Me in my much-loved, Uncle Joey/comedy blazer.
Writing is one of the few things that keeps me sane, and blogging is one of the things that keeps me writing. Even though I haven't been feeling particularly inspired lately, I dog myself to keep it up, just to keep myself in writing.
Lately I've been waxing nostalgic for my old fashion blog. Even though I don't participate in fashion forums anymore, I still take pictures of my outfits near-daily and put them in a private Picasa album, as sort of a visual diary. Details of the day are so easy to remember when I can put myself in my own shoes, not to be too punny, and there are so many stories behind every piece one has on that blog posts virtually write themselves. The sociopsychological aspects of self-adornment is something that continues to fascinate me, along with fashion history and its cultural implications and my blog was a great way to explore that.
There were many reasons I put it aside; one of the main ones was that in trying to keep up with my peers, I was filled with object-lust that, as a poor person who is not terribly handy, I could not sate. It was driving me crazy. I felt like I had to have the newest, best, most fashionable objet du jour or I wasn't doing okay. Another reason was that I was starting to get solicitations for sponsored posts, and even though I enjoyed the cache of being asked, the practice of it made my fantastically self-expressive space seem spammy. It just smacked of ugliness to me. The third reason was that I was mysteriously gaining weight (apparently I have a thyroid problem), making my long-time body dysmorphia problem (a reason I started the blog) get worse (along with my soon-to-be ex-husband's frequent picking apart of my appearance, but that's a whole other post).
On the topic of body dysmorphia, I'm not sure if I actually have it because there's a piece of me that holds out hope that I am not a total monster and if I just "act normal", I'll be accepted by the millions of mystery people looking down their nose at my body that resembles biscuit dough creeping out of a freshly-popped Pillsbury can. Though there is an equal part of me that says, "It's not dysmorphia if you're actually hideous," then it's just being realistic.
I realize that looks aren't everything. There are lots of people out there who are sporting esoteric and unconventional body features, including those who are missing limbs and everything else that are living far more strident and passionate lives than myself. I wish I could stop being so hung up on my appearance, and just come to grips with being an unattractive person and move on, or pump myself full of hot pink bravado and tell myself that I tout my own special, unique brand of misshapen sexiness that probably many people would enjoy despite themselves. Buy colorful, impractical lingerie to show that I love myself and turn the charm up to 11.
I want someone to do the work for me. To tell me I don't need to lose weight or grow my hair long or shave my legs, that they find my body a piece of art that they cherish. I crave to know that someone I love feels that way. Any piece of wisdom would say that I have to be my own lover -- either "first", like other peoples' adulation is a prize for unlocking the psychic door of self-love, or just in general. Love thyself. Is that a Bible quote? Whatever it is, it feels like saying, "Be your own spoon." Pull a rabbit out of a hat. Pull a chain of scarves out of your ass.
So I'm going to try to do things that just make me feel good in general and hope my body image follows along. Writing is one of those things. And I might use a picture of myself and a discussion of what I'm wearing to prompt it.
(Oh my god, I just realized this entire post is an apology for putting a picture of myself on my blog.)
Here's to slowly working on building my chain of ass-scarves.