Eye of the Beholder: Metabolism Is A Dirty Word

Not directly related but it is about slowing down… Enjoy some vintage, pre-Snookie lookalike Christina.

We’re all warned about it. No one should be surprised. Only a select few can hope to avoid it, those who are biologically immune to the inevitable. Although you should be prepared, it will probably start to sneak up on you, gradually killing your…waistline.

Yes, your metabolism will slow down!!! Oh, the (in)humanity!! How dare my body deceive me and decide to showcase the foods I eat and exercise I avoid! Long gone are the days pizza as a late night snack and/or breakfast is a perfectly acceptable idea. Long gone is the bottomless pit stomach or potential modeling career. (Okay, scratch that. I’ve never been THAT skinny and I’ve always loved food.)

While you may not become a hard-core calorie counter or marathon runner, around a certain age, you start to recognize your choices have repercussions. Another reason being a grown-up sucks. You start to feel the need to rationalize (or excuse) your dietary and exercise choices. “If I do this today, I get to/have to do this tomorrow.” “I deserve a treat.” “I’m not supposed to look the way I did at 20. Life has happened.” “But I’m working harder than I used to. This isn’t fair.” and on and on…

Over the last 3-4 years, my metabolism has slowed down, a steady decline. It was time. I was in my mid-twenties, a fitting addition to a quarterlife crisis. And now my body, the thing I just started to figure out and get comfortable with/in, is betraying me. From acne to muffin tops, some of us only get a few “good” years. After that, we start to the painful and annoying process of denying or excusing.

Personally, I’m an excuser. I revolt against the idea of not having the one food I’ve been craving for minutes, hours or days. My cravings are also rather intense. I’ll eat my weight in “healthier” avoidance foods, doing more damage than the original crave, only to give in to the original crave anyway. My only saving grace and reason I’m not currently 400 lbs is the fact that I don’t crave things often. And I like fruits and veggies. Now, don’t get me wrong, there are few things in the world better than fried potato products and ice cream but I believe that most of the time my brain is on my side, or at least on the side of vanity. Sure, health plays a small, pat-yourself-on-the-back part in it but let’s be real, it’s really about vanity.

However, while I am an excuser, I am also an adult, therefore making me a reluctant denier. There are (many) times something like tres leches or avoiding Body Pump sounds like an excellent idea. And then I look at my…slowed body, pick a part. My wasted Gold’s membership is evident in the middle. Sugar and potatoes evident on the arms and legs. I’d even argue my lack of sufficient water intake could be seen in my face and skin. Add a few gray hairs and it’s official, I’m getting older.

I guess metabolism is as dirty a word as thirty or wrinkle. It’s just a part of growing up (Yay!!!). And every time I want to complain about it, I should try to remember the joys I would’ve never experienced if I ceased to exist the day my body started to betray me.

Sure, I can get in shape. It’s just going to be harder than it would’ve been a few years ago. And who wants to do all that work when you can just complain about it and opt for the 4 piece nugget instead of the 6 and congratulate yourself with a cookie?

~Jo’van

February 5, 2013
Categories: Eye of the Beholder (Self-Image), Quarterlife Crisis, Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: 17 Comments

The World…As I See It: (What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You) Stronger…Or Jaded

For Suave.  He requested a blog and so I wrote. 🙂

A song that actually has something to do with my post.  It’s been a while.  Aerosmith’s “Jaded”

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger…or jaded.”

Jokingly a friend said that a few months ago about an expected ending to an unfortunate romantic endeavour.  While we both laughed about it, saying it out loud (or typing it as it was actually over Facebook chat) made both of us pause.  (Thanks, Lesbro.)  Sure getting hurt makes you more adept to recognizing the warning signs and being able to deal with something similar in the future (…stronger).  BUT it’s rarely a happily learnt lesson (…jaded).

Where does the old adage originate?  Was it someone trying to make another person feel better about a crappy situation?  Or worse, trying to make themselves feel better?  I also wonder what it pertained to.  Was it romantic escapades, business ventures or family drama?  And how close to killing you must something get to qualify?

Similar adages “trial by fire”, “learn from experience”,”don’t knock it ’til you try it” all teach us the same thing: to know and truly learn something (good or bad) you have to live it.  Sure, sure, I get it.  I can’t understand what it feels like to fall in love, fly thru the clouds or burn my finger on the stove until I’ve done it.  But why should we always feel the need to try everything ourselves?  In many cases, I prefer to learn from other people’s mistakes.

Having the door shut my in face both literally and metaphorically, both romantically and professionally, hurt.  There’s no better way to describe it.  Both affected my self-image and self-evaluation.  Both made me question what I was “worth”.  While these questions were temporary (because obviously I’m amazing), a hit to your psyche on that level can have lasting effects.  My skin got thicker and my drive to succeed and/or be happy strengthened.

But just because those experiences didn’t kill me, the learned life lessons were not always positive.  I may be stronger but I am also jaded.   The blinders are off and the guards are up.  Having had a boss who blamed her staff for her mistakes, I’ve learned to consider how my ass would be covered before I speak (or type) a word.  Having dated a man who tore me down to build himself up, I’ve learned to be constantly defensive and wary of any compliments.  Being shocked and disappointed by people I love and respect, I’m increasingly mistrusting of new “heroes”.  You get the point.

Being jaded is not intrinsically a bad thing.  Jaded equals smarter, protected and careful.  But jaded also equals mistrusting, skeptical, and in many cases, solitary.  The minimal trials and tribulations in my extremely privileged 26 years of life certainly haven’t come anywhere close to killing me.  But they have changed me, some for the better, some for the worse.  Do we generally ignore the latter for the sake of a saying?  Or to avoid having to say anything else about it at all?

I also wonder about the flip side.  Are there experiences that if they don’t last forever are good just to have had?  Is “it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all” the counterpart to “what doesn’t kill you”?  Why can’t we all just find comfort in knowing “this too shall pass” and be thankful we’ve experienced enough happiness to remind ourselves it’s possible and to remain open to it?  Maybe we already do and I just wanted to share my friend’s clever, yet poignant, remark…

Considering making jade my new stone of choice,

Jo’van

November 16, 2010
Categories: The World...As I See It (Everything Else), Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: 1 Comment

Shades of Understanding: Finally a Black Disney Princess

A clip of the song “Almost There” from Disney’s “The Princess and the Frog”

Over the Christmas holidays, I took my mother and grandmother to go see Disney’s “The Princess and the Frog”.  Three generations of black women sat in a movie theater in the middle of the day on a Wednesday to somewhat celebrate Disney’s first black Disney princess.

I won’t give the movie away but it IS a Disney movie afterall.  There’s a sweet, smart young woman facing hardships that can only be righted with hard work, magic, music and a man she hates only to eventually love.

Now when the buzz about the movie began  a few months ago, I heard critics praise Disney’s move to finally include African-Americans in their special princess clique and others berate Disney for having the first and only black princess only be a human for 1/4 of the movie.  (You see Tiana turns into a frog when she kisses the cursed prince…)

You know, I get it.  I see both points and why people would be so upset.  What other princess is an animal the vast majority of the movie?  The closest I can think of is Ariel in The Little Mermaid.  But at least she was human-like  from the waist up.  Is this unfair?  Maybe.  Would I prefer to see Tiana as the beautiful human rather than the adorable frog?  Maybe.  But do I (want to) believe Disney was being racist?  No, not really.

Of the nine “Disney Princesses“, four of them were already princesses.  The other five were peasants, poor, lower class beauties who strived for equality and success and became princesses.  Tiana is one of these five.  Would it’ve been nice to avoid some of the stereotypes?  Sure.  Were the accents and assumptions of lower education all that necessary?  Probably not.  But the fact that Tiana is a poor, black, and from New Orleans isn’t such a bad or surprising thing.  Disney (and most entertainment companies) play on stereotypes.  While the heroine was poor and black, her rich, spoiled friend was a little round, blond and always in pink.  The prince was beautiful and immature.  The villain was thin and dark (in fact he looked very much like The Lion King’s Scar).  Her friends were bumbling and sweet, parents supportive and wise.  And most importantly, Tiana’s success was based (mostly) on her determination, intelligence and big heart.

Growing up, my mother made a conscious effort to surround me with dolls who looked like myself.  Why get me a blond Barbie?  Beauty was defined as blond, blue-eyed and pale everywhere outside of my home, even on the television and books within it.  Why force her daughter to stare at and idolize something she’ll never be?  Was giving me all black dolls a little extreme?  Yeah, maybe.  But you know what?  I grew up thinking Christie was just a pretty as Barbie.  Barbie just had better outfits.  Plus, my grandmother and stepmother added a little diversity to my dolls with Barbies (blond), Midges (red head), Teresas (brunette/Hispanic), Skippers (blond little sister) and Kens (blond boyfriend).  And you know, Christie didn’t even need Ken.  She had Steven.  I played with them all.  Barbies, Cabbage Patch dolls, average baby dolls.  If I’d had more/any asian dolls, my trunk would’ve looked like Brangelina’s brood.

Conclusion:  If I were 7 (shoot, maybe even at 25), I’d want a Tiana Barbie.  She was pretty, smart, brave and successful.  And it’s finally nice to have a Disney princess who looks like me.  And you know what else?  After Pocahontas, Tiana’s the 2nd American princess.  Fancy that!

Contemplating asking for my first Barbie in 15 years,

Jo’van

January 24, 2010
Categories: Eye of the Beholder (Self-Image), Shades of Understanding (Race Relations), Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: Leave a comment

Quarterlife Crisis: Old Soul (a.k.a. You’re Only 25?)

Again not all that related to the post but a song for my self-described alter ego. Mary J. Blige “Not Gon’ Cry”

(Plus, it’s just a great song.  While I’m sure it may happen, I hope to never write a post where this song is the best fit…)

In addition to being a late bloomer, I’m also what grandmas would call an old soul.  Despite my age and physical appearance, I’m thought to think (awkward but appropriate phrasing) and behave much like that of a more mature woman.  Jokingly, I’ve described myself as a 42-year-old bitter divorcee with two kids.  While I realize there’s nothing overtly comical about that scenario, I had to find a personality that encapsulated the wise-beyond-her-years, guarded heart, mother to all close to her traits I seem to embody.  So a 42-year-old bitter divorcee with two kids it is.  If you have any other suggestions, please let me know.  I realize I actually used that description on a first date.  While that was completely my fault for not really thinking before I spoke, I might just need a new line.  Luckily, he didn’t seem completely turned off.  Haha.  Oh well, too late now.  Plus, I believe he reads my blog…

If you asked any of my family or early teachers, you’d probably hear stories of a 6-year-old frustrating the mess out of you by being able to hold seemingly intelligent conversations with adults.  “Because I said so” would never have sufficed with me.  And please don’t try to give me some half-ass answer to a question.  If there was even the slightest possibility that I might have heard or, worse, read something to the contrary, you were probably in for a “discussion.”  Now, I was no child genius by any means.  I’ve just been told that I listened more than most kids and was able to put abstract things together faster.  (All the more reason for me not to necessarily want children.  I can’t imagine arguing with a 9-year-old me.  I’d probably want to strangle little me.  For the sake of my sanity and possibly the child’s safety, we’d both need the husband/father to be very compassionate and patient.  But that’s an entirely different post…)

My secondary and even post secondary education days weren’t much different.  While I had a great time with my friends, in the back of my mind, there was a feeling of difference from the larger group.  There was no superiority.  Just a sense of “I don’t get it.”  Now, to be clear, I didn’t feel alienated in any way.  When I was 8, I was 8.  When I was 13, I was 13.  There was just things I questioned more than some and less than others, I guess.  While I had a (potentially) violent temper, I spent less time experimenting and screwing up in high school.  I was more of the reserved kid who sat in the background and just watched everyone else do whatever.  (I hope not in a creepy way…)  I wasn’t above getting wasted and sleeping with 4 good guy friends.  (Ok, maybe I was but that’s not the point.  Those were just bad examples.)  They just didn’t sound like good ideas.  I watched people make their idiotic mistakes and took note NOT to do that.

I wasn’t a complete loser.  I made my bad choices and choices mistakes.  But unlike most people my age, I HAD to find ways to justify them.  I couldn’t just accept youthful indifference and regrettable but not all that impactful dumb choices.  In fact, my descriptions probably made me seem more cold and indifferent but that’s again probably an entirely different post.  Let’s just say that I did less living and probably more time judging.  Sounds pretty boring, huh?

Anyway, this mentality of “I know better.  I’m older than that” has carried with me.  Unless we’re in a social setting where I am surrounded by like-minded, like-aged people, it’s very rare that anyone correctly guess my age.  I’ve been aged by 3-8 years.  While I should be offended that anyone think I could possibly be 33 (I AM after all only 25!), I have to take into account two very important factors.

1.) Put simply: Black don’t Crack.  Black women (and men) are lucky to as a whole age well in comparison to other ethnic groups.  (Running second probably to only Asians.  But that’s debatable.)  I may look 33 now because of the way I dress, act, style my hair, apply my makeup, etc.  BUT there is also a high probability that as long as I take care of myself, I could look 33 when I’m 41.  If that’s the case, I’ll take it now.

And 2.) I simply don’t generally act the way people commonly expect 25-year-olds to act.  Yes, I like to go out, dance, sip on something, pretend I have no responsibilities.  BUT I recognize that I prefer to be the calm, observant one in the background.  I like the security of being (or at least appearing) in control of my words, actions and possibly even my destiny.  (Quite prolific actually.  However, please note I added “appearing” in control.  No one can really be in control.  But I’ll be damned if I don’t try.)

I’m not trying to put a negative label on mid-20-somethings but when people are shocked that I’m only 25, I’ve decided to only take that as a good thing.  Granted, they could just be saying I look old but since I disagree, if that’s what they mean, to hell with them and their opinions.  🙂  I’m only embracing the positive.  The older you get, the closer to 19/undergrad-ish 25 sounds.  I get that.  I am, however, no longer on that level.  I grew up quick (seemingly voluntarily) and have no desire to go back.  Although, every now and again, I’ll give in and have a Halloween Ho moment.  I am afterall only 25.  I’m allowed. Haha.

(I’ve got to do a little something every now again just to remind myself I am still young.  If I don’t, I’m afraid I might begin to regress out of rebellion about the time my physical age catches up with my mental.  I’m terrified I could end up one of those Mariah Carey-like (no offense, I really do love her) moms who dress like their teenage daughters.  That would not be a good look.  I can assure you.   Plus, Ricki Lake is the only one I’d want to give me a makeover and she’s off the air…)

In recent months, potential suitors, new “friends”, older, mature female co-workers, old professors/teachers, current friends, old friends and complete strangers have described me as mature, wise, poised, elegant, regal, favoring Michelle Obama, and “looking like someone people should know. A congresswoman perhaps.”  I sure have come a long way from Steve Urkel and you know what?  I’ll take it!

Sitting up a little straighter at her desk (granted, it’s a stability ball so I have little choice but that’s beside the point),

Jo’van

December 22, 2009
Categories: Quarterlife Crisis, Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: 1 Comment

Eye of the Beholder: Late Bloomer

Even legends like Phil Collins have off days.  Phil Collins “Against All Odds (Take a Look at Me Now) Live”

As I’m preparing to head back to Nashville for Christmas, I started reflecting on the type of person I was when I lived there.  I left right after high school and have only returned to visit….

I’m what grandmas would call a bit of a late bloomer.  My youth and young adulthood were spent largely playing catch up with my contemporaries.  Teeth, walking, talking, puberty, a “womanly shape”, whatever the case might have been, I was physically behind.  Having finally caught up, I remember vainly hoping my body would just hurry up.  “Come on.  What’s taking so long?  Grow those, shrink that, fill out here, just do something.”

High school was especially interesting.  I had the personality of a 40-year-old with the body of a 12-year-old boy.  (Maybe not really the boy part but that’s how it feels when you think everyone else looks like a coke bottle and you more closely resemble a ruler.)  That was not exactly a winning combination.  I never really had to worry about the boys falling head over heels.  To be honest, I’m a little thankful for that lack of attention now.  I, at least, never have to deal with losing that level of interest.  I can imagine that change would be even more upsetting than never having it.  But, trust, it sucked then.  The only people who paid any attention were good friends who just seemed to realize I was a female.  Very flattering. 🙂

My mother being the oh-so-sensitive person she can be once told me she’d worried about me getting her families voluptuous tops and my father’s family’s full-figured bottoms.  I may have gotten a bit of the bottom but the top….not so much.  When it became obvious that wasn’t going to be the case, she stopped worrying about fighting the boys off with sticks.  Yes, it’s funny NOW.  But not then.  Thanks, Mom…

In fact, the only curve I seemed to truly develop didn’t really enter the picture until the summer between my sophomore and junior year of college.  I came back that fall semester and my close and close-ish male friends all tried to find ways to tell me or ask where my ass came from. Having no idea what it was they were trying to say to me made the entire experience comical.  I had 4 or 5 normally outspoken guys trying to not offend me but overly curious what I’d been eating that summer.  I’ll never forget that.  Haha.

Anyway, with this delayed overall development, I never quite learned how to take compliments and general interest from the opposite sex based solely on my appearance.  Past middle school and junior high, I never thought of myself as truly ugly.  I could recognize I had traits that could be worked with.  But I never truly felt pretty.  Just somewhere in-between.  Now, I’m not saying that I consider myself to be gorgeous now.  I just recognize that things could be a lot worse for me.  And most importantly, I’m more comfortable with myself.

We always hear it.  People become more comfortable with what God’s given them as they mature.  Sure, there are things we’re never going to like about ourselves.  But we also come to accept that’s just the way things are going to be.  Some people are so stuck on perfection that they find expensive, potentially dangerous ways to “fix” things about themselves.  To be honest, I’m not knocking plastic surgery.  I agree that some people go way overboard but one or two procedures?  Why not?  If it’s that important to you and you are content with the “improvements”, go for it.  Who am I to define your happiness?  However, for myself, I’m simply too lazy to go under the knife to look good.  I’d rather take that money and travel to a far away, exotic land.  Who cares if I’m not beautiful as long as the scenery in the background of my photos is?

I’ve been told and recognize that this new found sense of contentment/comfort is attractive.  Unless you’re pretty enough to excuse all faults, few people are interested in a completely insecure person.  Let me be pleasantly average physically with confidence, a brain and a decent sense of humor.  I’ll be happier with myself.  Anyone that’s willing to take on the challenge that is getting to know me, come on.  I welcome you.  Trust me, a bleeding, guarded heart is an unusual combination.  I like to be different. 🙂

Back in my awkward days, I assumed anyone that showed any interest in me was completely full of shit.  Of course, no one would realistically be interested in me.  Unfortunately, at that age, the young men are just as insecure and not willing to be persistent.  Rejection hurts both ways.  However, as I’ve grown up and been forced to realize I’m not all that bad, I haven’t seemed to outgrow the initial assumption people have an agenda.  Either it’s a test or a trick.  Either way, I’m not interested.  Just let me be the friend.  I like that role and I’m comfortable in it.  Tell me I’m smart.  Tell me I’m funny.  Tell me I have a big heart.  But as soon as you tell me I’m pretty, I will shut you down.  Yes, I realize I have some issues to work on.  I’m just airing them in this post.  Hopefully, one of these days, I’ll be able to write that I took a compliment with no arguments, blushing or downcast eyes.  I’ve got a lot of work to do.  But then again I’ve already come a long way…

Thankful she’s at least outgrown Urkelina,

Jo’van

December 17, 2009
Categories: Eye of the Beholder (Self-Image), Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: 2 Comments

Eye of the Beholder: Vanity of Sight

Jimmy Nash “I Can See Clearly Now”

Ahh, to see.  For those who’ve never needed assistance and/or tools to do so clearly, seeing just seems a given.  You open your eyes and the world presents itself to you.  However, if you’ve ever opened your eyes only to see the world out of focus, I feel your pain.  Now, I recognize that having whatever bad eye sight I have is better than having none at all but for the purposes of complaining, I am only comparing those in need of contacts and/or glasses to those who’ve only considered these options to cosmetically change the color of their eyes or to “look smarter.”

I’ve had glasses since age 6.  Yep, I was a scrawny, thumb-sucking, know-it-all first grader with glasses.  (Very little has changed since then sadly…)  At that age, glasses didn’t mean much else than something you had to be careful with because mom would get really upset when you broke them.  Of course, you didn’t understand why.  You just went back to the doctor and got more.  (Ah, the ignorance/innocence of youth.)  I don’t believe I ever really liked my glasses.  I just don’t think they began to bother me until middle school/junior high.

As hormones started to kick in and the pretty girls were identified (for at least the next 10 years), being scrawny and boyish was bad enough.  But I had to wear these thick plastic glasses too?!  They were just setting me up for social failure.  Beauties never wear glasses.  You don’t see singers, actresses or models with glasses unless they’re playing the part of the nerdy and the less attractive.  Glasses were like having braces, being flat-chested and having short hair.  You just didn’t want that.  Glasses did not equal attractive.

When my mother told me I’d have to get braces in 8th grade, I almost cried.  Well, could I at least get contacts before?  The last thing I wanted to happen was to look like a nerdy boy with crooked teeth that needed to be fixed.  Now, of course, I was far from the only one going through this helplessly awkward phase.  But at age 12/13, other people’s awkward phases don’t make you feel better.  Most people don’t seem to adopt the mean “at least I look better than them” mentality until they’re further into their teenage/early 20 years.  Thinking I was just being ridiculous, my mother didn’t want to deal with costs and issues associated with contacts so I ended up not getting them until I started working at Sears my senior year of high school and could afford them myself.

To not avoid the cliché, contacts opened my eyes to a whole new world.  Nothing looked better with contacts than it did with glasses except for my reflection.  There was a sense of beauty (or at least less ugliness) and freedom.  In my clouded, naive teenage brain, glasses made me unattractive.  Contacts at least helped to level the playing field.  I could now really play with makeup, eyeshadows, eyeliners, mascaras.  I could dress up my face.  They didn’t do anything for the acne or other flaws but at least the glasses were finally gone.  And with the braces having been removed the year before, I felt I was starting to look more like a young lady and less like a slightly more feminine Steve Urkel.  (No, seriously.  Urkelina was my nickname on the junior high volleyball team.  At the time, no one could think of Myrtle – the name of Steve’s southern belle cousin who came to visit a few times.)

Fast forward 8 years and not much has changed.  Aside from family and my roommate, it’s rare that anyone see me in my glasses.  (In fact, if you see me in glasses, it generally signals it was a rough morning and will probably not be a very good day so stay of my way as much as possible.  If it’s glasses AND my hair is tied back/wrapped up, stay clear.  I’m probably either sick or exhausted.)  Contacts and the insecurities tied to years of glasses are still very much a part of my identity.  I still believe I look better in contacts and usually have at least a bit of eye makeup on.  Luckily, I don’t really wear the bases, foundations, creams, powders and the like.  Genetics and the dermatologist have helped me maintain relatively clear, consistent skin.  But those eyes are a different story.

While I like to fancy myself rather intelligent, I don’t want to look like a nerd, just maybe sound like one at times.  Over the last two years, I’ve started to reconsider my opinion of glasses and me in them.  As I’m trying to force myself to wear these $400 pair of glasses more often than between my bed and the bathroom where my contacts are in the morning and the bathroom to my bed at night, I still find myself preferring the image of a glasses-less me.  Ideally, I’d love to get lasik surgery.  But last year my optometrist quoted me around $6,000 for the procedure.  Are my eyes and vanity worth six grand?  Yes.  I just don’t have the available funds.  Trust, as soon as I do, I’ll happily toss out my glasses, glasses cases, lens cleaning clothes, lens cleaning spray, contacts, contact cases and cleaning solution bottles, and stare blindly into the light.  Only to open them later seeing the world the way it’s meant to be seen – clearly.  I simply can’t imagine waking up in the morning and being able to see.  It must feel like a miracle.  (And I don’t care how overly dramatic that might sound. 🙂 )

Realizing it’s time to schedule her annual eye exam,

Jo’van

December 13, 2009
Categories: Eye of the Beholder (Self-Image), Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: Leave a comment

Quarterlife Crisis: Reminiscing: A Double-Edged Sword

Oh, golden Michael.  This is probably my favorite music video of all time.  Michael Jackson’s “Remember the Time”

Vodpod videos no longer available.

I wasn’t exactly sure how to classify this post.  Should it go under Romantic Cynic, Friendly Drama, Family Values, or something entirely different?  We can reminisce about just about anything, any type of circumstance or relationship.  Sure, romantic may have a physical aspect to remember but friendly could have equally strong inside jokes and family dominating scents or visuals.  All in all, I couldn’t decide and decided it’s actually a catchall issue, a part of my current quarterlife crisis.

The last few months have been eventful.  Good, bad and ugly.  There are parts about the summer to 2009 that I’d care to forget and others I hope I never do.  So much of this summer centered around the past; people I knew, places I’d gone, decisions I’d made (or avoided), things I’d said and done.  It’s always nice when karma comes back to visit.  I’ve done so many good and bad things in my life that I’m never quite sure if I care for the visits.  “Oh Jo’van, I’m back.  Because you [fill in the blank] three years ago, [fill in the blank] is going to happen to you now.”  Thanks, karma.  Thanks a lot.

Anyway, with karma making itself entirely too comfortable on my couch, I’ve spent unnecessary hours reminiscing; when things were good, when my life sucked more than it does now (or at least it felt that way at the time), when someone made me feel loved, when someone (or the same person) made me feel pathetic, when I had friends forever and new enemies everyday, when I liked the way I looked, when I couldn’t stand to look in the mirror, when I was smart, when I felt stupid.  It always amazes me how much I remember and how much of it I wish I didn’t.

There is nothing wrong with reminiscing.  It’s always good to remember where the person that you are today came from.  Who made you think that would be okay, or this was wrong?  When did you decide to do this and swore to never do that again?  Who made you feel happiest and who made you feel less than?  When did you first taste this or last like to do that?  However, the issue I’ve begun to raise with reminiscing is how much is stings regardless.

Instead of finding lasting joy in remembering the “good” things/times, I find myself almost bitter I’m not experiencing them now.  And instead of being happy I’m not in the midst of the “bad” things/time now, I just find myself reliving the pain of those times again.  Things have a wonderful opportunity to continue to get worse from here.  Inviting those memories into a already [fill in the blank] mind can actually not be healing.  For right now, it’s just further frustrating.

This is not to say that I find no joy in my memories.  I have so many wonderful things to be happy about, proud of, etc,  I just think that for the time being I need to focus on my uncertain, shaky future rather than my defined, unchanging past.  I can only imagine what I’ll feel about this time in my life 3, 6, 14 years from now.  Everyone is of course defined by their past but who’s to say you can’t custom-design the next revised definition?  I can only spend so much time remembering who I was.  I need to know who I am right now, the good, the bad and the ugly.  Everything else is just a good story to tell, if and when you’re up to it.

Reminiscing can be a double-edged sword and I’m not the biggest fan of bleeding,

Jo’van

August 12, 2009
Categories: Quarterlife Crisis, Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: 2 Comments

Eye of the Beholder: Brown Sugar, Can I Love You?

In my current unemployed daze, I started cleaning my room and came across a photo of myself and 7 of my 8 roommates from my semester in Florence (Firenze), Italy 4 years ago.  Yes, I had 8 roommates in one not-large apartment with 5 bedrooms.  Luckily (or not surprisingly), I was the only person that had their own room.  I got there first, it was the only one ready, I offered to switch but no one took me up on it…

Of course, I took this photo as a perfect reason to stop whatever I was doing and reminisce.  I’m unemployed.  I should just live the middle-class, uninspired, quarterlife-crisis happening American’s dream and backpack around Europe (again).  But being pragmatic and a month and a half away from absolutely broke, I didn’t linger on this fantasy very long.  However, I did try to remember what it was like to live in Florence, the sounds, the smells, the foods, the people, the school, the market, the mosquito nets…

Aside from the expected culture shock and complete lack of disposable income, I had a great time.  In the most cliche way, that semester made me feel like I could be a grown up and I started to toy with the idea of being able to really do this, really living abroad.  Pack up and become more concerned with a passport than a state driver’s licence.  I liked just being classified as an American, not as black, or middle class, or a Southerner, or the product of a broken marriage, or a preacher’s kid, or whatever social constructions I use to identify myself at any given time.  Of course those things would still matter, but I now how had this larger title AMERICAN to identify and/or argue with.

However, I had another title that I wasn’t prepared for.  So growing up in the US, Tennessee and going to school in Iowa, I’ve never been the ideal of beauty.  Real beauty is petite, buxom and blonde.  Real beauty has blue or green eyes, gets curly perms and pays to tan.  Real beauty looked like Britney, not Beyonce.  Not to go too extreme, the US is a melting pot and values melting pot beauty but if we were to identify one true ideal for the nation as a whole it would not have an excess of melanin.  It’s just the truth.

I happened to room with 4 wonderful, very different looking and acting white women from Iowa State.  I respect these women and hate to reduce them to physical descriptions but it’s necessary to make my point.  We had a short, cutsy sorority girl, an athletic, artsy blond, a shorter, fuller diva and a commanding, self-assured amazon.  And then there was me, I guess I’d describe myself as a tall, sassy black girl.  We were nearly as different as possible.

In Iowa (or just about anywhere else in US), I would not have been the 1st, 2nd or even 3rd person someone would look at in our group.  However, in Florence, to my surprise (and that of some of my roommates…), I was often the object of attention.  How odd it was to be walking to class through the market and hear “Brown Sugar, Can I love you?” in a thick Italian accent.  Well of course you can’t but thanks. 🙂 Cat calls were strange to me.  At home, it only seemed to be dirty old men I could easily dismiss.  Here, not so much.  It seems that brown was exotic in Florence.  Blondes were typical.  Every American, British and Australian exchange student looked like my roommates.  Italy gave me a little ego boost.  🙂  And to make things even better, I didn’t look my best.  Here I was getting more attention than ever before and I didn’t have access to a hairdresser or my entire wardrobe.  Who knew?

And I have to give it the Italian men.  They were not shy but they were also not all that annoying.  Yes, I definitely heard some things that would make a less brown person blush and some of the guys would follow you around.  But unlike at home, once they got the message that it wasn’t going to go anywhere, rather than get pissed or hurt, they simply turned in one direction or another in search of the next female.  You don’t want me? Ok.  She might.  And I’m off…

I also have to note that there were quite a few male African immigrants out during the day.  At any tourist spot, you’d find men selling random knock offs on sheets for easy pick up.  I later found out that there were quite a few African immigrant women as well.  It just so happens that they are the popular choice for prostitution.  I can’t say for sure if this is true but my sources led me to believe that Italian men had no problem paying for a little brown sugar and in fact, preferred it.  Supporting that remark, I was visiting a friend, my wife actually, in Rome and as I was walking back to the hostel, four cars pulled over to ask how much.  It’s important to understand that I was in a hoody, jeans and tennis shoes.  Rather than be offended, all I could do was think how our “girls” are being played in the states.  Of course, I didn’t but I could’ve gotten some business in comfortable clothes while they’re suffering in spandex, stilettos and fishnets…

Anyway, the whole point of this story was the fact that I had to get out of the country to recognize my melting pot attraction, whether I was the one leading myself to believe it didn’t exist or not.  I’m not saying that I’m horrendous and doomed to live with 14 cats because my looks are so offensive.  It’s just that growing up I was brown, lanky, only developed the one curve I have in college and always had cute(r) friends.  A semester in Florence gave me a little more confidence and the ability to possibly see myself as being a little more, if not one of the “cute friends”, at least not “the ugly one.”

Italy – an expensive ego boost,

Jo’van

July 14, 2009
Categories: Eye of the Beholder (Self-Image), Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: Leave a comment

Romantic Cynic: What’s on Your Men-U/Fine List?

Back in high school, my friends and I would create these obnoxious but innocent enough lists, Men-U’s if you will, of the qualities we were looking for in a boyfriend.  They would say things like “nice arms, over 6’1, gets along with my friends, smart enough to help me with Calculus homework, etc.”  Whatever the case might be, these lists made us feel we had the right to strive for something idealistic.  Obviously, none of us would fulfill the ideal lists, Fine Lists, any of our male classmates might come up with but oh well.  While the lists were very limiting, they were all in good fun and we knew no such “perfect” person existed but we could at least hope.  Maybe they just helped us prioritize.  I always said they weren’t in ranking order but maybe they should’ve been…

Anyway, it’s been years since I created one of these lists and hope that I’ve outgrown them but a comment a friend made recently made me think about these lists and what a revised 2009, 25-year-old version would look like.  While Chivis has known me for three years, she’s never seen me “with” someone.  The random “he’s cute” here and there was all she had to determine “my type”.  So after old and new “friends” started to emerge and she’d seen their pictures, I was told that I would need to lower my (physical) standards for Austin.  The personalities of these friends are all very different and there is something endearing (at least to me) about them but that particular conversation came down to the physical.

No offense to the men in Austin.  I’m sure there are plenty of handsome, single, straight (very important distinction for Austin I’ve learned) men here but I’m just not being as lucky at drawing their attention as I might have been other places.  There are plenty of reasons for this that we’ll not need to go into.  It’s just interesting to me that from seeing the photos of three male “friends”, Chivis decided my problem was not my personality, where I am or am not meeting people, the people I’m meeting, or anything else like that.  It was my standards and my physical standards at that.

Granted, I will have to admit that the three “friends” she did see were very attractive but at least for two of them, that’s not the first thing I noticed about them or what drew me in.  For (almost) every guy I’ve ever been interested in, their personality was much more important than their physical.  Yes, attraction must be there and I’ve learned the hard way that trying to “create” the physical attraction is just not a good idea. But I’ve also learned the hard way that just attraction equals near immediate boredom.  I can’t afford more boredom in my life.  I need excitement, challenge, intrigue.  If looking at a picture can give me just about everything being with you can, I’ve got to move on (as sad as it may be to watch you go).

I’m not sure if the items on my Men-U have grown or shrank but I am sure they’ve evolved at least a little.  Nice arms and over 6’1 would still be great but I’d be more than happy to give up a little firmness and a few inches for a similar sense of humor and the ability to just sit in silence together.  Little things, really.  In high school having  a boyfriend/girlfriend was almost a status symbol.  Now it seems like it means you’re lucky or skilled enough to draw someone else willingly into your craziness.

What’s on your Men-U/Fine List?  Are all of the things that were SO important to you when you were 16 still important?  If you’re in a relationship or just out of a (for the most part) really good one, what did you give up or settle on?  What things did you get that you never knew you wanted?  The perpetually single one would like to know.

Wishing she could find just one of those lists from junior year,

Jo’van

July 12, 2009
Categories: Romantic Cynic (Love And Lookalikes), Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: 2 Comments

Quarterlife Crisis: Quarterlife Crisis or Just Boredom?

I’m going to try to add songs to the next few posts.  Please enjoy Mariah Carey’s “Honey” for this post.  This video and sound marked the beginning of her “Quarterlife Crisis/Transition/Freedom”.  We’re still just waiting for her to recover…

I’ve officially been a 25 year old for a week now.  25 – It just sounds so grown up.  Not old.  I hope to have many, many decades to go but something about 25 just sounds like I should have my shit together by now.  I’ve been asked how I feel about being 25.  As with most birthdays, the hardest part that I can imagine will be remembering the new number when asked how old I am.  All I can say is that I feel just about the same.  Let me clarify: the actual birthday meant little.  I will have to admit though that this “time in my life” has had its impact.

Some would call what I’m experiencing a “quarterlife crisis”.  Considering the term is so new and popular right now, I won’t argue the point.  (I am, however, reading the original book published on the term in 2001.  I may change my opinion upon completion.)  Either way, instead of a crisis, I’d like to think I’m going through a “transition period”.  I’m transitioning from the 42 year old in a 24 year old’s body to a probably around 35 year old in a 25 year old’s body.  (I hope to break even around 27.)  I love my life but am bored by most of it at the same time.  It’s safe and comfortable but often uninspired and generally blase.  I’m the faithful employee, loyal friend and independent daughter.  But where’s the fun in that?  I need a little drama (preferably not self-created), some excitement, positive stress, butterflies.

My mother and grandmother came into town for my birthday last week.  It was wonderful.  My mother joked about me never really being a “child”.  Even at 8, I was a tiny adult, equip with strong opinions and the ability to intelligibly argue.  It’s funny to think about that until you realize it’s probably true.  Now, of course, I was a child and did childish things.  But I’ve always acted as if I “knew better”.  My mother even said that I wasn’t going through a quarterlife crisis.  We were both just going through our midlife crises at the same time.  (That math could make things very confusing.)  I’ve always been called an “old soul”.  I didn’t really do most of the dumb, excusable teenage/early twenties things.  There was always a plan, a goal and an ability to see past the temporary intrigue.  And while there’s nothing overly wrong with that, there is something  a little sad about it.  If I’m living like I’m 40 now, what’ll be interesting about actually being 40?  I’ve joked (but was secretly terrified) that I’d regress about that time and look and/or act like a Ricki Lake guest.  I need to act like I’m in my twenties while I’m still technically in my twenties.  And I’m already half way done with that.

I’m not quite sure what “acting my age” looks like but I’m taking baby steps.  Things like going out more than once  a month (I don’t have anyone waiting on me and as long as I can make it to work the next day, what’s the harm?), embracing shorts again (I’ve been avoiding them for years but my thighs are only going to grow exponentially from this point), giving into impulses (probably a full post on that later), taking care of my body (I’m still not excited about organic foods but there’s nothing wrong with paying a little more attention to what I’m putting into my body or working out consistently enough to actually see a difference), or being social simply for the sake of being social (fighting looks of boredom or indifference in public settings).

Maybe all of this is just a phase and I’ll revert to being 40 again soon.  If so, I hope I can cram 15 years worth of “being young” into whatever time I have left to enjoy this phase.

Consider this part one of my quarterlife crisis series.

Jo’van

July 1, 2009
Categories: Quarterlife Crisis, The World...As I See It (Everything Else), Whole Truth, The . Tags: , , , , , . Author: tjovand . Comments: 1 Comment

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