Yes, I know it’s Friday…where the hell have I been, you ask? Our flight on Tuesday was a nightmare, we ended up not getting to Pittsburgh until Wednesday afternoon.  I have had a horrible head cold the whole trip and may have to go get my ear drained.  I’m spending as many waking hours as possible with my family…this is the first look at the computer I’ve taken.

I did NOT forget about you wonderful readers or Wijven Week but I need to prioritize.  Delta stole 16 precious hours away from a trip that was too short already and I want to get the important plans checked off the list.  I plan on writing or posting for every Wijven Week topic, it just might take a little longer than I expected it to.  In the meantime, I hope everyone is having a great week.

Wanna know how it feels to be an overweight American living in Western Europe? Imagine that for most of your adult life you’ve had an annoying younger sibling that runs right behind you, constantly tripping you up, stepping on your heels and tugging at your sleeve and then one day, you turn around and the sibling has grown up. She is now much bigger and stronger than you and, fed up with the fact that you’ve been ignoring her for years, she puts on a pair of brass knuckles and punches you in the face.

It sort of feels like that; being floored by a niggling inconvenience that you had been able to shove aside for years. Moving here (though my trip here in August gave me a disturbing preview) has shown me once and for all, just how easy it has become in the United States to think that fat is normal.

I have never been skinny, or even slim, really. It’s a frustrating thing, being teased for being overweight, even when you do mostly the right things. I think the major thing I do, and have always done in regards to food, is over eating. I just don’t know when to stop. If there’s more food on the table, you can be sure I’ll eat until it’s gone, even if I’m no longer hungry. The more I think about it, the more I realize that this is a habit I developed somewhere in my childhood and it is a very difficult habit to break. The thing is, I was very active in sports from the time I was nine until I graduated highchool, so while I did over eat and it put me at the higher end of my weight curve, I was never actually obese. I was in good shape, and maybe 20 pounds over weight. The thing was, I could get away with that fairly easily once the twenty pounds or so migrated into my boobs. Then all of a sudden the teasing stopped and I started getting dates. The extra weight was easily ignored when it relocated to a prime location.

Through most of college I was wearing a size 10 or 12, carrying most of my extra pounds in my chest and my body image improved a good deal, although I still judged a lot of my intrinsic value by what men thought of my body. Towards the end of college I began drinking a lot (for all the wrong reasons) and my already sluggish metabolism slowed down even more. Pair this with a few years of severe depression and a hormonal condition called PCOS and voila, I had gained 50 pounds in a little over a year.

You’d think this would get my attention, don’t you? Well, it did. At first I was too depressed to care and once I did care, the state I was in was enough to make me feel like losing weight was hopeless. I talked about doing it all the time, but I never really put much effort into it. I worked two jobs, was up all hours of the night and lived by myself. I had no one else to cook for and I was usually too tired or too broke to bother with healthy grocery shopping or excercise. I drove everywhere; in the US that’s usually the best options as far as transportation goes. It wasn’t hard to find clothing in my size. There are several well known specialty stores for large people in the States, but now almost every store has a section in plus sizes. Being a 20 was no big deal as long as I could still buy clothes that weren’t stirrup pants or moomoos.

I met CB and was very worried of what he’d think of me when we met in person for the first time. He was from Belgium and I’m not so unworldly as to be unaware of the American acceptance of obesity and the rest of the world’s repugnance towards it. I’m overweight for American standards, so I figured, for his standards I practically had my own field of gravity. I was so convinced that when we met, the first thing I’d see on his face would be disgust and dissapointment, quickly masked by an overly-hearty attempt at friendship. But it wasn’t like that at all. He made it quite clear early on that he loved me for me; for everything on the inside and nothing on the outside (well, ok, he doesn’t complain about the boobs). I had lost 18 pounds over a few months before he came to see me, but I put it all back on before I went to visit him a few months later. Again I was scared of rejection, and again he gave me nothing but love. He still does, every single day.

And I have never been laughed at or insulted here for my weight, which is significantly greater than about 95% of the Belgian population. I’ve been laughed at for my pathetic biking skills, but hell, even I laugh about that sometimes. But I still have to do my clothes shopping in the United States. I still feel uncomfortable on public transportation in some of the more narrow seats. I still look around every day and see things that I wish I could wear, but could never pull off because of my weight. I try to eat healthy (although I definitely slip on this at times) and we don’t own a car so I bike or walk a lot more than I ever did in America. I have lost about 22 pounds since I moved here 3 months ago. I still have a long way to go before I’ll be satisfied with how I look and feel, but this is the most progress I’ve made in a long time.

And I’m thankful. I won’t lie and say that moving to Belgium has been good for my body image. It’s been awful. I feel fat all the time. I get so jealous of everyone I see on the street or in the bus. I want so badly to feel “normal”. But it’s that sense of shock, that visual reminder of how people should look that finally pushed me into action. Living in the US makes it so easy to ignore that extra weight that’s stepping on the back of your heels, but sometimes it’s much healthier when it punches you in the face.

Oh, and I haven’t forgotten Music Monday, by the by. Here is a song by Kate Nash (not one of my favorites when I first heard her, but love, love, LOVE her now) that always makes me think of how must people feel in their youth. I think this is a very catchy song that reflects body image, plus I love the violin piece, and to top it all off, it’s a FEMALE singer/songwriter. You don’t have to tell me….I know I’m good.

Skeleton Song by Kate Nash

Skeleton you are my friend
But you are made of bone
And you have got no flesh and blood
Running through you to help protect the bone

Skeleton we have been friends for years
And you have seen me through some trials
And tribulations and some tears
But everybody thinks I’m weird
And I should have known
That it wouldn’t be long
Until you, you’ve got me standing in an awkward position
With unwanted attention and a need for explanation
And it’s not that I’m letting go of you
But I don’t know what to do
Skeleton we are so close
But you have got no body
So why do you insist on wearing clothes
Skeleton when we were young
It was easy
Even though the other kids
They would tease me
But I was only seven I had you
But now I’m twenty-two
And now it’s different, when I take you out
And you, you’ve got me standing in an awkward position
With unwanted attention and a need for explanation
And it’s not that I’m letting go of you
But I don’t know what to do
‘Cause sometimes at night,
I dream of the most terrible things
I take a hammer and I creep out of bed
And I raise it high
And I smash your head
Fibular and tubular
And ribs and cages, too
In fact, while I’m here
I’ll smash the whole of you

Smaaaaaaaaaaash !
But Skeleton, you are my friend
And I could never bring your life to an end
Yes Skeleton you are, you are my friend
And I will be there for you until the end
And even though, when I take you out
You’ve got me, you’ve got me standing in an awkward position
With unwanted attention and a need for explanation
I could, I could never let you go
And that is all I know
And that is all I know
And that is all I, that is all I know
And that is all I know, know

Hello hello friends, and welcome to Wijvenweek here at Lilac Colored Glasses! “What is Wijvenweek?” you may be wondering. Well I’ll explain it to you in abridged format loosely based on the e-mail I received from Goofball last night:

In Belgium recently, they had the “Bwards” (a Belgian blog award election). Afterwards there were multiple reactions that the winners were only “wijvenblogs”. In February, a computer magazine Clickx had also given some blog awards and similar comments were made when female bloggers won prizes.
The Dutch word “wijf” literally means “woman”, but has a negative connotation. Generally “wijf” connotes the image of an bitchy, nagging, ignorant woman. I think in English it is the equivalent of house frau or maybe the stereo typic image of the 50’s wife or today’s superficial brand of soccer mom.
Anyway, after some comments that the winners of some blog awards were “only ‘wijvenblogs’” some Flemish female bloggers felt that this was an unfair depiction. They felt the comments were a bit denigrating and incorrect, made by some male bloggers that feel dominant in the blogosphere. Clearly they have no idea what a real wijvenblog would look like.
As a fun and humorous reaction they launched “wijvenweek” (the week of the wijven). From March 24 until March 30, the female blogosphere is invited to blog about purely feminine subjects. We’ll do so in the most feminine way we can. So take out your high heels, brush your hair, search your make-up and get ready for some real “wijvenblog” time! We’ll turn the blogosphere as female as we can! Everyday there is a specific theme to blog about, all of which are stereotypically feminine.

Lately I’ve had the clear desire NOT to blog. This past weekend I had plenty of opportunity to write something and have idled on the computer, eternally surfing but refusing to write. Most likely it has something to do with my upcoming trip to Pittsburgh (tomorrow morning, woohoo) and the bout of bitchy restlessness I get right before I travel somewhere important. I excel at complaining and let things that are usually important to me fall by the wayside. Well thank you Goofball for contacting me about this! Not only have I been jumpstarted right when I need it most, but this is also a fantastic way to lead into Proudly Proclaiming on April 3rd.

Time to get started on Wijvenweek!

As I recall, the year was 1995. I was 14 and I had my first “real” boyfriend; the kind you actually go places with and hold hands with and who pays for the movie once he has enough allowance saved (14 was still a fairly innocent age back then, at least for me). Yes, after a whole year of torture during homeroom and activity periods in junior high, Elmer* had finally asked me out during German class in the first few weeks of high school (he did this in German class with a note passed across the aisle, clumsily written in German…and no, in case you’re wondering, nothing in my life ever happens normally). I was the late bloomer in my little clique in high school. I was the wallflower, the shy one, the one who typically was sans boyfriend, so it goes without saying that I was trailing behind in the physical exploration department. One of my good friends had recently lost his virginity (oy, remind me to blog about THAT someday soon…what a doozy that whole situation was) and the rest of my friends had pretty much all had their first kiss. All except me. Every day my friends would ask me if Elmer and I had kissed yet, but we were both pretty awkward and shy and there just never seemed to be a good opportunity. I mean, granted he did ask me out with a note and all, but we weren’t the immature type of teens who just made out in the hall between classes. I’m only an exhibitionist in a state of inebriation that I only achieved after I graduated high school.
Sometime in September a friend of mine had a party at his house for his birthday and I was invited, as was Elmer. This friend of mine loved parties. They were never anything too insane, just a group of us hanging out, watching movies, playing music, gossiping, etc. No alcohol or anything like that. It was a nice relaxed atmosphere amongst some close knit groups of friends. So of course everyone knew about the whole not kissing dilemma. After it got dark several couples ended up on the back porch. Elmer and I were sharing a lounge chair while my newly devirginized friend had his girlfriend on his lap and another of my friends was with her boyfriend on the porch swing. Those couples were necking like crazy but Elmer and I just laid next to each other, unsure and nervous, cuddling but that was all.

Elmer was over 6 feet tall and a beanpole and I remember that I could feel his heart thumping through the fabric of his polo shirt. He was wearing Tommy cologne. It was quiet and dark, the light from the living room outlined Elmer’s shoulder in a warm gold. He began to lean towards me and I could hear him breathing louder as our lips nearly touched…

And then the porch light came on, while everyone inside squealed at the sight of the make out session (like they didn’t know what was going on…14 is a drama laden age and my friends were very good at creating drama…a trait in my choice of friends through much of my life, unfortunately). The host of the party stormed outside in a huff and actually sprayed the deck chairs with Lysol. Elmer and I stood off to the side, humiliated by the uproar and ensuing ruckus over something we hadn’t even been doing. Just at that moment my ride arrived (devirginized friend’s dad) and it was time to leave. I turned to Elmer and hugged him goodbye.

And he kissed me.

It was the longest and shortest moment of my teenage life. He held me close and kissed me so sweetly. Then he let me go and I stumbled through the house and down to the car parked in the driveway. My friend and his girlfriend looked at me as I walked into the closed door before fumbling it open and tumbling into the backseat.
“Are you okay?” he asked as he tried to cop a feel from his girlfriend while his dad wasn’t looking.
“Yeah,” I murmured, staring out into the night as the car pulled away from the house.
“So?” his girlfriend pressed, “did you guys…like, kiss finally?”
My forehead was resting against against the cool glass of the car window. My cheeks felt like the surface of the sun.
“Yeah.”
I smiled quietly to myself and kept my eyes focused on the warm summer night as it slipped past the window, promising myself to keep the fabulous, dizzy, excitement I was feeling somewhere safe inside for the rest of my life.

And I have.

*I’m calling him Elmer because, strangely enough, we were in the same second grade elementary school class when we were 7. We both moved away and 6 years later ended up in the homeroom for gifted students in junior high in an entirely different school/town. I call him Elmer because the main thing I remember about him from second grade was that he used to eat Elmers glue.