Outfit Post: Anorexia, competition, and the quest for blogger win

As a card-carrying perfectionist, I have often viewed life as a competition. There is The Best, and there is everyone else. My lifelong goal has been to be The Best at whatever it was - not out of a healthy sense of competition, but more because I viewed myself as a failure if I wasn't The Best. My constant striving was fueled by a desire to finally feel like I could measure up to everyone else.

As a teenager, my quest towards being The Best was challenged daily by the extremely competitive environment I lived in - that of honors classes and music conservatory. I was a concert flutist, and attended a prestigious music conservatory while enrolled in a performing arts high school. Not only did I need to achieve perfect grades (which I nearly conquered, if not for my dammed music theory classes), but also achieve first chair status in orchestra, small wind ensemble and concert band. I was absolutely ruthless during those years. Actually, I had forgotten how awful I was until curiosity led me to flip through my high school yearbook. Most of the messages from my friends include some mention of how I "pushed them to work harder", "drove them crazy", and "made their life a living hell." Ouch. The process towards becoming The Best usually included alienating myself from my close friends, all of whom were flutists and strove towards the same goal as mine. It made for some tenuous, stressful times. As far as I was concerned, losing friends was just part of being The Best, and I accepted it as a mater of fact. The most important thing - indeed, the only important thing - was to win.

My anorexia only amplified this thinking process. Losing weight, conquering my need for food, sleep, and affection, was the way I found to "win" the competition. Anorexia made me feel special. It was my trump card. Giving up my eating disorder meant giving up this one way I had of feeling special, of being The Best. As long as I ate less, and weighed less, then at least I could be The Best at that. Right? Too bad this contest is so tremendously self-destructive.

Although I've learned in the past few years that this is a very distorted and disordered way of thinking - a way of thinking that preceded the eating disorder - it's still very much there and very much present. Now, reading my high school's alumni magazine is an exercise in self-loathing. The accomplishments of my classmates make me almost feel ill when I look at my life. My therapist calls this "compare and despair." I have similar feelings when checking out the stats of some blogs I follow. I spend entirely too much time and energy trying to figure out what makes some so successful, how they have so many followers and sponsors and lead such gorgeous glamorous lives. Now, I can't even say "Well, at least I'm eating less then they are!" Because I'm in recovery, and almost certainly not.

Now, it seems I am hungry all the time. Like, ALL the time. I'm assuming it's due to the fact that I'm actually paying attention to hunger cues (which I used to do my best to ignore.) Giving in to my hunger would mean, in my head, that I'd be eating more than most women. I defined being The Best for so long as eating the least. Because of this, now, I seem to be The Worst, which is pretty much a living hell for someone who has perfectionism.

I don't always want to feel I need to participate in the contest but don't yet quite know how else to feel okay with myself without these concrete measures. I always have this profound sense of inadequacy, and this was mediated, temporarily, by the eating disorder. It quelled the anxieties of not measuring up, of not being good enough.

I know that I need to stop defining myself in relation to others. And not just any "others," but those who have achieved more and done more and make me feel like utter crap when I think about what my life is and what it has done. I know I need to compare me to, well, ME and to hell with everyone else.

Have you ever struggled with competition? Do you have trouble with perfectionism? How do you avoid the compare and despair trap that so many bloggers struggle with? Do you get caught up in comparing your stats with more successful bloggers?

Forever 21 silk top; thrifted Escada lace skirt; Jessica Simpson pumps; Frye clutch; Forever 21 rhinestone spike necklace; Forever 21 rhinestone bracelets; Target rhinestone drop earrings

 

Not a girl, not yet a woman

This summer I met a neighbor of mine while accompanying our children to our community pool. At one point we became entranced by an infant splashing in the water, and she mentioned that she was having baby pangs. "I'm too old to have a baby", she mentioned, "but you're young. You should absolutely have another."

Okay, first of all, this woman could not have possibly been younger than me. If I had to guess-timate her age, I'd say she was around the same as me - upper 30's, perhaps a couple of years older. On the way home, I started giving the subject of pregnancy more thought. Truthfully, and especially since my 36th birthday, I think of myself as too old for most things. Too old to wear vinyl leggings, too old to go to clubs, and certainly too old to have another baby. However, much of the time I feel like a kid playing house. I feel a lot younger than 36.  I toy around with the idea of coloring my hair pink. And my love affair with tattoos (I have ten) has only increased since getting my first one three years ago. I'm a married mom to three children and yet most of the time I feel about fourteen years old. I'm not a girl, but I sure as hell don't feel like a woman. What gives?

Perhaps my problem is that I rely on very specific, somewhat stereotypical ideas of girl and woman. Girls are innocent and fearless. They are encouraged to experiment and try new things, whether it's sports, clothing, or hair color. Girls go on road trips, where they take photos with Holga cameras and manage to look gorgeous without washing their hair for three days. Girls shop at Urban Outfitters and American Apparel and Forever 21. They are creative, free-spirited and fun.

Women, on the other hand, are hardened and self-serving. They take pilates and daydream about vaginal reconstruction and vacations in St. Barts. Women shop at places like Nordstroms and Ann Taylor. Tattoos, piercings, and wildly colored hair are frowned upon. They balance their checkbooks and pay the mortgage and cook a balanced meal for their family every night.

I think I encompass qualities of both girls and women. I have multiple tattoos. I adore Forever 21. I'm a bit naive and have an overly active imagination. I also have a mortgage and stretch marks. I feel old when I see clusters of teenagers emerge from some mall store like Abercrombie and Finch or American Eagle, giggling and texting. At 36, I definitely don't think hanging out at the mall is fun anymore, but I did catch myself a few months ago feeling really proud that I'd managed to go to the dentist. At some point in my life, I'll probably stop patting myself on the back for "adult" things like that, and then maybe I'll really be a woman.

I think this outfit embodies both girlish and womanly components. The twirly skirt and tied shirt  makes me feel young and light-hearted, but those heels are sturdy and serious. And those are definitely not the legs of a girl.

Thrifted Ann Taylor chambray shirt; vintage gray tee shirt (underneath); Forever 21 skirt; J Crew tights; Jessica Simpson booties; Forever 21 necklace; Frye clutch.

Vroom vroom

I've never been the type drawn to bad boys. When I was in my dating prime (a long, long time ago) my heart was decidedly pulled towards scholarly, preppy types. My ideal boyfriend was a law, pre-med or political science major who wore corduroy, freshly pressed oxford shirts and a lot of Ralph Lauren. He did not smoke, do drugs, or get anything less than a B+ on his papers. The ideal guy drove a Saab or older-model BMW he helped pay for from money earned tutoring high school students.  He smelled like Polo and listened to Billy Joel and The Cranberries. I suppose I stereotyped these boys to be stable, reliable, and thoughtful, the type to pick me up on time and help me with my calculus. (I did, eventually, marry a lawyer, whom I might add has all the things I was looking for.)


I was an extremely serious college student, the type who felt guilty when they missed class and hung out in the T.A office to surreptitiously gleam tips for acing the next exam. Honestly, I didn't have much fun at all (unless you consider pulling all-nighters cramming for your statistics final fun.) I never attended a frat party, didn't drink before my 21st birthday, and went to bed by ten. I also worked two jobs and carried a full course load, so perhaps I didn't have the time nor the energy to party.


The absence of a traditional teenage rebellion eventually caught up with me. A few years ago, I got my nose pierced, the gateway drug towards my first tattoo. One became two, became three, became thirteen (oops.) I know it's kind of weird that I acted out at 33. Maybe I wasn't ready to break the mold until then. In any case, when I saw a Triumph moto tee at Plato's, I was all over it. I have no desire to careen down the road on a bike, but there's something symbolic about owning an article of clothing with one on it.

J Crew vintage denim shirt; Triumph motorcycle tee (Plato's Closet); Nordstrom Rack necklace; Forever 21 skinny belt; Forever 21 brocade skirt; J Crew tights, Jessica Simpson booties, Forever 21 rhinestone bracelets.

Yes, these booties again. I will probably be a cripple by tonight.