In an industry where youth is celebrated- sought after and faked, turning another year older can be a lot to recover from. Birthdays are supposed to be special. The one day to feel celebrated. One day a year where you are the number 1, top banana, king of the day; unless of course you're a twin. A day to be doted on. Loved and adored by those who love and adore you. Receiving birthday wishes from all those who think I'm something special. Family and friends eager to enjoy my company. But how does getting older really feel?
My Grandma Near; before she lost her mind to dementia said to me: "I don't remember getting old. I was 22 then I was 80, but that 22 year old is still in here."*pointing to her noggin. Then she asked me how babies were made. Strange disease Alzheimer's, forgetting who you are before your done with being yourself. But that's a story for another day. Growing older I have started to understand the importance of making memories. The urge to celebrate and be with the ones you love. Growing up, well, growing taller I can't help but wonder what the future holds for me. And most of all I've realized that just because you're not doing something doesn't mean things aren't happening. You can't stop progress. I think that getting older is a good thing for me. It's hard to admit that I won't be a reckless teen or self-involved twenty-something ever again. I am becoming a responsible adult. I am growing into my hit- acting-wise. Which should be a good thing*fingers, legs, arms and toes crossed. I am digging on being a grown up...except the ever increasing creases.
After all the indulgence birthdays bring, I will be happy to get back to veggies. The day after my party I had a sugar hangover and my tongue was swollen from sour candies. Plus my just-washed-jeans were a little tighter that morning. My body had just started being healthy for reasons of business and pleasure. And was starting to feel good. But now that I am one year older it won't be so easy staying in shape says Hubby who's been (infuriatingly) the same size since we met. Happy Birthday to me. I am glad to make these new resolutions with you. Here's to a Happy New Year of Melicious:)
The adage goes that you are what you eat. Well, I don't remember eating a heaping helping of passive agressive with a steaming side of sad-sack. This whole eating well thing is getting me down. I mean; Hey Ms. Craig, while I've been watching weight, and I couldn't help but notice, I have no idea who you are. I know Jennifer Hudson, Valerie Bertinelli and Kirstie Alley have all benefited from the meal plan mentality, even if only temporarily. But what do I look like a rich and influential spokesperson? (Which I could be if you wanted*insert gleaming smile ting) I can't afford to spend $15 a meal for $6.40 worth of food. And Dr. Bernstein you silver haired slim Jim, you've been around since fat people were invented. But those vitamin B shots are more expensive than Jenny, though I guess you save on the cost of food, cuz you don't buy any. I can't afford your fancy programs! So, here's my plan. Back to basics. Cut out dairy and simple carbs. On the upside, I am allowed as many veggies as I want. But really how many veggies can any one person truly want?
I have been trying to quit meat. With the exception of fish and local organic chicken and this past weekend which went entirely off the rockers. Going out on the road, I ate everything but the pig, with whom I was too busy commiserating our similar silhouettes, though his skin was better. Desperately searching for other sources of protein has me subbing in beans and chickpeas at every meal. Now, all those veggies are delicious. Low in fat. Fibrous and filling. But they also bloat me. It's not the same as the 3 day meatloaf bloat. But the musical fruit has definitely been busy composing, if you catch my whiff. Creating a strange alternate reality where I out toot- Hubby-the-Toots-Magoots...a strange and scary place, don't leave me alone in here.*insert gesture to my head.
With the increase of my physical activity and the slowly but steadily declining junk food intake I am hoping to see results. Not drastic ones, but the slow and steady tortoise kind of results. And am eager to post them for y'all. I am excited to be the change I want to see in the mirror. The greatest motivator? I found a clothing store that is perfect for ME! I mean perfect: A little bit vintage and lot amazing. But knowing it would be a waste to buy anything at this current size, cuz in a couple months I would have to get it altered- fingers crossed. And that if I reach my goal Hubby Warbucks will hopefully, pretty please with a cherry on top reward me. (You smell what I'm cooking Hubby?) Oh and as for this meal plan, I think it really can work! After a bunch of steamed broccoli with nothing except Toronto spice and 4 mini roasted potatoes. I had myself a tight and tidy one pan dinner. Full, happy and proud; I congratulated myself. Then promptly ate a butter tart.*headshake Well, if I am going to become what I eat, maybe I should start eating more awesome-sauce on wicked sticks and a slice of magic for dessert. Mmmmagic.
For my first day back at it I decided to take it slow. I pumped my tires full of hot air, literally and figuratively. And this fat bottom girl got on her bike to ride. Huffing and puffing before my hula hoop class even started! And stinky with the shame of looking at myself standing awkwardly in a room with a solid wall of mirror. Trying to keep it fun and easy, I registered for a hoop burn class. How hard could it be to hula hoop? Not hard for the first 5 mins- then for the rest of the 55 mins- very hard. Add onto that the tricks and spins and doubles and turns and all that jazz I was out of my depth. But teacher says I am a natural- plus my classmates were nice! But I'd be surprised if hula hooping had drawn a bunch o'jerks. I mean it's a sparkly ring you dance inside- not exactly MMA. I am confident that my bum, abs and thighs will scold me tomorrow- but that's always a day away.
Getting back on my bike I headed to the rec centre for a swim. My non-athletic brain thought that if I doubled down on the fitness plan I was more likely to stick to it. I spent 15 mins in the fast lane being harrumphed at by men who wish they were Michael Phelps and 40 mins of arm and leg isolation in the medium lane, where I was the fastest and harumph-free. Until a fast- laner felt like slumming it in the medium lane and while passing people, he kicked them! Dude C'mon! Wouldn't you rather be challenged by the fast lane instead of shaming the mid tempo swimmers? But I guess he needed the ego boost or an excuse to kick people. My oh my, my neck is strained from only breathing one way during my strokes- ah hello, muscle memory, where were you on that? You were trained to go both ways. Either way I was pooped, my goggles were fogged up and I was sweating- in water- weird.
Then in the changeroom it hit me. An omg- I haven't used that muscle in a millennia arm cramp. Just at the moment when my shirt got twisted over my head, locking me in a kama-shirtra death grip. Standing there blind and topless, waiting for a helping hand when who should be the first responder? Why yes, it is a 64 year old naked polish lady. Asking sheepishly for a helping hand while trying to cover my totally exposed boobies, she drops her towel and brazenly untangles me. With a polite thank you, I dress myself and hop back onto my bike. My bottom feeling less fat and my body already sore. So much for taking it slow. I fully expect to wake up tomorrow with a sore everything, but I think I'll register for the noon hula class anyhow. If there's one thing I've learned is that I've told you that we won't stop. And now that I've got this giant rock rolling down the raider's tomb, it's time to get the idol, wait it's time to be the idol.
At 2am after a night of working hard on an online submission audition Hubby came to bed angry. Mad that he hadn't finished more. Angry that things weren't as easy as he'd hoped. Put out by how difficult it actually was putting together something that he could be proud of. Both Hubby and I are perfectionists.... Did I mention that? But perfection takes time, effort and stamina. Also perfection takes a RED camera, lapel mics and at least 3 chimeras and 4 bounces- not to mention a choreographer, 1st AD and editor. The reason professional things look that way, is because they have the money, smackers, yen and pesos to pay for it. I can shoot as much as I want on my HD iPhone 4, but it's just never going to look perfect.
On take 3 of shot #5 I realized it. The reason we want so much of ourselves is because we want more people striving for perfection. Being the poor and starving artists we know what we can do, why wouldn't we expect that or more from a film crew of 80. This is the fact that makes us perfect for this industry of try hard perfectionists. If there is something that I have heard in every interview- every performer wants the best art to be made for the effort they are making. Would you do a nude scene? The answer across the board= If it was important to the story line, and if it is artistically done I would have no trouble doing it. That comes from a performer who wants the best for each project. The face in front of a crew of people all pulling to make something beautiful. Something unexpected. The performance of the season. In every performance they do. A true artist, of the starving variety is a perfectionist.
The inner monologue of the striver, the performer who wants to be their best goes like this: "Are my eyes blinking too much, on the next line I have to hit a mark accurately so that I am at my best angle, when I get to that mark I have to gesture with my left hand to the clue, while also picking up the prop I need for the next scene. I have to exit the frame from the left. While holding this prop, so I can have it in the scene we're filming in 2 and 7/8th days. Oh and don't do that thing with you eye because you don't have that action until you turn around." Plus remembering lines and saying them with the same intonation 27 times in a row. You must be a perfect performer to even do the basics of this job. That's not even taking into account the crying and screaming- and making that look honest. Be you an ugly cryer like Halle Berry or the cryer that let's the tears roll freely without marring your still beautiful face. Or how about fight scenes? Those are supposed to seem spontaneous, but they've been practised until the crew was ready to fall asleep. This is a tough job. So, here's one going out to all the starry eyed youth thinking that you won't need math and science to be a famous actor. It takes so much more than that. Study social science, biology and athletics. Geography and History couldn't hurt either. So, if you're coming down this yellow brick road, please pack a survival kit, cuz this life is tough and unexpected. But the rest of us perfectionists are up for it, if you are:)
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.
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.
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.
Against my better judgement, I have launched this campaign while still working my all consuming job. Knowing how accountability works; I am going to stick to it and start as planned. Though perhaps not the way I planned. The nitty gritty of The Starving Artist will go up as soon as I am free to do so. Including my current body measurements, my eating plan and my goals to better myself. But for today... enjoy a healthy bite of blog:)
Having too much on your plate. Your life plate and your dinner plate. The typical North American workaholic has a tendency to live life to the fullest; by undertaking more than the suggested serving size. And I am no exception. With food we tend to eat our fill and then some. In life we jam each waking hour with the bread and butter of expectation. Consuming what we crave and still hungering for more. Ensuring that we aren't missing out on something special. Packing our plates with all the social food groups and licking them clean. We're afraid of wasting even the smallest morsel of deliciousness. There are socially starving children all over the world.
Portion control relies heavily on your support systems. Being strong for yourself and making the decision to stick to your guns can be hard. Having a BFF who knows you might cheat but she would keep that secret on lock-down; gives the strength to stick to your meal plan. On the other hand, having a Hubby who pushes your buttons can create a craving to break the rules; stuffing your face with all the wrong responses. The ability to see a plateful and have the strength to ask for a doggie bag is a newly acquired skill set. But it agrees with my new initiative.
Variation and moderation. It's okay to start small and add as you go. This technique allows you to slowly and comfortably fill your stomach and soul. By choosing smaller options and splitting them tapas style you encourage a sense of community generosity. My life is full of moderated variation from ukeing to swimming, dancing myself skinny to eating myself fat and everything in between. Variety is the spice of life and I like it hot. This variety helps your spirit & taste buds to be pleased without the overstuffed sensation of way too much. As with most things the good life requires you to read the box and follow the recipe. Pick your menu wisely and be strong enough to avoid any unnecessary substitutions. They cost you more in the long run any way.
When my jogging pants were tight... I knew there was a problem. For the last 8 years I have been half-heartedly chasing my "dreams"- which for the most part are shifting and unspecific. The only constant being my love of performing. Of which I have achieved very little "success". I put success into air quotes because as an artist "success" is subjective, relative and intangible, except we all know what it feels like when it happens. Oh and let's not even discuss the italics. So where am I? I am 30. I have found a job that pays my bills. My loving parents support my every artistic whim. My Puppa loves me and the Kitty likes me most of the time. I have a BFF that really gets me. I am happily married to a Hubby who takes very good care of me. I have been married for 1 year and marriage agrees with me- if you know what I mean. I am supposed to be happy. But there is something missing. I have been working on the periphery of this acting business for almost 10 years, but I haven't really been trying. Whoa, that was hard to admit. Well, I've tried a little but not enough to really make a difference, just enough to keep up appearances. Mostly just wishing and hoping. Fingers crossed that someone, somewhere with some sort of power over something would see me and recognize greatness. Well, that's stupid. I thought by not really trying that I couldn't really fail. Well, that's really stupid. I was also hoping that my stubborn nature would help me to be the last one standing. Stupid, who wants to win by default? So, things have got to change. Knowing that nothing great comes without hard work I have set myself a challenge. Thrown down a gauntlet, if you will, the contract is as follows:
I, Melicious Manners, heretofore known as the talent am willing entering into this contract. The talent is going to GO for IT! There will be some serious changes in the talent's career. She's going to track her physical, employment and emotional progress. In this, the talent's 31st year, half measures will not be tolerated. This will be a full court press. The talent is going to start putting in the required effort. Which includes but is not limited to; Physical appearance, Agency representation, Professional betterment, Style and General emotional well-being.
I the Talent approve this message.
The Starving Artist will be released every Monday starting Sept 17. And I want to invite you to see what I can do. Plus I would be lying if I didn't admit that this blog is one of the reasons I started to actually believe in myself. Finding out that even things this hard have benefits beyond expectation is the most rewarding lesson I've learned. Lesson 2: The more daunting the endeavour the greater the reward. The time is now, there will never be another today for me to better myself. Today is all we get and I am tired of being stupid. But I am ready to be hungry. I am looking forward to impressing you:)
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