Outfit Post: Going easy on myself

I am hard on my body.

I spend countless hours hunched over my laptop, eyes squinting and straining long into the night. I jam my feet into constricting pointy-toed flats and spindly high heels. I nurse blisters while logging miles on the treadmill. Tight skinny jeans are an integral part of my wardrobe. I toss and turn so much when I sleep that I wake with some fantastic kinks in my neck and back. And I was downright sadomasochistic when I was in the throes of my eating disorder.

For years I believed that pampering was selfish and self-indulgent. I refused to participate in anything I considered luxurious and unnecessary, including taking baths, shopping (I know, can you believe it?) napping, and even taking an Advil when I had a headache. I prided myself on my ability to push through exhaustion and deprive myself. Ultimately, this was about staying disconnected from my body. I was so uncomfortable with feeling that I did everything possible to prevent it. The goal was to keep myself as numb as possible.

Over the past few years I've learned how important self-compassion is. People who neglect their own needs and forget to nurture themselves are more susceptible to low self-esteem and feelings of resentment. Also, those who spend the majority of their time focusing on others while ignoring their own needs can be at risk of burning out. The NY Times recently featured an article expounding on the importance of self-compassion. People who score high on tests of self-compassion have less depression and anxiety, and tend to be happier and more optimistic. Preliminary data also suggests that self-compassion can even influence how much we eat, and may help some people lose weight.

Thankfully, being nice to yourself doesn't require a ton of money or big investment. It can be as simple as taking a walk, grabbing a cup of coffee, or listening to music. I don't go for expensive indulgences or anything complicated...actually, the simpler the better. Here are my favorite ways to pamper myself:

1. Fresh flowers: I think I can count the number of times I've bought myself flowers on one hand. Which is really a shame, because they make me feel so good. Whether they're a $5 bunch of daisies from the supermarket or a $60 arrangement of roses and lilies, flowers remind me that I'm feminine and sensual. And they smell nice too.

2. Good wine: It can be tough to rationalize spending more than $10 on a bottle of wine. But having a glass at the end of the day is such a delicious treat. I always feel very grown-up and sophisticated when pouring myself a glass of wine. But, then again, I'm a dork.

3. Baths and bubble baths: Baths are my universal cure-all. Feeling cold? Depressed? Exhausted? There is no more effective cure than sinking into scalding hot water and zoning out. A rich, aromatic bubble bath makes the experience that much better. I'm partial to those from TokyoMilk and Bath and Body Works, though any old kind of bubble bath does the trick. Thick shower gels and lotions make me feel pampered and girlish and remind me to take better care of my skin.

4. Candles: I was never really into candles. I know women who have so many around that their houses resemble monasteries. But in the last two years I've been burning candles more often. They instantly relax me, and they smell so good. My favorite is the Baltic Amber candle from Voluspa - it smells like vanilla, cedar and sandalwood.

5. Time with friends: This one seems silly - being with friends hardly seems luxurious, right? But it's so easy to get caught up in the responsibilities of work, parenting, housekeeping, boyfriends and spouses that we lose track of connecting with others. I've gone through periods where I lived a hermit-like existence, forgetting to return phone calls and emails and neglecting to make time for dinner and drinks with my friends. But I always, always feel better after meeting up with them. Last night I met up with Tina of T Minus T Plus and Erin of Work With What You've Got. I had a great time and feel more confident and connected today as a result.

What are some ways you pamper and take care of yourself? How do you reduce stress? Do you ever find it challenging to take care of yourself?

Forever 21 silk top; Gap Outlet jeggings; thrifted Justin vintage boots; thrifted J Crew denim shirt; thrifted vintage western belt; Forever 21 necklaces; Forever 21 bracelets

Quinceaneras, bat mitzvahs, and ruffles ruffles ruffles

This is embarrassing.

Today I dressed kind of like a goth adolescent preparing for her quinceanera. Not that I've ever been to one, but like I've seen on Wizards of Waverly Place and late-night programming on Telemundo.

I imagine a quinceanera is kind of like a Latin American Bat Mitzvah, minus the Hebrew and phlegmatic accents.  For those non-Jews reading, allow me to explain exactly what it is. A Bat Mitzvah is a rite of passage for a thirteen year-old girl. It's a ceremony symbolizing the passage into Jewish adulthood, requiring years of preparation (in the form of tediously long Hebrew lessons, the consumption of bland, downright bizarre foods (gefilte fish, kugel, and charoset come to mind) and painfully long family traditions. For months beforehand you attend Hebrew school, where you learn violent songs about Passover and practice warbling your Torah portion with an ancient rabbi. On the big Bat Mitzvah day, you climb up onto the synagogue stage and read your Hebrew portion while your parents beam proudly from the congregation. Then you give saccharine-sweet speeches of tearful thanks to your parents and siblings. After synagogue there's a huge reception, either at a catering hall or restaurant, which is decorated with towering balloon sculptures and centerpieces made from fresh flowers and curled ribbons and cartoonish cardboard cutouts.

I had an epic Bat Mitzvah. My mother rented out an entire restaurant and invited every relative in the Tri-State Area (and some strangers from California.) I wore a off-the-shoulder white lace dress with rhinestones and beads and more lace and satin ribbons and pantyhose and white satin pumps. There were ruffles. Many, many ruffles. It was 1986, so it was okay.

The hotness that was thirteen year-old me in my Bat Mitzvah dress, with an entourage of male suitors.

In my adolescent years I attended quite a few Bat Mitzvah's, which was a fairly common experience as a Jewish girl growing up on Long Island. A Bat Mitzvah was announced with invitations constructed from four (or more) layers of embossed cardstock and translucent paper and satin ribbons, and packaged in it's own keepsake box. Each layer of paper symbolized how much money your parents were willing to flush down the toilet for your special special day. Invitations were no joke. Parents scrutinized them like Cold War spies deciphering code intercepted by intelligence agencies.

The typical Bat Mitzvah reception featured thirteen year-old's swaying to loud music (preferably from a band and not, God forbid, a DJ, because ohmygawd a band is like so much classier, you don't even want to know what the neighbors will think if we have a DJ, people will talk), and a Kosher buffet, and elaborately themed centerpieces (usually CANDYLAND!, or ON BROADWAY! or ADVENTURES AROUND THE WORLD!) and distant cousins shoving envelopes stuffed with money in your face. In my days, Bat Mitzvahs also included glow sticks and custom-made tee shirts with the date and location of the event, just in case you forgot where you slow danced for the first time and nearly got kissed right before your Grandma Helen interrupted looking for the ladies room.

As I looked at myself in today's outfit, with it's ruffled beaded sequined tunic, I immediately remembered my bat Mitzvah dress, resplendent in it's ruffled glory. I'll admit that I'm uncertain if this outfit is really me (and the tunic made me photograph lumpier than I actually am....and even after three kids, I'm in pretty decent shape) but I felt like trying something new. What do you think? Does it work or not? Is there something you'd change?

Forever 21 tunic; Gap Outlet jeggings; thrifted Justin boots; Coach bag; Forever 21 bracelets; Betsey Johnson gold watch; target rhinestone pyramid studs

 

Childhood dreams, or why I dressed like an 80's power bitch

It’s difficult to remember my thought processes back from when I was a young girl. My loftiest dreams involved how many times I could swivel a hoola hoop around my hips, and little else held much importance. Times have changed, but it’s fun to recollect some of the simple things that I hoped for as a child.

1. A pantry stocked with sugary cereal.
2. A pony, preferably white.
3. A backyard.
4. A pink Powerwheels car.
5. A tree house.
6. A younger sister.
7. More Cabbage Patch and Barbie dolls.
8. Curly blonde hair.
9. A doll house.
10. Lisa Frank stickers.
11. Cable TV.
12. To have magical powers, i.e that I could fly and make myself invisible.
13. To grow up and move out of my parents house.
14. To live in California (I have no idea why.)
15. To be as stylish as my mom.

In my eyes, my mother's beauty was akin to Joan Collins and Debbie Harry. She was almost aggressively glamorous, and took trends seriously. She had trademark long burgundy nails, with lipstick to match, and wore eighties power suits with dangerous-looking shoulder pads, and straight high-waisted leather skirts. God, I remember those skirts - she owned them in red, cream, purple, and black, made from buttery soft leather, with a long back zipper and small kick pleat. Every morning, after getting dressed, I would perch on the edge of our bathroom sink and watch her carefully apply her make-up. I was fascinated just by the abundance of products - concealer, foundation, powder, liquid eyeliner, multiple eyeshadows blended to the brow, lipstick liner and lipstick applied with a tiny little brush. When she was done, she practically looked embalmed. But I suppose that was fashionable back in 1987.

I suppose I was channeling a bit of her in this outfit. My skirt and red lipstick are very 198o's woman :


Ann Taylor cardigan; Anthropologie ikiat sleeveless swing top; J Crew turtleneck, vintage thrifted leather skirt; Target tights; Justin boots; Hype bag, Forever 21 long rhinestone earrings.



What were your childhood dreams?

(And, can anyone tell me where I can get black opaque tights that are not shiny? I have tights from J Crew, The Gap and Target, and they all photograph with a shiny gleam. Help!)

Play something country

I am a born-and-raised New Yorker. I am a devotee of whitefish salad on a bagel and hot dogs of questionable origin served from carts on the sidewalk. I learned how to drive on the Grand Central Parkway, also known at New York City's Autobahn, and take great pleasure in haughtily informing people that New York City's pizza makes that of other states taste like saltines covered in ketchup. By fourteen I was riding the subway by myself, learning how to cross the street without getting run over by a gypsy cab and had already been pickpocketed twice - a true rite of passage for any New Yorker. I grew up in apartments lacking a washer and dryer, dishwasher, driveway or backyard. I loved the hustle and bustle, the dodging of tourists clogging the sidewalks, the screech of the subway hurling itself through tunnels.

And then I moved to Texas. Living here often feels as if I've been relocated to a foreign country. Texans are a completely different species compared to New Yorkers.  New York City contains a lot of people living in a small space. They have smaller cars and smaller homes. People say everything is bigger in Texas, and that's evident in the lifestyle and personality of Texans. Why own a compact car when you can drive an SUV? Why live in a house when you can own a McMansion? Why own a sleek wardrobe of all-black when you can deck yourself out in jeans emblazoned with rhinestones on the ass, shiny crocodile cowboy boots and hair reaching towards the heavens? Texans fearlessly embrace a bold gesture, whether in the form of a hug, an accent, or a piece of jewelry. As I posess a rather bold personality myself, I am proud to call myself a Texan. I love living here and honestly can't picture myself living in New York ever again. It's a nice place to visit, though.

Yesterday, my husband and I spent the day in Fort Worth, birthplace of big hair and western attire. Here are people who press their jeans, wear overalls to lunch, spend hundreds of dollars on a belt buckle, and wear clothing loudly featuring the Texas flag. Going to Fort Worth provides the perfect education on Texas fashion. Tooled leather, pressed Wranglers, Stetson cowboy hats, and clothing in Longhorn orange or TCU purple are de rigor. I passed store after store selling furniture carved from antlers and custom-made cowboy boots that cost more than my mortgage payment.

I was tempted to break out my own cowboy boots for the trip, but decided on a more subtle approach.


Old Navy cardigan and skirt; J Crew button-down; Gap tights; Justin boots.



New Year's Eve: Losers edition

Some people spend New Year's Eve listening to loud music in an overcrowded club, drinking cheap champagne and nibbling stale hors d'oervues well past when the clock strikes midnight. They break out their most festive party clothes and dance with abandon. Others participate in a smaller gathering at a restaurant or bar, where they eat a lavish meal and toast in the New Year with martinis. Then there are the kind of people who prefer to stay home and watch the Times Square ball drop from the comfort of their own couch. Often, a gigantic bowl of popcorn and six pack of Shiner's provides company.


I am the latter type of person. Just the thought of going out on New Year's Eve exhausts me. First of all, I hate large crowds. They make me feel suffocated and claustrophobic. I hate standing around feeling trapped to make uncomfortable small talk with some overly accessorized, pretentious creep. I hate driving on New Year's...my overly active imagination puts me squarely in the middle of an accident between myself and a drunk driver. But the thing I hate most about going out on New Year's is the pressure I feel to go out on New Year's. It's completely ridiculous. From commercials on television to sitcom story lines involving New Year's celebrations, the message communicated is that if you dare spend the night in front of the television in your jammies, there's something wrong with you. You are a loser who probably wears mom jeans and lives alone with 10 cats and finds Cathy comics hilarious. Truthfully, I really could care less about being a loser. And I'm perfectly happy on my couch.

However, yesterday I received a last-minute invite to a friend's house. Very casual, wear what you want, guaranteed to be absent of complicated finger foods and loud drunken people. It was perfect. AND it gave me an excuse to wear sequins, which we all know is a Very Good Thing.

Gap blazer; Loft sequin vest; J Crew button-down; Gap Outlet jeggings; Hype washed leather bag; Justin boots; Target pyramid studs.

Run run Rudolph

The cookies for Santa have been eaten. Presents have been unwrapped. Stocking have been pillaged. And my kids are bouncing around the house like they're on meth. It must be Christmas!

I'm thrilled the day has finally arrived. All the weeks leading up to it are kind of draining. I hate the gnawing anticipation and anxiety to make this Christmas even better than the last. Conversations with friends have revealed that I'm far from the only one who feels worn out by the time Christmas Day arrives. We're ready for an end to holiday music and commercials urging us to buy just one more present to show people that we really love them.  We're ready to wave goodbye to mall Santas, Salvation Army bell-ringers, and lines of crazed shoppers at Target. We want to stop worrying about what to serve, what to buy, and how we're going to live with our mother-in-law without resorting to violence.

One of the reasons I hate the commercialization of Christmas is that it infallibly results in a post-seasonal depression. While I'm happy for Christmas to finally arrive, I know I'll experience a little let-down in the weeks ahead. There's so much pressure, from all kinds of sources, to have the "perfect" holiday season. Magazines instruct us on the perfect holiday menu, table decorations, and music to play in the background. Television hosts teach us how to choose and decorate the perfect Christmas tree. Supermarkets advertise the perfect wine. Stores hawk the perfect gift for moms/teachers/aunts/neighbors/school bus drivers/spouses. Commercials tell us what the perfect outfit for entertaining is, and where to buy it. It seems that there's nothing else to talk about.

And then, suddenly, BAM! it's over, and it's January and freezing out and everything looks bleak and colorless and sort of sad. And now, there really is nothing to talk about.

I hate that let-down. It kind of takes away from the appreciative, grateful spirit we should have after Christmas. We should be fondly mulling over the time we spent with family, enjoying whatever Santa brought us, and reflecting on how fortunate we are. Instead we're mopey and depressed. This year, I'm going to work harder than I ever have to avoid post- Christmas traumatic stress disorder. I'm going to see my friends, focus on building this blog, start some new books and resume training for a 10k. I'm going to make some long-range goals for a business. 

And who knows...the end of the holidays might be the start of something even better.

Thrifted vintage Pendelton wool blazer; thrifted Kansas State tee; Target long-sleeved tee; Old navy jeggings; Justin boots; Forever 21 necklace; Forever 21 bracelets

A quest for personal style

Here we have a girl (just so you know, I'm going to be referring to myself in the third person for this post) who is just beginning to understand out who she is. As a freshman in college, she occupies that strange territory between girl and woman. She is not such a fan of college, actually. Not even a little bit. For one thing, she is confused as to why her peers believe The Gap is the epitone of style. She tries to protest by not having a single item from The Gap in her closet. Take the suede jacket she's wearing in the photo, for instance. Purchased at The Salvation Army for $7, this jacket encompasses everything she believes in. It's vintage, so as far as she's concerned, it's the only one available, anywhere. It's solidly constructed. She spent nearly two hours unearthing it, digging through layers of double-knit polyester shirts, high-waisted jeans, and oppressively smelly office softball-team tee shirts, which means that it represents hard work and dedication.


This girl is very very proud of the fact that she manages to be (what she considers) stylish while working with what she makes while babysitting. However, she doesn't feel all that confident because all the cool kids wear clothes from The Gap, and don't get her at all. 


Fast forward a bit. This girl has graduated college, gotten married, had children. She starts to think that maybe The Gap isn't that bad at all. Slowly she begins to incorporate button-downs and khakis and argyle into her wardrobe, and before you know it, all of her vintage pieces are gone, to cousins or her mother or friends or back to The Salvation Army, where some other desperate college student is willing to take them off her hands.


She forgets how much she loved thrifting, the excitement she felt when excavating a vintage embroidered sweater from the fifties, the perfect pair of Levis 501's, a mesh link handbag. And then she finds herself living in Iowa, where malls are far and few and a Goodwill is steps from her door. On day, feeling brave and flush with courage, she goes in, and her passion for thrifting is reborn. She become absolutely engrossed with pilfering thrift stores. With every item she brings home, her heart jumps a bit. Then she moves to Texas, and she searches for more. She learns how to blend her things from The Gap with finds from Goodwill. And, in the end, she discovers her own personal style. 

Sometimes this girl puts her clothes on in the morning and thinks, yeah, I feel great! Other days, she takes a picture and isn't pleased at all. And so she tries again. It's a long process, this personal style thing. But she's starting to get the hang of it.

Forever 21 peacoat; Ralph lauren cashmere sweater; Gap button-down; Gap Outlet jeggings; vintage Justin boots,; Anthropologie necklace.

Maximum in cozy

Between the impending holidays, and housework, and screeching at boy B to for God's sake put some damm clothes on people can see you naked through our living room windows, things have been hectic. Sometimes I hate having adult responsibilities. There's nothing glamorous or carefree about making sure there's enough toilet paper and juice boxes in the house to coraling those evasive dust bunnies hiding underneath the hutch to worrying about whether the world will really end on 2012  (which might be why the hoarding of toilet paper is tops among my priorities.) Also added to my busy-list has been delving into my previously untapped energy source for exploring new thrift and consignment stores, and shopping like a maniac (sorry husband...it's for research purposes only; I can't exactly look slovenly and unfashionable in the pics I put up here on this blog now can I. My non-existent readers are relying on me.)

I'm sure everyone around me is plenty busy as well, what with their own errands and housecleaning and naked child-chasing and planning for the end of the world in 2012. That's why I'm to thankful for the blogsphere, since everybody can share and understand how stressful it can be just getting through the holidays without losing one's mind.

Yesterday I put the finishing touches on our holiday decor. There's still a towering mass of unpacked boxes in our storage facility (a.k.a garage) and wouldn't you know it, most of our crap was buried somewhere among the muck. I approached the mountain of boxes courageously, determined to emulate my idol Edmund Hilary. That bitch was gonna get owned. But after four boxes in and I slunk off, defeated. It was just too much. I did find most of our things and the house looks so pretty and festive. And I feel festive, imaginary readers! I want to sing (which I did in Wal-Mart this morning at Becky, that welcome Christmas song from How the Grinch Stole Christmas) and dance (badly) and throw snowballs (like a girl and miss). And eat lots of sugar cookies and get drunk on New Year's Eve. 

It was kind of nice to dress in something uncomplicated that didn't require much thought.

H&M poncho (Plat's Closet); American Eagle long-sleeve thermal; Gap gray jeggings; Justin vintage riding boots; ancient Gap belt

This poncho makes me so, so happy. It's warm. It's colorful. It can be belted in the most sloppy, haphazard way and still look great. It cost me $10. And it goes with practically anything - black jeans, gray jeans, blue jeans (can you tell I'm deeply missing my beloved jeans?), even a gray straight skirt (which is what I had on before the jeggings, but I decided it was a bit much for hanging around the house all day.)