Diary of a Recovering Perfectionist

"Remember, the goal is to win the war, and it is acceptable to lose a battle now and then." 

-LSAT study guide

Yesterday I sat down to take a third practice exam within a 6-week period. After scoring half of the test and realizing I was doing an average job, I was sent into a tailspin of panic and self doubt. Yes, you read correctly. Average, not failing. The score I got was projected to finish with, even at its worst, would have gotten me into several universities. However, that was not good enough for me, a recovering perfectionist.

I've been studying for the LSAT, the Law School Admission Test, since September. The exam, in my opinion, doesn't seem as daunting as the GRE, Graduate Record Examination, but it is still difficult. I had the time to dedicate to the exam, so I decided to take full advantage and study every nook, cranny, and possibility of the test. Law school comes with an expensive price tag, and my LSAT score is crucial to scoring a sale price. (Even in bad times, I can make good dad jokes).

Each time I have taken this exam, I've increased my raw score by approximately 8 points. Which is huge progress. That means each time, I get a total of 8 more questions correct. Assuming this would continue to happen, as I've been putting in especially long hours the last couple weeks, I sat down with confidence, faith in my weeks of hard work, timer in hand, ready to go. The first section came and went beautifully. Then I got to the second section and had trouble with one or two questions. I faltered. I crashed and burned. I checked the section afterward, and found that I missed a record number of questions. I laid down and cried.

These tears are like a broken record for me. Yesterday's meltdown specifically took me back to the time I played piano at church as an 8-year-old child. I played "Ode to Joy," a song I knew by heart. I played it from memory actually, no sheet music. Somewhere in the middle of the performance, I missed a few notes. I immediately began to panic, which caused me to miss even more. By the time I finished, I had done such a terrible job in my 8-year-old-perfectionist mind, that I was an embarrassment to my family, church, and society, all for missing a couple notes and perhaps improvising a Bailey original by the end of the performance. No one heard it that way. Everyone clapped lovingly and assured me of how well I did. I walked back to my seat with my family, where I laid down and cried in embarrassment in shame. I wasn't crying because I didn't "get what I want." It was much deeper than that, like my tears yesterday. I was embarrassed and disappointed in myself for not performing to the potential I knew I was capable of. At that point in my life, I was not engaging in self-harming habits, but I was able to feel full self-loathing. That's what happened yesterday. I let a few missed notes, a few missed questions trip me, and I fell face-first into my former-perfectionist ways. My appetite changed accordingly. I ate very little yesterday, causing me to have even more shame and disappointment. It was a heartbreaking day all around.

I thought my days of crying about defeat were over. Apparently not. The LSAT has actually driven me to tears before. Like a scene out of a movie, I checked my second practice test, and after question 15, I seemed to have missed every single one. I was at home alone, and immediately started panicking and crying. How had I done so terribly? Had I learned nothing? I'm getting WORSE! Then I looked down to realize I had been looking at the wrong section for the whole second half. Sigh. I was actually more than fine.

Despite that somewhat silly anecdote, I knew that neither of those reactions were healthy. I let the results of a standardized test ruin my self confidence for an entire day. Life's too short, dude! Not only that, but I was distraught over having an average score. Average is hard for me to accept, especially if it's something I've been working at for a long time. I wasn't distraught because I tried and failed like a normal person. I was distraught because I didn't do perfectly-- because I achieved X and not Y. I've been working for hours per week for months to make sure I do perfectly. My brain just could not accept it.

After my meltdown yesterday, I went for a run, which also did not go 100% according to plan, causing me more feelings of anxiety. I have let the pain of perfectionism rule my life for so long, which eventually manifested into an eating disorder. When that was diagnosed, I tried hard to say goodbye to my perfectionist ways. I was mostly successful, but I still have terrible days, like yesterday. I feel endless amounts of guilt if my running workouts or races are not 100%. I feel guilty when I study only 2.5 hours, not a full 3. I feel guilt when I get an average score on an exam. I work on this everyday.

Today, still feeling a little defeated, I peeled myself out of bed and took my study materials to my favorite cafe to try again. I ended up finishing my 500-page book on LSAT strategies and theories, and found a little nugget of wisdom within the last five pages, the quote that inspired this post.

"Remember, the goal is to win the war, and it is acceptable to lose a battle now and then."

The advice was purely technical, literally encouraging students to go on when they're stuck on a question. But the advice was poignant and precisely what I needed to read today, especially regarding my mental health. I never thought I'd see the day that I found solace in a study guide. Here we are. Yesterday I lost a battle to perfectionism. And it was acceptable. Because my goal is to win the war.

Stay strong, my loves. You are more than enough.

Female is not a noun: A lesson in class, tact, and common sense

As the soul proprietor of this blog (hahaha luv my puns) I would like to formally apologize for “letting things go.” It’s not you, it’s me. I’ve been cheating on The Peace Mobile a little bit with the likes of... well, other blogs. Please forgive me. I have lots of new pieces for TPM, but they take a little more academic work and editing, which takes more time… which I don’t always have. But don’t worry! I found some just for you!

;) With that being said.

Female is not a noun.

Before anyone questions this, here is a literal dictionary definition. IT IS AN ADJECTIVE. I REPEAT. IT IS AN ADJECTIVE.

The Problem

Most of the time I see the use of “female” as a noun coming from a lovely place called Men on the Internet. Yah, I get it #notallmen. But I have witnessed men, that previously had my complete respect, use this word attempting to be funny. The internet is an interesting place. People can post memes, retweets, and re-grams, and this tricks these people into thinking they are award-winning comedians with the simple use of words such as "lit," "savage," and, yes, you guessed it, "females."

The Solution: Step One

Recognize that female is not a noun.

Do you remember in elementary school when you learned that “bitch” means "female dog," so you used an otherwise scientific word to get away with cursing? Do you know why there is a completely different word for a female dog? Because FEMALE IS NOT A NOUN.  You can say, “female adult,” “female infant,” “female canine.” Because this is an adjective, and adjectives are placed before the noun they are describing! !!! !!

If that didn't clear things up, here is a fun analogy for you.

For funsies, let's use the word “male” incorrectly as a noun, substituted for when I should be using the word “men” or “boy.” (which are nouns, thanks)

My milkshake brings all the males to the yard.

My brother is in the Male Scouts.

Malez 2 Men or Boyz 2 Malez or Malez to Malez - take your pick!

When applied to the opposite, privileged sex, doesn’t this sound absolutely ridiculous?

The Solution: Step Two

Don’t call female-identifying people females.   !!!

I can hear the arguments already from mansplainers and ignorami everywhere. “Wow, feminazi! It’s just a little word.” “I don’t see the big deal.” “You’re really worked up about one word!”

Hell yes I am. The use of “females” to describe women and children is problematic. Using this non-noun to describe living, breathing humans is not only incorrect, but lazy and dismissive.

Thankfully there are some other words you can use instead of female. Like, WOMEN, LADIES, GIRLS, BADASSES. This brings me to an entirely new discussion; the appropriate distinction between “women” and “girls.” I’ve broken each word down for your convenience.

Woman/Women- Any person who identifies as a woman who is old enough to 1. Earn a living. 2. Participate in higher education if she so chooses. 3. To vote and participate in society legally. 3. Generally anyone over the age of 18. Here are some extras in case I haven’t been clear enough. 4. Be a mother to cats, dogs, and children alike. 5. Be over 18 years old. 

Those are just some things that can make the distinction between a "female child" and a "female adult" just in case you for some reason cannot make the distinction with your own eyeballs. *And NEVER underestimate the power of a girl!

Girl/Girls- A female-identifying child. Legally defined as being under 18 years of age, but likely to have already experienced the heartbreak of oppression and the patriarchy already. Sharp as a tack. Can recognize human rights and has a moral distinction most adults do not have. 

But wait. THERE’S A CATCH. I know this is a lot of work, but please hear me out.

Please do not refer to grown ass women as girls. 

It’s not acceptable for anyone, man or woman, to refer to women as “girls” in almost all settings. Whether it is a professional, academic, or religious establishment, please call adult women WOMEN.

BUT WHY? Why, you nasty woman?

Because this, yet again, denies women of their womanhood. Calling women “girls” is denying them of their experience as mothers, managers, employees, academics, and general adults who have really been through some shit to earn their right to be recognized as an adult. Little girls obviously grow into amazing, hardworking women, but the difference between children, and grown, adult women deserves acknowledgement.

Again, this is an issue the opposite sex does not seem to have. After a certain age, boys become men and never look back. Of course, there are societal standards for masculinity and manhood, and I am not denying that. But (straight) men are acknowledged for being men always. Their experiences are never denied. They are never infantilized. 

*Also relevant. “Little girl” needs to lose the connotation ASAP. When I use it, I am literally referring to children. I am not using it to say small children are incapable or inferior. “You run like a girl.” “You throw like a girl.” “Don’t be a little girl about it.” Etc. To put it bluntly, this shit needs to stop. There is no excuse. 

Ugh now I AM SO MAD.

Sometimes I even catch myself saying “girls” in place of “women.” I am now very conscious of this. These are small words with big meaning. Take control! Sometimes I will even correct people if it’s appropriate. For example, recently I was talking to a family friend about his relationships. He is 34 years old, and he said, “I don’t date random girls.” I said, “You don’t date random women. We are women. Call us women.” And he took my advice and didn’t think twice about it. I’m not trying to be all-knowing or mean in my corrections. This is simply a problem and the solution is simple.

On a closing note, I will say that after being in Europe for almost a year and studying two languages simultaneously, there are different words in different languages to mean "girl" and "woman," and culturally the uses are much different. I'm not giving you a French or Spanish lesson here. I'm speaking directly to you native-English speakers. You know who you are.

The next time you begin to use the word “girl,” check yourself. Are you talking about a grown ass woman or a child? Adjust accordingly.

On behalf of all women everywhere,

Thanks.

Thank you for being my joy.

Thank you for teaching me the meaning of the word "inquisitive" at age four. I distinctly remember you telling me that I am inquisitive. I remember your facial expression exactly, and I remember the precise tone of your voice. Immediately I asked, "What does that mean?" And you just grinned the way you did and said, "It means that you ask a lot of questions."

Thank you for never questioning my ambitions. From the time I wanted to play in the WNBA, to the time I wanted to be a doctor to invent a pill that would "make you live forever," you had no questions-- only support. At the time I was only 5, and the pill was being designed with Eulah and Nanny in mind. But oh, how I wish I had succeeded in my invention.

Thank you for coaching my elementary school basketball team when no one else wanted to step up and do it. Maybe this was also your way of showing support for the WNBA dream. ;) Typically a parent would have, but there were only 7 or 8 of us from such a tiny farm school. So you did it. Because that's exactly how you were.  My grandparent from another state volunteered to be the basketball coach for a group of elementary school girls who had an affinity for lipgloss and hairspray. Thank you for buying each of us sterling silver basketball-shaped earrings at the end of the season. I know that to this day, each one of those girls remembers who you are.

Thank you for teaching me about opinions and assumptions at a young age. ;) Both having to do with either being an asshole or having one.

Thanks for following me around in that golf cart the one time I ran a 5k in your hometown. Despite the fact that I was only out less than 25 minutes, you jacked a golf cart to park at every corner of the course. 100% Ray Redman move. And thank you for keeping me humble. Or trying at least. It was a holiday 5k, and I was dressed as a Christmas tree. There was another girl there with a giant bow on her butt. I made fun of her costume, and she ended up beating me. -_- You jovially reminded me of that at the end, you turd. But thank you. You were right. And thank you for standing outside for hours at my other races, excitedly reporting to me which place I was in, even when I was struggling and didn't care. Your presence was all I needed. Yours and Mamaw's.

Speaking of jacking golf carts, thank you for teaching me that it's okay and a little badass to bend the rules and do whatcha please if the time is right and you're not hurtin' anybody.

Thank you for teaching me that if you fall down, it's okay to lay there and laugh at yourself. You did this exactly at Alli's birthday party one summer when we were playing a huge family game of wiffle ball. You slid into a base and also slid into the ground. Flat on the ground. This resulted in uncontrollable laughter from most of the party, but not me. Once I saw you were okay I could laugh a little. You handled such a moment in the way that only you could.

Thank you for attending every event possible that I've ever participated in, whether or not it interested you. Actually, I think you always made it interesting. For yourself and for others. I don't mean that in a "funny" way either. Before I was in track, you were never interested in track. But you came with me to my first invitational where I was the sole high jumper for my school. I remember you were the only one able to come, and that afterward we ate at the Bob Evans farm. We drove home in your gold Buick.

Thank you for sitting on my feet when they were cold.

Thank you for marrying Mamaw.

Thank you for my middle name.

Thank you for telling me that only the smartest people have gaps in their teeth when I was 6 and self conscious about my gap, even though my grin matched yours.

Thank you for making my mom buy me Cocoa Puffs when I was 12. "Lori. Go buy that baby some Cocoa Puffs."

Thank you for wearing a bow-tie to my OSU graduation. I literally cried because you looked so precious.

Thank you for driving all the way to Columbus to take me home and to the hospital when I was sick. Thank you for being understanding when I got a shot in the butt on an empty stomach and nearly fainted. You laughed after the fact, but at the time you were all that I needed. Thanks for chiding that three-year-old in the waiting room who stole the pixy stix the nurses gave me to increase my blood sugar. "Hey, she needs that. Give that back!"

Thank you for taking in my Maggie Jane and loving her like you did-- your special grand cat. <3 p="">
Thanks for teaching me to embrace and love my weird self.

Thanks for not freaking out when I got your handwriting tattooed on my arm. Thanks for loving it.

Thank you for teaching me that there is always room for jokes-- that everything can be a  laughing matter if your heart is light enough. That when everything is going to hell, it's okay to laugh. Thank you for teaching me that you must create your own joy.

Thank you for being my joy.

I love you forever and always.

<3 p="">

<3 p="">
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I'm running a triathlon this December and raising money for a cause that I think my grandfather would have loved. In a nutshell, the Hall Steps Foundation was started by elite runners to assist impoverished areas in east Africa. They have provided clean drinking water for villages and maternity clinics for women who otherwise would not have received medical care. 100% of the proceeds go to the foundation's efforts. If you would like to participate in my memorial fundraising event, you can read about it and donate here! https://www.crowdrise.com/memorial-fundraiser/fundraiser/jamiebailey4


For more posts about my Papaw:

http://thepeacemobile.blogspot.com.es/2014/11/what-my-tattoos-meant-to-my-grandpa.html

http://thepeacemobile.blogspot.com.es/2014/11/a-small-speech-for-big-heart.html

http://thepeacemobile.blogspot.com.es/2015/07/invincible-summer.html

Debunking the Myth of the Basic Bitch

Look- a rare pupkin! My pun game is so strong.

Can you guess what has sparked the following feminist-fueled fairytale you're about to read?

F A L L and the prompt release of the famous Pumpkin Spice Everything

That's right. The most amazing season on the planet, according to white girls. Because apparently, white people are the only ones allowed to enjoy this season?? Idk. I'm just over here drinking my PSL whilst simultaneously rolling around in an apple grove.

Fall- a fleeting three months when the weather is cooperative and delicious pumpkin-flavored goods are sold in Target stores everywhere. Fall sports like cross country and marching band are in full swing. The mornings are crisp. The afternoons are sunny. What is not to love about it?

Oh, I don't know, maybe the constant name-calling women receive for decorating their homes, baking cranberry scones, and drinking pumpkin-flavored coffee.

Do you know why women (people) like pumpkin-flavored things? BECAUSE THEY'RE FREAKING DELICIOUS, and they're only available once a year! But somehow, somewhere in the epoch of the patriarchy, it became uncool to like something that tastes good, with the fear of being called "basic" and/or "bitch" in the process. EXTRA WHIP PLEASE.

According to this logic, Coca Cola should be considered basic since it's awful for you but tastes freaking GREAT ESPECIALLY WHEN PAIRED WITH CHIPOTLE, ANOTHER THING EVERYONE LIKES.

Phew. Now that I've gotten that off my chest and you've seen a bit of my argument, let's get real. "Basic" is only used to describe things women like collectively. I mentioned Coke and Chipotle above because those are products not fueled by gender stereotypes. Everyone likes it, whether or not they admit it, ;) but it's not considered "bad," "basic," or "uncool" because men like it too. Therefore it does not get the same connotation as a seasonally flavored latte or an over-sized sweater or comfy boots imported from Australia.

Forrrrrr example. Do you know what else is a season? Football. Are the thousands of men who partake in this madness "basic" for liking something that happens a few months out of a whole year? While they gather in their cookie-cutter team t-shirts and New Balance tennis shoes, and eat the store-bought guacamole none of them are capable of making at home? NO. Because men are NEVER shamed for what they like! Yes, there are stereotypical straight men. Bros, bachelors, frat boys. But none of those have quite the same connotative ring as basic bitch. (Extra credit note- There is also an assumption that women who like football are only doing it for male attention. Insert middle finger emoji here.)

I'm also pretty sure 75% of the millennial male population has this haircut, but who is shaming them for that?

I'm just pointing out facts. At least I have the maturity to admit that it's a great haircut. Even if tens of thousands of 30-something cold-brew coffee drinkers have it. Where's the derogatory name for them?

Since the dawn of time, women have been shamed for what they like. Sex. Slut. Money. Gold digger. Career. Cold. Being single. Cat lady. Being married. Boring. Sweatshirts and coffee. Basic. It's no different.

Only women lose value for their interests and choices.

Rather than fight the stereotype, there was a sort of "basic and proud" movement going on. But you know, screw that. There's nothing basic about liking something that's good. End of story.

Ladies, for the love of feminism and yourselves, STOP calling yourselves "basic."

It's Not Safe to be an American Abroad Right Now

Spoiler alert! The title does not exactly reflect the content of this post. xoxo

Upon my arrival back in the U.S. last weekend, I was greeted with many questions regarding my life overseas. I happily answer questions about life as an expat because I understand people are genuinely curious. One question in particular really struck me. "Was it ever hard or scary for you? Were you generally safe? Because it's not safe to be an American abroad right now."

Hmmm. I understand that people really, sincerely care for my safety and well-being, and I know these concerns come from only the best place in their hearts. I was not offended at all. I was grateful for their concern, and I answered truthfully. "Honestly, no one ever suspected that I was American anyway. Most people assumed I was German. And yes, I always felt safe in Spain and when I traveled beyond."

Most importantly, this question posed some reflective thinking on my part. Is it unsafe to be an American abroad right now?

Conclusion 1: No.

Conclusion 2: It's kind of unsafe to be anyone anywhere right now.

It's unsafe to be a Black person in America right now, when so many Black lives are lost to racially disproportionate police brutality on a daily basis.

It's unsafe to be a police officer in America right now, when genuinely good officers are targeted as backlash of the aforementioned police brutality continues.

It's unsafe to attend school, church, movie theaters, and nightclubs in America right now, as mass shootings become a common occurence.

It's unsafe to be politically active in America right now, as Democrats and Republicans are so pitted against one another, that our election system is single-handedly destroying itself and ruining any hope of common ground between the parties and their supporters.

It's unsafe to be an underprivileged woman in need of health care in America right now, as aforementioned government officials continuously try to take away basic human rights to healthcare. Hell, it's unsafe to be an underprivileged person in need of health care.

It's unsafe to be a member of the LGBTQ community in America right now, as members are routinely targeted in heinous hate crimes and government officials fail to pass laws for their safety; as ridiculous gender-appropriate bathroom laws are voted into effect, when actual  (hetero-cis) rapists stand trial with medical evidence and live witnesses, and are only sentenced 6 months.

It's unsafe to be a Muslim (anywhere) right now, as all Muslim people are judged based on the acts of terrorists, and their religion is used like a monkey in the circus of white politics.

It's unsafe to be a refugee right now, so hated and feared despite the fact that these displaced citizens, who were forced to flee from war-hungry capitalists, try to carry on their lives as the teachers, attorneys, students, nurses, and oncologists that they are.

It's unsafe to be a person on public transportation, where women face sexual harassment daily from strangers who suffer no consequences; where terrorists bring assault weapons and axes to perform unthinkable acts to keep the rest of the world living in fear.

This list could go on and on, sadly.

It's kind of hard to be a person anywhere these days. Everyone is an extremist. Everyone has radical opinions, and if you don't agree, you're the worst person in the world, never talk to me again. Sometimes it seems that we all fear each other so much that civilization is going backwards. It's terrifying and disheartening to see humanity crumbling, one senseless act of violence at a time. I have become accustomed to the terrible ache, the icy pit I get in my stomach when I read another tragic headline. I am building a tolerance. These evils are now expected. "Sad" doesn't even scratch the surface.

Since it's kinda hard to be a person anywhere, we should definitely start being kinder to one another. Like the awesome Black Lives Matter protesters who have chill bar-b-ques with cool police officers, we need to hang out and understand the "other" side. Now more than ever, I really really try to understand my opponent, my oppressor, my attacker. Why? Why do these people think the way they do? What can I do to change their minds? What can I do to change myself?

I wish I had a solution to the ravages of our world. But for now, I'll start with understanding and compassion.

Living for the Weekend, the Right Way

Life Update: Musings on Stress, Love, Career, and More Stress

Some interesting things have happened to me since moving to Spain. Unplanned things. Like the fact that after a few months here I sat down in a cafe with a notebook and decided that I want to become a lawyer. The fact that after a few weeks here I met a wonderful man and fell in love with him shortly after. It turns out a few "interesting things" have completely shaken my life up. For the better, of course!

About stress:
Many people think I lead a low-stress life here in Spain. Which is a fair assumption. I post photos of my travels, which include monumental architectural works, blue skies, and palm trees for days. This is because I like to maintain a positive outlook, and I like spreading blue skies and palm trees. What you don't see is me, sitting on my bed at 1:30pm, still un-showered hours after a run, rushing to meet a deadline for one of the websites I work for before I start my second job at 2. You don't see me having a breakdown over visa requirements or worrying about student loan payments since working as a nanny and blogger. You don't see me budgeting, worrying about my savings account, or feeling homesick for my family. I left my job and changed my lifestyle because I was unhappy. Not because I was stressed. Life will always be stressful. You simply have to decide whether or not the stress is worth it. And I've finally found some things worth stressing over!

About love:
I met Leo in February, and we have been inseparable ever since. We are two vegetarians who adore cats. I am the sassiest, and he is never sassy. He puts up with me when I take literally an hour to choose a breakfast joint. He traveled with me and brought me water, grapefruit, and Frosted Flakes to my first race in Spain. He is thoughtful, loving, overly cautious, and sometimes reminds me of my Mamaw. And I mean that in the best way hahaha. I'm not even a romantic person, but I have to admit, that when I'm with him, my heart feels like it's full of glitter, cake, and confetti.

About career:
My entire life I have always felt pulled in a million different directions, and I have accepted that that is me, and I will always be that way. I often feel conflicted by creativity and productivity. (NOT that creativity is not productive!!!) I want to write novels and screenplays and a million different blogs. But I also want a tangible, dependable career. Freelancing is so hard. My income depends 100% on my creativity and originality, and while it can be thrilling, it's also absolutely terrifying. I've been considering law school since I was eleven years old. I don't know what has been holding me back; my refusal to "work for the man," my reluctance to go back to school, or an utter lack of self confidence. But my drive is back. I realized that as an attorney, I can actually work for the people (not the man!). I'm excited to apply to school. I can go anywhere. I can do anything.

About more stress:
I often realize how old I actually am. 25. Somehow, at heart, I feel young and old at the same time. I feel like a child, full of vitality and endless amounts of energy. But also like a 90-year-old in a young person's body. I realize that in five years I will be thirty, and every time this thought hits me, I almost vomit. Not because of the number. I don't worry about that one bit. (Life is a gift!) But rather, the rate at which life flies. I feel myself being pressured to take it slowly but also do everything that I can every single day. I know what I want, and I am getting there, no matter how long it takes. I run, I write, I work, and I love. And that is enough.


Finally, about living for the weekend.
A few months ago when I was horribly lonely in Columbus, I counted down every minute of every day, and then some. 10 minutes til lunch. 25 minutes til I'm done with work. 3 days until the weekend. It was truly a terrible way to live, and if you are in this position, I urge you to rethink how you are living your life. Now, I will admit, I still count down, but for the best things. Plus I enjoy the crap out of my weekdays. Yes, I love weekends because I spend my time with Leo. Sometimes we travel, and sometimes we just hang out and eat at an unlimited sushi buffet. My time with him fills my heart with a joy and wholeness that I've never quite felt before. I don't depend on him for happiness, but being with him is like a surplus of rainbows and unicorns, that kind of shit. But in the meantime, during those darn 5 weekdays between Sunday and Saturday, I am still thrilled about life. That is the biggest difference between myself now and myself six months ago.


At the end of the day I feel excited because I have new goals. Yes, lots of stress, but stress that is totally worth my time. I'm excited to eventually go back to school and I'm happy to have Leo as a co-pilot. I'm happy.

Phat Ass

This is what I think when I go shopping. "Shit." F***." "Ugh." "Not today, satan."

Don't get me wrong. I like shopping. I like looking at clothes, dreaming about the wardrobe I could have if my funds were unlimited and I was that gluttonous. I like touching the fabric, and gawking at colors and patterns. I have to touch everything. I remember doing this as a child too. I love fashion. I love clothes. I like the freedom that fashion gives me.

But. I hate trying clothes on. I hate the disappointment when something I love doesn't fit properly. I hate the panic and anxiety I get from worrying about sizes and whether or not I fit into this or that. I hate the feeling of my heart sinking when I have to... Cue the horror music... go up a size.

Summertime is hard. It's hot as hell, and I simultaneously want to go naked and hide the horror that is my body. In reality, shorts and a tank are probably a better option. But then in the shorts and tank, I think of how fat I must look to other people, and I am mortified. Shopping for shorts, swimsuits. A freakin' nightmare. And then my brain likes to say, "Run more. Eat less." And then my heart has to say, "F.U. It's 102 degrees here. Would you like me to give you a stroke?"

Then I have to step back and remind myself that I am not disgusting, that body dysmorphic disorder is a real asshole, and I have to kick it out. I have no time for that in my life.

Like almost every woman, I am sure, I try to wear clothing that doesn't exactly fit. Clothing that is a tad too small so that I can say I fit into an x instead of a y. Then I buy the too-small shorts, the too-short shirt, and I worry the whole time I'm wearing it. Then I engage in abusive language with myself. Is my ass hanging out? Is my fat hanging out of my shirt? Are my love handles visible? Am I disgusting? (If anyone else made these statements to me, I would probably physically attack lolz. So why do I say these to myself? Do better, self!)

I spend the whole time pulling the shorts down and stretching the shirt to cover my body when I could have easily gotten another size up and just dealt with the number. But it's the disorder in me that keeps me buying the smaller clothing. It's the shame and the guilt. So that I don't have to admit that my body is seemingly much bigger than it used to be. So that I don't have to admit that I don't engage in disordered eating. Because sometimes that is hard. Even when I am proud of my progress, sometimes I feel like I have failed my body by conquering the disorder. Isn't that messed up? I deserve better than that.

I feel like we have a false sense of our future selves. We make empty promises to ourselves about our appearance. "When I'm a: size 2, thin, my hair is long." "I will finally: get a boyfriend, have my dream job, be comfortable at the pool." Numbers change, weight fluctuates, hair changes. So why have we convinced ourselves that life will be better in the future, based on numbers and sizes? Why have we convinced ourselves we deserve love and happiness only when we have reached our "goal" looks? We have to accept and love ourselves as we are now. There is nothing wrong with a little self-improvement, but numbers are meaningless and we have to accept that. Apologizing or being sad about a size or a number is sort of like apologizing for having a body. Which is kind of bullshit. So don't!

Today I was buying shorts, and I tried something new. I picked up a new size in H&M, a store that is notorious for making tiny ass pants and shorts. I took the bigger, more realistic size first so that I could try it on and save myself from some disappointment of trying on a small size first and worrying about tightness or shortness. I tried the shorts on, and they were not only a perfect fit, but my phat ass looked great! And most importantly, I was comfortable wearing them.

There was a time that I was a size zero. And I was very sick and unhappy. I wish I could tell my 17 year old self that there will be a time that my shorts will be eight sizes bigger and I will be so happy with that body because I escaped from the rut of anorexia. I will be happy because of the things my body will do and the places it will take me. I would say, "Jamie, you will live in Spain and travel Europe with that body. You will run marathons and triathlons and train for big things in that body. And you won't give a single shit what size your shorts are."
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Which is why I'm writing this today. I gave that up. Just like I gave up getting on the scale and worrying about THAT number.

So about this summer... We can do this. We can get through it together. I will do what I can with The Peace Mobile to project all the body love this summer. Until next time, stop with the numbers okay?!