Bumps and Grinds and the Bulge in the Mirror

When I started burlesque a few weeks ago, I imagined having funny stories to tell or how I would magically feel better in my own skin after a couple of weeks. The only funny story is that I started to sit down on and get up from the toilet with my butt sticking out and I did the same thing in Target stooping down to look at something on a lower shelf. I guess that could be slightly entertaining to anyone watching.

The thing I abhor about dance classes/gyms/yoga is the giant mirror on one wall. It's necessary to ensure you're using proper form and all that, blah, blah, blah. But it's also a reflection of how you look in that particular moment of time. Usually not the best moment. Workout clothes. Little or no makeup. No cute shoes. Bad hair. Sweat.

With burlesque, there is the added element of trying to appear "sexy." Boobs up and forward, shoulders back, back arched, butt out. Even this isn't that bad because, come on, what girl hasn't posed to find her best angle in a mirror? But then add movement to that. Add boobs out, hand on hip, bend over, stick that ass out, arch that back, and - OH GOD!! WHY is my stomach laying on my LEG??? This is not a good look!! This is a TERRIBLE look!! How many people are seeing this right now? This is exactly why I shouldn't have done this. Right here. Evidence that I am NOT sexy. Nope, nope, not even a little. I need a mask and a muumuu and a triple cocktail.

And that, because of what has been ingrained in me since I was a walking, talking member of society, is what I remember in the days after. That is my self-image for weeks after. The girl who can't suck her stomach in enough to keep it from touching her thigh. Who wants to see that? I mean, I don't have thigh gap and I'm good with that. It's hard to peel a stocking from your hand if you can't squeeze it between your thighs. Thigh gap is gross. But can I have a gap between my thigh and my belly? For fuck's sake??

So, no. No, I have not learned to love my body and its flaws by looking at myself during a class. Even if the song that is repeated over and over for the routine we are learning contains lyrics pontificating the virtue of confidence. Nope. It's not happening.

I'll tell you why it isn't happening. Yes, most of it comes from my inside voice. My inside critic. My inside bitch who wants to limit my happiness. It also comes from messages I've received during my life. Things like, "If you stand like that, your legs will bend the wrong way." "Did you ever break your nose? It looks like you did." "Do you EVER eat??" (This was when I was very young and very thin, a place I will never return to and don't really want to anyway, but it was still a message that I wasn't measuring up to an invisible standard.) "There's no way you still wear a size 4."

It also comes from every image we see in magazines, movies, the media, online, and on and on. There is one body type on magazine covers. There is one body type in movies and on the red carpet. There is one body type in music. There are billboards for losing weight. There are too many diet fads to count, sugar-free this and "light" that and research upon research of how to avoid killing yourself while still breathing air.

What, then, is the reason I have fallen in love with burlesque and my community in particular? Listen and I will sing you the song of the strippers.

I went to a couple of burlesque shows before I started taking classes. I have been to a handful since then. What I noticed the first times resonates with me now and that is that there are different body types on that stage. Rail thin. Chubby. Tiny boobs and flat asses and big boobs and flat asses. Toned bodies. Rolls, bumps, even dreaded cellulite. Round butts, long legs, short legs, tattoos, colored hair, shaved heads, and anything in between. The girls from two acts can be completely different and yet they have one thing in common. They're ALL fucking sexy. They're sexy because they're beautiful and what makes them beautiful is that they are talented and confident and they're all individuals.

When I see someone with my body type on stage in sparkles and glitter, shimmying and twisting and bending and teasing and getting roars of approval from the audience? I can't think of anything more validating. And when I see someone with more rolls than mine or dimply knees, I do not think, "At least I'm not that big!" Instead, I covet her curves and I envy her spirit, that in those moments, she is ALL woman, in every sense of the word.

This community I have found myself in goes beyond that. Performances aren't the pinnacle. Or they are, in a sense, but the real magic is what these women do every day, on a normal basis. They support each other. They cheer one another on. I've been part of group discussions where we've basically vomited out what we think is ugliest about ourselves and there has been no judgment. None. It's a perfectly safe, comforting, cozy den of acceptance. Behind the pink door nothing really changes but also everything changes. We don't turn into unicorns. I'm not getting on stage tomorrow. Nobody is turning the world upside down. Rather, we are changing each other's worlds. With a smile, with cheers, with a small "amen, sister." With understanding and compassion.

Will I still stare at the food baby I carry everywhere and will it to disappear? Yeah. Honestly, I will. When I try on the dress that looks so good on the hanger but squeezes in uncomfortable and obvious places, I'll admit to some self-loathing. But I'm learning to love other women's bodies. And since so many of them look more like mine than not, and definitely more like mine than anything this society has tried to force on me, I'm learning to love my body also. Or at least appreciate it.

Or to know that if someone else looks fucking hot in that pink plastic dress even though she has a tiny bit of back fat showing over the top, then screw it. I can be that hot too.

Bacon Is In Danger

I came across this little gem of a story today. You know what's super sexy in a man? When he looks like Ryan Gosling and he cares about animals. Oh, wait! The real Ryan Gosling cares about animals. Seriously? He is so hot right now I think he might spontaneously combust. Hot, hot, hot.

He loves his dog. He takes his dog everywhere. And he also likes pigs. He's a Wilbur-lover!! Uh-oh. Hold the fucking phone!! Pigs = bacon. By trying to protect pigs, he is bacon-blocking the rest of us!! If one tiny little spider can save one pig, just think of the thousands of slabs of bacon His Royal Sexiness can save!!

Well now, this is certainly a dilemma. Continuing to eat bacon might reduce any chance I ever have with Mr. Gosling. But bacon is delicious. But Ryan is hot. But bacon. But sexiness. Bacon. Beautiful man. Crap!

Okay, here's my solution. If Ryan Gosling sleeps with me I will give up bacon. People exchange sex for much less all the time, so I think it's a pretty fair trade. Sex for bacon. I mean, sex for the absence of bacon. (I think I can, I think I can!)

I will simply have my people get in touch with Ryan's people and he and I will save a few pieces of bacon. I mean pigs. We'll save pigs. Lots of Wilburs!

Take that, Charlotte.

I'm Bringing Bellies Back

I have always had a belly. Even when I was 19 and weighed all of 90 pounds. Of course I would give anything to have that belly back now. The belly I have now is much bigger. Sometimes it looks like a 6-month food baby. Sometimes it feels like a 6-month food baby.

Unfortunately I have inherited my mother's apple shape. I gain weight first in my stomach and then, when it's really bad, it moves to my back. Meanwhile, my arms and legs stay skinny. It's never evenly distributed. I have no proportion.

Sometimes it's okay. Like when I first wake up in the morning and it seems kinda flat. I think I might have actually lost weight. And then gravity takes over and reality comes crashing in. Or down. Or out, whatever it may be.

I bought a super cute dress the other day. I tried it on, noticed the belly bump and thought, "this will look cute when I get skinny!" So I bought it. Because that's what I do. I buy clothes based on what I want to look like, not what I actually look like. I end up with a closet-full of clothes that I can't wear. Yet.

Yesterday I put the dress on. I'd lost a whole pound and thought, "Why the hell not?" And then I examined myself in the mirror a few dozen times before leaving the house. I asked Mr. A., "Do I look fat? Should I change?" He said no. He said "You have a belly. It doesn't make you fat." And then he said something about how it's because of cheese and booze and pasta and all I heard after a while was "wah wah wah wahh..." So I wore the damn dress.

And then I started to wonder why flat stomachs are so awesome. Sure, they're all toned and tight and youthful-looking. Whatever. But there was a time when plumpness was attractive. Hell, there was a time when rolls of flesh were attractive because they were a sign of wealth. Well, my belly is a sign that I've lived. I've had delicious, decadent meals with my friends and my family. I gave birth to the bestest girl in the world. I've spent time snuggling on the couch with adorable puppies when we maybe should have been out on walks. I have earned this belly and it should be sexy because it's a part of me.

So this is what I propose. We make bellies sexy again. They're feminine because of what we do with them. We give life and we sustain life. We take care of our families. We provide pillows for our little dogs' heads. We're sexy because of all of that and we should recognize it. These little 20-year-olds with their flat stomachs. Pssh. What do they know about being a real woman? They haven't lived yet.

Now, this isn't permission to get carried away. Nobody needs to see a detailed outline of your mushroom top. This isn't permission to dress like a full-out skank. We are ladies. We are classy. The belly should be treated with respect. And love.

Isn't that what it's really all about anyway? Loving ourselves? Flaws, quirks, imperfections and all? Big bellies, big feet, small ears, freckles, curly hair, stretch marks, wrinkles. We've earned it. Let's embrace it. Let's be the sexy beasts that we know we can be. That we, in fact, are.

Eat the ice cream. Drink the martini. Laugh with friends. Make love with abandon. Maybe even with the light on.

And when you finally do get that flat stomach, those toned abs? Love them too. I know I will.