, not guys with sharp abs. I don't let culture dictate what I buy or how I spend my money, what type of job I should have, what kind of people are cool enough to be my friends.

But somehow, somewhere, this idea that skinny equals sexy and sexy equals valuable has buried itself deep, deep within my heart and made itself at home.

Jessica Skinner, in her incredible book Hungry: One Woman’sBattle with and Victory over Anorexia and Bulimia, wrote, "Every day messages pour in, telling us that our bodies should always be diligently and aggressively attacked, reduced, slimmed, and chiseled. You should be embarrassed if it's not."

This Saturday at the beach, I was embarrassed.

The "winter" months have meant less daylight, less workout time, less vigilance in the attack on my body (which, one could argue, is a not a bad thing). Nevertheless I felt utterly unprepared for two 5-hour, bathing suit clad beach days in a row.

And I was embarrassed.

It's not a vanity issue. It's an identity issue.

By Sunday I began to believe the lie that if I don't look exactly like the photoshopped cover girls we chuckled at in my post on Friday, I am ugly and worthless and should be embarrassed. Of course when I say it out loud or type it out for this post, it sounds ridiculous. Of course I don't really intellectually consent to this statement. But for all intents and purposes, I believe it. I live it. My mood plummets as my perception of body fat rises.

I let myself be assaulted by the suit. 

The lies creep in when I forget that my identity, my worth, my value, comes from God alone. And that my beauty is found in reflecting Him alone.

One way to remember is to redefine beauty. To rewrite the story of my worth.  

To live a new definition of beauty—true beauty, real beauty, the only beauty that really matters. Beauty that is not contingent on workout regiments, tan skin, or toned abs. Beauty encompassed in the following qualities:

• Confidence--being comfortable in my own skin
• Radiating compassion
• Looking beyond the mirror to the heart
• My heart at rest--not seeking, not striving, just being
• A joyful attitude
• Knowing I'm loved and loving myself
• Freedom from envy and comparisons
• Creativity and worship
• Having a heart that breaks for others
• Allowing the truth that is inside of me to stream out

And so today, safely covered in business casual, I seek to cultivate this beauty and am thankful that my worth is not tied up in the strings of a bikini.

 ***
What about you? Can you relate to bathing suit assault?  How do you define or redefine beauty? What lies do you believe about your worth?

Video Viernes

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WKz1WgyFAcw]


A little satire with a salient punch for a "We made it to Friday" treat. 


Ladies, you don't have to  rely on a healthy body image or self-respect anymore...


Now where can I get me some Pro-pixel intensifying fauxtanical hydro-jargon microbead extract with nutritive voluminizing technology? 

Forget Me Not

This post was inspired by Anita Mathias' Let Nothing Be Wasted post. 

"If you have a bad day, don't plant it. Bad days have a habit of turning into bad weeks, months and years." Dave Roberts

I am kneeling grass stained on the ground. Hunched over, I am digging. I am shoveling. I am preparing the seed to plant down deep. My worry, my distraction. They are acts of cultivation. Of sowing. I will reap bitterness. I will reap burnout. I will reap bitter roots, a fruit that sickens the stomach. 

Eyes turned away from the sun, I read the Braille of the earth with my dirt crusted fingertips, sifting through the soil of my bad day. I don't foresee the harvest. I don't envision spring. I see fall brown and dead dirt. I see tears drip plop sploosh off the end of my nose, salting the soil of the pain I plant. The pain I clutch proudly, possessively in my grimy palm. It is mine to hold. It is mine to plant. This bad day. These bad thoughts.

Why do I exert myself with this bitter planting, when your gifts spring up like wildflowers? The glittering orange of African daisies and California poppies. The purple pallor of morning glories and forget-me-nots. 

Forget-me-nots. 

I was given a vision a few months back by a friend. A part two of sorts to my life as a basking case. In this vision I am still in the field. Still in the meadow of flowers. But I am not laying still with baited breath. I am not lounging lazily as God bursts forth more buds of morning glory. I am active; I am weaving to be precise. Weaving flowers. Weaving flowers bursting wild with hope.

"Your weaving is your worship," my friend said. 

Tying together the gifts into a wreath of remembrance. Forget-ME-nots.

So why do I find myself today elbows deep in dirt, preparing soil to nourish roots of anger and disillusionment? Why do I plant at all when the harvest is upon me? 

Convicted, I unhunch my back. I pluck the seed of pain from its pre-formed hole. I smooth the space that would have sustained the bitter bulb. I wipe my hands on the leg of my dirt-flecked pants. 

I lift my gaze to see the sun is out shining, ready for the basking. My eyes scan the landscape teeming with untamed flowers, ready for the weaving. Ready for the worship.

A smile sneaks across my teeth up into the crinkles of my eyes, and as my fingers reach for petaled stem, the words escape my lips, "I will forget You not."