I have done it. I have measured. From where I sit it doesn't look good. I knew things had gotten off track but I didn't realize that they had gotten so far off track, careening down a steep rocky slope, spontaneously combusting, only to come to rest at the bottom, upside down; a swollen smoldering wreck. That sounds dramatic but that's how I felt upon completing my measurements. I then promptly had a panic attack.
I knew things were rough, the tell tale sign? Doing surface repairs; expecting to feel better about myself. Hair cut. Which was much needed and welcomes a chic blossom of blonde bangs. New boots. That make me feel like dancing and kicking sass, in equal parts. Schmancy new jeans- and herein lies the rub-they are a size bigger than I have ever been. Hello McFly! I've been eating meat and cakes and pies. Deep fried anything and butter soaked regret. And trying to convince myself that it's okay. For the last 9 months I have been bragging about my blog stick-to-it've-ness and how determined I am. Well, turns out writing a daily blog is easier than rearranging my diet or exercising. But enough is enough, the way things have been isn't working, quite obviously. I've promised to make things better. Why aren't I actually doing it? I think the thought of climbing this mountain is scary. So scary I've been grinding my teeth. Since the idea of this whole self-improvement thing started I have been putting off the numbers. Sizes, measurements and inches chasing me around-stressing me out. I've been losing sleep over it. The desperate need to pull myself up by the boot straps and pull myself together. But really who do you know that's really pulled together? We're all effed, at least a little bit. But I would rather be effed in the head, than effed in a pair of giant jeans.
What a strange way to feel- recognizing things need to change and knowing I am the only one who can do it. The very scariest part is that I might fail this experiment. Though it's not an experiment at all, it's an important part of my dream career path. Sadly, looking great is one of the crucial components. So, here we go- the hardest, scariest and most honest thing I have ever posted.
My numbers:
Height 68 inches or 5'8"
Weight 174.4lbs
Following measurements are in inches
Bust 40
Natural waist 33
Hips 44
Thighs sitting: r:25 l:25.75
Thigh standing r:24.5 l :25
Arm rest r: 13.5 l:13.5
Arm flex r:13.75 l:13.5
These are my starting measurements and I will keep you posted with changes periodically. My hope is to also find out my resting heart rate, BMI and endurance. I am hoping for a swift shift to being on track again. But first I have to put out a few smoldering fires.
The Great Canadian Entrepreneur: a species indigenous to the northernly half of the north american continent. Though many species appear in southern regions, they tend to be a much heartier and parasitic breed. I was raised by a pack of Great Canadian Entrepreneurs, making me an Entre-thusiast. I am a big fan of people who've realized that what they have to offer is different and special and like Frank Sinatra, they're doing it their way. Living in a city as diverse as Toronto allows people to take the plunge, crossing fingers for at least a slice of the widely variant market, hoping for a group of dedicated followers. People who like you. Like what you do. And like the way you do it. In smaller markets the game has different rules.
I grew up in a small town. Well, not small for a town, but not a wide market. Not a wide cross-section of opinions. And really only 1 degree of separation between people. If I don't know you, there is at least one person I know who does. Side note: Small towns were the original FaceBook. My Papa B is an Entrepreneur. He has been for all the jobs I can remember, except the middle one he took cuz it was too good an offer to turn down. Though in hindsight, it was his worst and grumpiest and most awful time, and if you know my Papa B, that's saying a lot. He does not work well for others. Here we go again genetics. On every report card ever sent home for signing: "Melicious has trouble taking direction." Not a great quality in an actor, but the best quality in an entrepreneur. My Town Councillor Momma is a self starter married to an Entrepreneur. Which isn't much different. Having owned several at home businesses she joined my Papa B's company almost 15 years ago. Being the motivated lady she is, she is constantly morphing to fit the needs of her clients and anticipate their future goals. She's a great role model to teach a blossoming actor about being a chameleon. Making me an even Steven.
Entrepreneurs are a rare breed. A group of people who made it their business to do it well or at least differently. People who's job was created for them. Tailor made to fit their specs. What's the hardest part about being your own boss? Making your employee -yourself- accountable. Making sure they get to work on time. Finish their projects in a timely manner. Trying to inspire your employee to strive for something better. And brainstorming sessions can be a little lonely. But there's no greater feeling than a job well done. A job that you are responsible for. A job that you thought up, worked through and completed. You did it. It's on you if it fails, but the upside is that I am not dumb enough to let anything fail, if I can help it. Plus I think my boss is pretty great.
There have been more than a few times this past summer when upon catching an image of myself in a shiny surface I've been disappointed. I look tired and worn out. All used up and puffy. My smile is tight and quite clearly needs a long winter's nap. And I look fat- not cartoon fat, and not obese, just scrunchy. So I harumpf and then take a deep breath and encourage myself to go on. Though thinking lesser of yourself is the worst kind of torture. Every step being taken is a drip in an already full bucket. Step- you're ugly. Step- everyone sees it. Step- you should be better. Step- you've given up. Until I turn my feet around and head back towards home. The only place I can hide away in my jogging pants and loose fitting t-shirt. I know where the mirrors are here and I can go for days without really looking at myself. Tricky part is, not every mirror is telling the truth, and not everyone can spot a lie.
I remember hearing that you're never as fat as you think you are. Which is as true for people with low self esteem as it is for prima ballerinas. But some people are exactly as fat as they think they are. I am just not sure which category I fit into. I know that my skinny jeans are tight...but that's to be expected. They are skinny jeans...how skinny they should be is a different question entirely. I know that I spend a lot of time yanking and pulling and arranging my clothes, but tiny little movie stars have a wardrobe person doing that to them as well. It's a strange and infuriating juxtaposition.
At Canada's Wonderland after a day of being soaking wet and half drying and then getting wet again, I dragged myself into the washroom as night fell. The harsh florescent lighting revealed that the fun I was having had taken a toll. My mascara had dripped and caked under my eyes trapped under the long day's sunscreen. My shirt was clingy and mishappen from being soaked by white water rapids. My skin looked greasy and yellow. The shorts I had on, welcome to Camel toe town. I was a nightmare. And just like that- all the fun I had been charging up on all day was drained. I felt stupid and ugly, fat and I wanted to go home. So, I walked my soggy running shoes out to the parking lot and said g'night with a growl. Looking terrible ruined my eve, and here I was thinking I wasn't superficial.
This past weekend after dancing my tail feather off at my bro-in-law's wedding and receiving compliments on my pretty dress and nice hairstyle and 8 Likes on a photo posted on FB; I was feeling alright about myself. That's when nature called again. So, heading from the dark dance floor where I was feeling hair-tossingly sexy, I went to the very bright bathroom. As I washed my hands I caught sight of a sweaty forehead, raccoon bandit style eyes, girl with hair stuck to her face and a flush that only colours someone with high-blood pressure after exertion. And after taking all that in, I realized it was me. Les Sigh. Even when I feel like I am at my best I fall below my lofty standards. BFF is quick to say that I expect too much of myself. But I am quicker to respond, Why would I allow anything less than my best self to be the person I am? So, starving for something can be good, but it sounds like it might be a bigger commitment than just change of diet. I need to put myself on a life diet, and cut out the shit. Because I am tired of feeling I can do better without actually doing it. And I know too many people who regret not being their better self, without knowing they can be. So, Mirror, Mirror, expect to see a lot more of me. I may not like you now, but soon enough magic will make you work for me. And we'll both see the change.
With my 5 month summer standing contract drawing to a close, I thought it pertinent to explore my employment history. I have always been highly employable. I have been a secretary, a baker, a masseuse, a mortgage sales girl, an event coordinator, a retail therapist, an actor, a marketing rep and promoter, a coach and just all around glad hander. You name it I have tried my hand at it. And even if I didn't like the company or my job or my boss or all of the above; I always gave one hundred and ten percent. But 110% at $8.50 an hour doesn't work out to a whole lot in the end. Also my bosses have always loved me; with the exception of two of the craziest most hurtful women I have ever met. They were practically perfect in every evil way. Congratulations! It's tough to be the best at being the worst.
In my entire life I've only been fired from two jobs- Job 1- My boss was one of the previously mentioned crazies and I truly believe I was fired because of my great performance and her inability to follow through with commissions promised. The second was as a teenager I was denied my Bronze cross, though not a job exactly it would have led to my becoming a lifeguard, getting a wicked tan and ultimately getting a free ride at Penn State as a high-diver and all this because I wasn't serious enough... Chaw. Please. Like anyone has ever taken the Hoff seriously.
Having a steady job can be great. That solid stream of income. The sense of community you build with your coworkers. It's nice. though doing something you don't love can be hard on you...but as an Optimism Expertise, I decided to take what I could from the experience and create my ideal job position.
The dream job description:
A job that has me traveling. Travel can be continental as well as global and even astrological. Going to strange places for interesting reasons. A semi-full-time position attending fun events to promote having a great time. Where I talk to media about something really cool that gets people excited. And inspires them to start and keep doing something. I want to meet with people and discuss fascinating new ideas about global issues and I want to host really great events. I want to ambassador something. Something special. I don't think that's asking for much. I am free to start as early as Monday. Is there an opening in that department?
P.S. Is it weird that I didn't even quote salary? I guess a job you love is its own payment. Ha!
I've got friends in low places... But I've got high rolling friends too. Being the middle man ain't so bad. Being the happy medium. The bowl of porridge that's just right. The main stream. A medium sized fish in an appropriate sized pond. It's great to be able to go up or down. But people in the middle are generally regarded as those with the most to loose.
Seeing both those above you and those below you; it's tough not to worry about falling. Or being taken down a few pegs. But it's also a great place for brave optimism aimed at a station beyond your current reach. People are quick to say there is no rank to life, but I believe everything can be quantified. It just depends on how you choose to do so. You know that saying 'worth it's weight in gold?' You can measure everything; in time, in inches lost, by distance, how it makes you feel, a paycheque, in smiles, or daily blog hits- everything is quantifiable. It just depends on how you count it.
Sadly, someone has to be on the bottom of the pyramid, not because they want to be, or they deserve to be there, they are there to support the top. The foundation must be strong for the structure to remain sturdy. In high school we didn't have cheerleaders in the typical sense. We had a Spirit team. A group of rag tag girls and one high kicking boy that really only performed at one talent show and an air band competition. In Spirit squad I was literally the bottom of the pyramid. Being there wasn't so bad, as long as I kept hoping and trying someday to make it to the middle. And then when you get to the middle, that's the day you start hoping to be the gal on the top with the sparklers and the killer smile. The only thing standing in my way is that high kicking boy, but he's worked so hard to get himself up there, so maybe the middle is alright, for at least a little while longer:)
Is lying to yourself really lying? I mean if you truly believe something about yourself, could it really be wrong? Growing up things are black and white. Stealing is bad. But the older you grow, the greyer things get. Stealing to feed your hungry family is bad, but not for the same reasons. It has been a long time that I have been telling myself I am a better person than I might actually be. I have been telling myself (and you) that we can be the people we want to be. It’s just not as simple as I hoped. Being a good person is the most difficult thing I have ever tried to do. The effort required to make the person you are on the outside into the person you dream to be on the inside is an ongoing struggle. With obstacles rising up to meet you every single day. Temptation to be mean. To be selfish. To be too tired to be the best friend you hoped to be. To be strong in the face of adversity. To really stand up for what you believe and what you’ve told yourself to be true. To gossip. Being a good person is the most challenging person to be, it's a never-ending battle. That’s what makes a good person so special.
People say that life is short. And all you have is today. Though there are times when you feel you’ve lived this day before. The hours dragging before it's even time to start. Starting something and sticking to it. Sounds easy enough. But I feel like I’ve been waiting to start my whole life; I just didn’t realize that actually doing it- this whole living the good life thing- would be the hardest thing I’ve tried. It’s exhausting. High kicking and selfless giving and trying, I mean really trying. It scares the crap out of me. Living like you're dying is tiring. I am tired. I have been lying to myself, thinking that I was doing this just for me. And I am not; I am doing this for you mostly. And also how I feel about me when you’re happy. The fear of disappointing those who believe in me is greater than this weariness. I started this brand new me in hopes that I could force myself into believing that it was true.
There are days when I can’t bring myself to smile. Days when life has piled up and things have started falling. Dropping, despite my efforts to catch and juggle everything. This blog has benefited from my tenacity. But my body has suffered because of my laziness. My Hubby doesn’t get the attention he needs, because I am too busy working at a job that doesn’t help me feel good about myself. My Puppa-Stinkeroo misses me 5 days a week. My Kitty is back to being aloof- because I am not there to wear her down. My friends haven’t seen me. My dream is in a holding pattern. Well, I guess I lied to myself that this steady job was worth all the things I wouldn’t have time for. The very best thing I found is that I have learned so much about who, how and why I yam what I yam. I need to have the freedom to live life as the best me. Stop lying to myself and stop lying. Period . Everyone is all to fast to remind me of what a great paycheck it is… Yeah, but c’mon wouldn’t you rather I be a happy broke ass instead of lying to yourself that money is what you want? It’s never been about the Fame, the Fortune, the Fanfare. It’s all a lie anyway. The only thing that I am not lying about is how great I feel trying to be the best I can be, even though it’s the hardest thing I’ve done. But you know what they say: Fake it ‘til you make it. And I am gonna make it this time. And that’s no lie.
Every girl I know has a deep jean drawer. A drawer filled with varying sized jeans. The dressy jeans, the fat day jeans, the great ass jeans and the jeans that are just waiting to embarrass you by splitting from seam to seam while at your local farmer's market, not that that's happend*insert awkward throat clearing. Then there's your skinny jeans. The jeans that you can only fit into on the skinnest days of the month. The jeans that you bought on the day you were feeling better about yourself than you have ever felt since. The Skinny jeans, a beautiful and terrifying thing. Let me introduce you to: The Skinny Jean Experiment. Heretofore known as The SJEx.
The Skinny Jean Experiment was born out of a need to prove something to myself: I can-too fit in these jeans. Well, let's just say there's a titanic distance between fitting into and feeling comfortable in them. I would have even settled for not cutting off the circulation to my overflowing muffin top. *Gasp* I mean I had to wear the long flowy shirt, just to pretend they were alright. The SJEx wasn't so bad at my house. Surprise, surprise they're okay in my comfort zone...But in the big bad outside world, she's a different story. I barely made it down the stairs. It was four floors of trying to build up momentum only to be stopped when my jeans reached their maximum stretch. Back when TLC was amazing, I used to watch Stacey and Clinton help curvy women get into something structured, creating a flattering silhouette. And I finally get it. *Ding Ding! Catching my shadow's larger than life silhouette projected as a giant on the wall...sigh. I would like to create a totally different one. I finally understand straight lines and something structured on the curvy gal. Floppy makes your curves look like fat; the less you are bending a line the slimmer you look.
The SJEx wasn't so hard in sloppy Parkdale. There are quite a few fashion misses as you roam West Queen West. I was almost confident, until... and I can barely believe the place that brought the SJEx to a crushing almost tearful halt: The Grocery Store. As The SJEx and I are waiting in the checkout lane with 18 items or less grabbing at my waistband which was digging into my soft belly, I looked back. My eyes scrunched with discomfort were met with 3 model types buying cottage cheese and blueberries with lean turkey slices. And I have Doritos, Bits and Bites and my way-too-tight-super-skinner-than-they should be jeans. I feel embarrassed and big and stupid, though I am not sure why I feel stupid it's just all connected somehow. Then the Starving Artist pipes up, in my head of course; You're already starting. They are Starving Artists too, just at a point closer to their goal. But it doesn't make me feel better. I want to be the best now! So, when I got home feeling sorry for myself I teared up and put on my jogging pants and ate Bits and Bites. The SJEx done for today.
The scientific and logical part of my brain knows I am the reason I am where I am physically, emotionally and career-ically. Having had a great experience on Friday night; my first acting gig, I mean actual acting gig in over a year. It was fast and fantastic and furious and soaking wet and never as special as I hope it will be. And like one of those signs indicating how many days it's been since a company's last accident; Today restarts the daily count. Then my full time job ends Friday. So what am I to do with myself. I'm grasping at hands before pointing down in this oubliette of a business, so I thought this Starving Artist Blog would keep me busy. But I worry that Dieting can be all stick and no carrot. Or rather all carrot stick.
It amazes me how making progress can make you feel worse than standing still. I have been lamenting my poor luck in this industry for almost 10 years. I have been killing myself trying to make my dreams come true. I've been standing there, one my mark, waiting. I've been working so hard behind the scenes that I now have a matching set of under eye baggage. I have been hob-nobbing and being myself and telling jokes and being a sympathetic ear and not giving up on myself. And all those things actually worked. It really worked to be myself. So, why do I feel like I don't deserve the amazing opportunity I've been given?
I feel like I have slipped in the back door. Like if I had gone about this in the real way I wouldn't have gotten it. Popular opinion varies. BFF & Hubby think that this is well deserved. That I have proven myself and am getting taken seriously, because I am serious. Oh and talented, they may have said that too;) My Parents think any news is good news, and the important part is that I got it. My work colleagues are happy to work with someone who knows how they work. But I feel like I have been fighting against being that type of backdoor artist. I want to walk in the audition room and have them see what it took these guys 5 months to see. That's on me.
The nerves I am suffering from are a shock. It's as though my body knows I didn't get this gig on talent, I got it on personality. I am scared of letting people down. Or even worse, I am scared of being worse than the worst person I've seen all season. I am hoping that my confidence will kick back into gear. Cuz to meet me you'd never think I had a confidence issue. Though maybe it's my lack of self esteem that will help me to be a braver performer. It certainly has been pushing me in the past few months. I know I can do the work- and its not that it's hard, it's just a challenge. One that I hope I am up for- despite all the second, third and fourth thoughts I've had to the contrary. I just hope I am as good as I've been pretending to be all these years. So, I guess that puts me here. Standing waist deep in chilly water in September. The shivering is partly the early stages of hypothermia, but mostly I think it's nerves.
At the tender age of 8 you don't realize how the hard work and effort you put in now will stick with you as you grow up. My parents were adamant about making me participate. I learned piano, French, took ballet, tap, was a member of 4H club, Explorers and was signed up for at least one season of every summer sport available to a young person in my small community. But my limited attention span caught up to me and I floated between lessons picking them up and putting them down, not really retaining all the details that make a person talented at those things. So, now instead of being great at a few things, I am kinda good at a lot of things.
There are times I wish my Momma had forced me to continue on with piano practice. Though really how can you force anyone to do anything- especially a tenacious 8 year who just wants to go outside and play? I wish I'd gone on a foreign exchange to France where I could practice my foreign tongue. I wish I'd trained my 4H calf to do tricks. Throughout my childhood my thoughts were always of what I was missing in the immediate moment, not what I would miss later. To an 8 year old; now is all there is.
Now, as a 30 year old I regret not sticking to my childhood skill sets. Being great at something during childhood is a wonderful way to start out as an adult. There are days when I long to speak French while sipping cafe au lait and eating a baguette. Or when I see a gleaming grand piano taunting me to tickle the ivories. Or identifying a type of cheese by the smell alone. Then there's the urge-however fleeting- to be more athletic and drop into a pickup game of something at my local playground. But my skills were never that well honed. And any residual muscle memory has long since atrophied.
The great thing about my childhood was the variation in the skill sets I learned and what I have retained. I can read music, which means I can easily go back and start playing piano again. Beginning with Baa baa black sheep, twinkle, twinkle & Hot cross buns of course. I can understand French when I listen to someone speak it; though I no longer think in French, I could polish off those rusty pipes pretty fast. I guess the great thing about the variation in my childhood experiences is that it taught me how to act. Or at least how to pretend to do almost everything, relatively well, which is the hardest part about acting:)
While attending my second industry TIFF party of all time I realized. There is a lot of really great hair in here. Great hair, great outfits and huge egos. The ego though I think is inflated by nerves and the constant fear of making an ass of yourself. People celebrating at these events are typically over-anxious about their art house film that took them 11 years and their entire line of credit to complete- not to mention their parent's money and a friend providing craft services just to keep it going. A labour of love will give you painful contractions.
Watching the potential success of others can be inspiring and disheartening at the same time. With the limited implied value of that little movie your making it's an emotional pregnancy. From conception to birth and even after; all through the awkward teen years until they go off to university. And even then your grown up little baby will always be your baby. The sad thing is that if it took 11 years just to birth it, that is a slow growth rate. The worst part is that my concept zygote is still awaiting fertilization- and by the time that bundle of joy arrives I will be 41! And I never wanted to be an older mother.
Little baby film idea, your Mommy and Daddy have been waiting so long, wishing for you, dreaming of your future and how you'll complete our lives. So TIFF I promise you, you don't know me now but within the next 11 years I will be ready for you to meet my baby. Baby Movie concept: You'll be smart, witty and full of surprises. You're already keeping me up all night and have spoiled my figure, so I have nothing left to loose. It would be great to have an amazing hairstyle though, but I guess I have 11 years to get it right.
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