The Body

This is a story about body image, but it starts with a kissing story.

I started this post 5 months ago. I've been unsure of how to present this without it sounding like I'm fishing for compliments. Just know that my purpose is to share my thoughts with the universe and hopefully they will benefit a few people.

I didn't get real kissed until I was 24 years old. I got kissed on the cheek for the first time when I was 23 years old. Scandalous, I know.

I was in an airport with a boy that had taken me on a few dates and I could tell that he was feeling nervous about something. He kept looking at me and then looking away. When he had to leave for his flight and I for mine, he gave me a hug and then out of nowhere kissed me on the cheek. (Ok, maybe anyone with at least one eye and a brain would have seen it coming, but I didn't.) I was so surprised, I elegantly said, "Oh....thanks."

I was walking away trying to figure out how I felt about it all and kind of chuckling to myself at the absurdity. Truly bewildered, I thought, "But, I'm fat..."

That was honestly my second reaction.

I believed because I wasn't an Athleta model or that girl on campus I just saw, that no one would like me. That was simply not true. The moment in the airport and a few others started a process that changed how I perceive myself.

I want to share the 5 shackle-breaking moments I had with my body perception.

1. A Black Red-headed Swedish Model. 

God answers a lot of my prayers through Yahoo articles and podcasts. I happened upon an article about Sabina Karlsson. Which lead me to her Instagram profile. Which lead me to drink in the genuine and subtle confidence that she projects. I saw how she held herself and how she looked at me as if to say, "Look at me, I am unique and I am beautiful. Not because of the rules set forth by society, but because I know who I am." It gave me permission to feel that way about myself too.

@thesabinakarlsson

Photo Credit: JAG  Models

 Photo Credit: Anastasia Garcia.

2. A Book.

It's not one of those "Eat what you want AND lose weight!" scams. It's more of an, "Eat what your body tells you and quit being so neurotic about dieting!" scams. And by scams, I mean that they try to hook you with catchy things like the horrible subtitle they chose. So cliche. However, the principles in the book are gold.

I didn't realize that I was allowed to feel pleasure from eating. Like, I'm allowed to feel heady when I eat a really good piece of bread or soup or full flavor yogurt. I learned to let myself fully submit to and experience the very real pleasure of eating. 

3. I can have fat and be fit.

I used to have a black and white perception that if I wasn't perfectly fit, I was a couch potato. Not so.

 Real conversation I've had:

Coworker: how was your weekend?
Me: "It was really fun, I went on a 70 mile bike trip."
Coworker: Moves to look at my body and says incredulously "Wow."

Yes, I have body fat and yes, I can also sit my rear end on a bike and exercise. They aren't mutually exclusive.

4. No one can pass judgement on me and I shouldn't pass judgement on anyone else. 

If someone food judges you, (makes snide/passive aggressive/demeaning comments about what you are eating) tell them to go handle their own business, because what you're eating sure isn't theirs.

Skinny shaming is bad too. Things like "You're so skinny, I hate you *fake laughter*" That is not a compliment. I don't know when girls started thinking that saying "I hate you" was a compliment. It's not.

5."Perfect" and "Awful" aren't the only body types. 

There are a million. Actually, there are 6,987,000,000. You don't have to be perfect to be attractive.

Own it!

Ultimately, moving toward this frame of mind is personal. And painful at times. And wonderfully freeing. And it has to be a choice. A choice to believe that you are beautiful and that you have worth. No one is going to give you that knowledge. The beauty industry is still trying to scam you out of your money. You will still wonder what people think of you. 

What you can control is fully owning the peace of mind that comes from reveling in the miracle of your body, mind, and spirit. 

Julia Vincent Hetherton

The Elementary School Crush

I have learned the hard way to never volunteer for anything unless you know explicitly what it is that you are volunteering for. Otherwise, you end up in the middle of the elementary school library pretending to be in love with a boy that you feel most icky and uncomfortable around.

"Can you show me how to use scissors?"

I looked at Ian in poorly veiled disbelief. By third grade, you should know how to use scissors.

"Yesss." I suspiciously went to reach for the scissors in his hand, meaning to give him a demonstration and then be done with it. He didn't move his hands out of the scissors though. He wanted me to guide him. I realized that he just wanted our hands to touch. Clever. But not clever enough to make me like him. Ian was a boy who had been shyly trying to show interest in me, but I was not having it. I showed him how to use the scissors and quickly went back to my project. 

During library story time Ian tried to sit next to me, but I feigned a need to ask someone a question so that I could move. It wasn't that I was trying to be mean, I just felt uncomfortable with any sort of lovey dovey vulnerable stuff.

I was uber excited to be reading "Hank the Cowdog" for story group. At this point in my life I thought that these books were great literature. (They’re not. Sorry to anyone who is a sincere Hank the Cowdog fan.) I was pumped. I was ready to hear about Hank's adventures. I settled into my criss cross applesauce position.

Ms. Librarian started to read. In the middle of the chapter, she asked for volunteers. My hand shot up. I have terrible luck and I'm usually not picked for things. I have never once won a game of bingo. Ever. The last time I played, every single one of the 30 people playing eventually won and I still kept losing. They had to rig it so I could get my fruit snack prize. I'm never picked to be the kid on the stage for the magic trick and I don't win contests. 

"Let's see........how about Julia." I was picked to come to the front. "Yes!" I thought. "My bad luck is over!" Then I heard who was called up as the second volunteer. 

"Ian, you come to the front."

Iaaaannnnn! Not Iaaannnn, the kid that makes me feel squirmy! I gave Ian an insincere smile. He gave me a very sincere smile. Too sincere. Bleck. 

"Let's just get this over with and forget the whole thing." I thought to myself. I heard Ms. Librarian’s voice echoing from a distant realm as she started to explain what we were going to be acting out. 

"Julia, you are going to be the girl dog that Hank is in love with. Ian, you are going to be Hank.”

I was staunchly avoiding eye contact with Ian, but I could feel his giddy smile. For the next fifteen minutes I had to read a sappy, poorly written love scene with Ian. I had to howl my affections at him. My first howl wasn’t convincing enough so she had me do it again.

Two years earlier in first grade, I was at the same school. PE class back then was fun. I was still blissfully unaware of my lack of athleticism. My PE teacher was not. Mr. Terango excitedly told us that he had a new game for us to play. He stood in front of his squirmy group of 6 years olds and announced that he would need a volunteer.  All hands started flapping in the air, including mine. I was chosen.

I proudly stepped up beside Mr. Terango, my ponytail swishing and my skort looking cute. I looked up at him and waited for him to tell me what my super-important-job would be.

“Julia, you are going to be one of the cones. We are one short and so you get to sit in the middle and divide the sides.”

I looked at him like he had just told me that I “got” to be a cone. Which he had. Since when has it been a privilege to act like a three dimensional piece of plastic that smells funny? Too stupefied to contest him, I sat in between two orange cones for the rest of the period and watched balls zoom over my head as my classmates had a great time playing a game.

So if you ever ask me to do you a favor and I ask “what is it?” Just remember that I once had to howl at a boy in the library and be a traffic cone and then tell me what it is that you want me to do. 

Gris Gris in the Bayou

"Do you think palm readers make any money?" I asked my dad as we passed a place of business dedicated to the supernatural arts.
"Probably not." A few minutes of silence and then, "My cousin was one."
This is a typical sort of conversation when your dad is from South Louisiana. There is always a cousin or uncle involved in the story and they always did something extraordinary.

"Your cousin was an Olympic skater."

"Your uncle has a crawfish farm."

"Your cousin was a bull rider."

"My uncle threw a brick at me once."

Of course, they never are your actual cousin. It's like your grandma's aunt's son. But to simplify it, everyone is just "cousin."

My dad and his cousin Kirby were working at the same job site one day when my dad went to put something in the back of Kirby's car. He opened the hatch and in the back were all sorts of black candles and other voodoo paraphernalia. My dad was startled and when he looked over, Kirby said, "Don't you get into this."

Marie Laveau, the voodoo queen of New Orleans

My dad didn't need any convincing. He already had an experience with Cajun white magic or "gris gris" when he was 10. Gris gris is the nice version of voodoo. A traiteur uses gris gris to heal people. When I asked my dad how to spell traiteur, he threw out a couple of letters and then said "Ah I don't know how to spell it, I just know how to pronounce it."

My mawmaw, Marie Alix, had a friend tell her "Meh Alice, why don't you take Chris to a traiteur?" Never one to pass up an opportunity to improve health, my grandmother carted her son over to the old Frenchman's place. My dad didn't think there was anything wrong with him that needed fixing. As a matter of fact, my grandmother wasn't sure what needed fixing either, but there was probably something. When they got to the mysterious traiteur, my dad was worried that he might need something fixed after the experience. Or in his words, "That place scared the crap outta me." The man started to mumble things in French, threw some salt at my dad's face and then pronounced him healed.

I think the only thing the traiteur cured him of was a desire to meddle with gris gris. Good, bad or otherwise.

My dad at his first communion.