I'm just going to say it. I have struggled, and I still do struggle with modesty. I wore a tube top on my honeymoon, and unfortunately I have the pictures to prove it. (Stinkin pictures!) During the early years of marriage, I sometimes donned a tight, short jean dress that I can't believe I ever wore out in public. And even now I must confess that my favorite everyday look is a simple, brightly-hued tank top with a pair of dark jeans.
Sigh.
What is so ironic about my past and present clothing choices is that there is nothing I hate so much in mainstream media as the constant glorification of immodesty. I absolutely despise ridiculous commercials with fully attired men gawking at women in string bikinis - worse yet if the women are giggling like idiots. I am furious that it is always women's bodies that are used as advertising bait for everything from alcohol to fast food to vehicles.
I do my best to turn these commercials as quickly as possible. My daughters should not be exposed to these cardboard cutouts of our sex or feel compelled to compete with flimsy portrayals of womanhood. I am upset that my 12-year-old son is bombarded with these cheap (because they are so very easy to come by) but alluring images as he watches anything from a football game to a sitcom. If I am not careful, all my sons and daughters will be slowly inculcated into a culture of progressive immodesty by a bombardment of redundant and insidious but attractive messages.
So I turn the channel as quick as I can, and likewise I turn the radio in the car when songs about hot girls in tight jeans or short dresses at a drunken party come on. (My kids all like country music, but the aforementioned lyrics are a common problem with the formulaic genre aptly dubbed "Bro Country" by a music critic.)
Women have always been judged more based on appearance than men. I know that. I also know it is the reason why so many of us struggle with modesty. An unhealthy competition among the female sex has been praised and an unhealthy appetite in males has been encouraged by all forms of media. And we pay for it in the ways we treat each other based on these appearances.
The last thing I want to do as a mother and wife is to speak one message while projecting another. I do not want to be a hypocrite. It's a hard battle. We none of us want to be frumpy or plain, but we also, I sincerely hope, do not want our cleavage or bum ogled by every weak male who passes by or to scandalize others with our "daring" wardrobe choices that rival the outfits of music video performers.
This has been brewing for awhile in my mind, and today I read some very interesting takes on modesty, and I thought they hot the nail straight on the head. They are from a Christian perspective, because I don't think modesty is valued very highly in the secular sphere, as is pretty obvious.
Modesty is an Opportunity to Love examines how modesty shows love and respect for ourselves and others, including the men in our community. Jennifer Fulwiler also wrote about how it improves female friendships in Modesty Helps Women Be Friends. That last one is spot on. Lies I Tell Myself About Modesty is perfect to share with daughters or young friends who are fighting to retain their dignity and freedom on this important issue.
Showing posts with label womanhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label womanhood. Show all posts
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
My hormones ate the cheese, the housework, and, possibly, the children
Every time I read that some male scientist has proven that PMS does not exist, I must laugh and laugh and laugh....and then sulk. Either that scientist does not live with a woman, has never known any women, or only socializes with those who project sainthood while in company, gnawing their couch pillows and eating their pounds of chocolate in private.
The older I get, the more I am just a mere pawn of my hormones, dust on the wind of my cyclical fate. No,the devil didn't make me do it; the hormones did. They determine my mood, my energy, my libido, my good hair days, my behavior...my appetite for cheese and meat.
Where I am in the cycle means the difference between running out to greet my guy, just home from work, with kisses and cute monikers like Sugar Buns, Sexy Face, and Pumpkin Head, or hiding behind the front door with an iron skillet in hand, cackling like the witch I am.
My bed is my best friend, and I will clothes-line anyone on my way when running to embrace it at 8:30 pm. Every month I begin to yearn anew for one weekend alone to reconnect, a staycation where I stay in it for at least 24 - 72 hours straight. I'm not just TIRED. I am, to quote my mimicking husband, "T-R-D - tarr'd!" Weary to the bone, my southern accent manifests itself in "ow'er" (hour), "toe-lit" (toilet) and "ire'un" (iron). I don't yell at the kids anymore; I holler at them.
Because I am so T-R-D and resentful about it, my ambition to struggle against the constant state of near-collapse in this home vanishes, but, proportionately, the need to complain about it increases. I roll listlessly back and forth on the couch and upbraid, "Look at this mess! How can you guys bear to live in it? Doesn't it bother you?" Then I roll over and read my self-help manual: Half a Month to a New You!
The symptoms have gotten so much worse as I've gotten older; someday they'll be permanent. I blame it, at least in part, on my pregnancies. The first trimester of each drove me to insanity via an inundation of hormones, bringing at least one huge spectacle of which I was the star. I have never fully recovered my equilibrium.
For instance:
1) During my second pregnancy, I spent approximately two hours scream-lecturing my husband on the injustice of this whole "two to tango" business. It may take two to make a sweet bundle of joy, but only one of us will look like all that joy has been stored in our bubbly thighs and then sucked out of our flappy skin through our now enlarged feet. And it's not the ones who care least about and get judged less on their looks - no! Women's bodies are irreversibly stretched, stamped, enlarged and shriveled in the most unseemly way in the most unseemly places.
Men should have various body parts get flabby, wrinkle up or shrink every time they father a child. That's called e-qua-li-ty.
2) During pregnancy with my youngest daughter, I challenged my husband to a fist fight. He did not accept.
3) During my last pregnancy I became crazy jealous of another pregnant woman. She had the audacity to confide in my husband that like me she was eight weeks pregnant. When I found out I told him plainly with officious repetition that I was the only pregnant woman he should EVER care about, and what was she doing broadcasting her pregnancy to some near-stranger anyway? The poor man had to leave the house for a while, because I was so "unreasonable".
I still think I was justified. And I would have challenged that audacious, man-stealing pregnant lady to a fist fight, but I was pooped after yelling at Matthew.
I'll be frank; I became a real Mama Jekyll, Mrs. Hyde. And Mrs. Hyde still comes around once a month for a week or two (gets longer every time). I howl and holler, eat hamburger patties and cheddar cheese a la carte and go on the rampage...then sleep it off, asking for a report post-nap of damage done.
It's looking really bad for menopause. I think I'll buy a lonely mountain cabin in which to stay during my "change of life" until I'm out of the woods, hormonally-speaking. Don't want to scare the grandkids or the neighbors, after all. If PMS is any indication, it's going to be some ride, and I'll be real T-R-D afterwards...but civilized again.
We hope.
The older I get, the more I am just a mere pawn of my hormones, dust on the wind of my cyclical fate. No,the devil didn't make me do it; the hormones did. They determine my mood, my energy, my libido, my good hair days, my behavior...my appetite for cheese and meat.
Where I am in the cycle means the difference between running out to greet my guy, just home from work, with kisses and cute monikers like Sugar Buns, Sexy Face, and Pumpkin Head, or hiding behind the front door with an iron skillet in hand, cackling like the witch I am.
My bed is my best friend, and I will clothes-line anyone on my way when running to embrace it at 8:30 pm. Every month I begin to yearn anew for one weekend alone to reconnect, a staycation where I stay in it for at least 24 - 72 hours straight. I'm not just TIRED. I am, to quote my mimicking husband, "T-R-D - tarr'd!" Weary to the bone, my southern accent manifests itself in "ow'er" (hour), "toe-lit" (toilet) and "ire'un" (iron). I don't yell at the kids anymore; I holler at them.
Because I am so T-R-D and resentful about it, my ambition to struggle against the constant state of near-collapse in this home vanishes, but, proportionately, the need to complain about it increases. I roll listlessly back and forth on the couch and upbraid, "Look at this mess! How can you guys bear to live in it? Doesn't it bother you?" Then I roll over and read my self-help manual: Half a Month to a New You!
The symptoms have gotten so much worse as I've gotten older; someday they'll be permanent. I blame it, at least in part, on my pregnancies. The first trimester of each drove me to insanity via an inundation of hormones, bringing at least one huge spectacle of which I was the star. I have never fully recovered my equilibrium.
For instance:
1) During my second pregnancy, I spent approximately two hours scream-lecturing my husband on the injustice of this whole "two to tango" business. It may take two to make a sweet bundle of joy, but only one of us will look like all that joy has been stored in our bubbly thighs and then sucked out of our flappy skin through our now enlarged feet. And it's not the ones who care least about and get judged less on their looks - no! Women's bodies are irreversibly stretched, stamped, enlarged and shriveled in the most unseemly way in the most unseemly places.
Men should have various body parts get flabby, wrinkle up or shrink every time they father a child. That's called e-qua-li-ty.
2) During pregnancy with my youngest daughter, I challenged my husband to a fist fight. He did not accept.
3) During my last pregnancy I became crazy jealous of another pregnant woman. She had the audacity to confide in my husband that like me she was eight weeks pregnant. When I found out I told him plainly with officious repetition that I was the only pregnant woman he should EVER care about, and what was she doing broadcasting her pregnancy to some near-stranger anyway? The poor man had to leave the house for a while, because I was so "unreasonable".
I still think I was justified. And I would have challenged that audacious, man-stealing pregnant lady to a fist fight, but I was pooped after yelling at Matthew.
I'll be frank; I became a real Mama Jekyll, Mrs. Hyde. And Mrs. Hyde still comes around once a month for a week or two (gets longer every time). I howl and holler, eat hamburger patties and cheddar cheese a la carte and go on the rampage...then sleep it off, asking for a report post-nap of damage done.
It's looking really bad for menopause. I think I'll buy a lonely mountain cabin in which to stay during my "change of life" until I'm out of the woods, hormonally-speaking. Don't want to scare the grandkids or the neighbors, after all. If PMS is any indication, it's going to be some ride, and I'll be real T-R-D afterwards...but civilized again.
We hope.
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