Throwback Thursday: French Toast & Self-Loathing

February 7, 2013February 7, 2013 / Ashley / 5 Comments

Every Thursday, I dig out an old diary and share an entry sans editing (in hopes we’ll all see my grammar and apostrophe use improve) with a short commentary. If you like laughing with/at Young Ashley, feel free to use the handy search bar to the right and simply type “Throwback Thursday” and you’ll find the whole archive. Thanks for reading!

Sunday January 24, 1999

Dear Genna,

I’m so fat. I weight 100 pounds. Corey, my older brother weighs 80! I wish I had his body more boys would like me. He’s really skinny. Funny thing is I could never imagine myself skinny. I think I’d look ALOT better. I want to wear a bikini this summer without having to suck in my belly. I’ll keep a record of what I had to eat almost every day and try to be healthy. Wait no. I WILL eat healthy.

Breakfast: 2 peices of french toast & syrup. milk butter

Lunch: none

Dinner:

Snacks: lots of chocolate :[ Dang-it!

I have to cut down on my sweets, drink LOTS of water, more than 8 glasses. And workout Every Day! Must!

Bye,

Ashley

I didn’t really want Thursday features to be me making fun of myself, but I don’t know how I can’t with this one. Where do I begin?

Oh, young Ashley. Why do you hate yourself so much? Who should we blame? Television? Movies? Magazines? Society in general? Carbs? I like carbs, let’s blame carbs.

Maybe under different circumstances, I would have become an anorexic. If my mom had been more critical. If my dad had been less caring. If my brother weighed 70lbs. On that note, I’d just like to state that I no longer want my brother’s body. He might still weigh less than me, but I’ve learned to accept that boobs weigh a few pounds, and I’d like to keep them.

Clearly, I had no idea what nutrition was. French toast? It’s just processed whiteness fried in an egg drizzled with sugar liquid. Seems legit. Chocolate? Fuck yeah, antioxidants! (I don’t think anyone was talking about antioxidants in 1999.) I had one thing right though – lunch and dinner are pretty unimportant and relatively unappetizing meals. Breakfast is where it’s at. And exercising – how the hell do 10 year olds exercise? At that time, I considered running around the block once to be sufficient exercise. As long as my breathing quickened for more than 2 minutes, I was set. Also, I think it’s sufficiently weird that I’m still addressing this to my cousin. What was I going to do? Deliver this to her on Christmas? Sorry, Genna, I guess I owe you a 15-year old Christmas gift. You probably don’t want it.

Needless to say, I didn’t lose weight. I grew breasts and developed a waist smaller than my hips. That came with a few extra pounds. Like most girls, I struggled with my body image while growing up. I was never skinny enough. My skin always had too many pimples. My hair never looked good. My mom would never buy me white eyeliner and black mascara (could you think of a worse makeup trend?). I was always a little chubby and a little awkward, even through high school. While my peers were at their prime at 17 and 18, I was still figuring out how to conceal my pimples and pretend I didn’t have a muffin top. Seven years later, I still haven’t quite figured those things out, but I’ve got better makeup and accepted I don’t look good in jeans whose waistline hovers just below my hipbones. Structure: some of my clothes has it.

I didn’t grow into myself until my freshman year of college when I discovered I could wear cardigans and adorable flats while looking down at the skinny girls in their $30 Abercrombie shirts, because seriously, who wears those clothes after high school anyway?

I’m proud to say that my self-loathing has taken a backseat to my “BITCH, I DO WHAT I WANT” attitude. It’s not quite that violent, but we’ll just say I’ve accepted that I’m probably never going to weigh 100 pounds, I’ll probably always suck in my belly when I wear a bikini, and I will always enjoy french toast with syrup and butter.

My First 5K

February 5, 2013February 5, 2013 / Ashley / 7 Comments

Currently, my body is sore. All I would really like to do is sit in a massive tub of scalding water with about three pounds of epsom salt. But no, I’m being responsible and writing a blog post, like an adult.

Saturday afternoon, a friend from college stopped into town. Kaleigh needed to get an outfit for a formal event and she decided to take advantage of my sixth sense for amazing clearance deals. We grabbed some dinner and walked around the mall, scoffing at Macy’s $80 clearance. (“Clearance: You’re doing it wrong.”) Somewhere between stuffing my face with a pound of mongolian stir fry and trying on prom dresses, Kaleigh asked if I was interested in doing a 5k with her.

I recalled seeing an invite anout something like that earlier in the week. “Oh yeah, I forgot to actually look at that, what is it all about?”

“It’s a 5k mud run for breast cancer. There’s a bunch of obstacles – like a big mud pile you have to run up and over and then a big mud puddle you run through at the end.”

As I licked the peanut-curry sauce from the corner of my lip and felt the first hints of bloating and regret, I realized I should probably make some changes. Committing to a 5k seemed like a good first step.

“Yeah, I want to get a team of girls together. We can t-shirts printed and maybe get some sponsors,” Kaleigh said. “My one friend said she’d only do it if she got to wear a tutu, so I guess we’re wearing tutus and t-shirts.”

“I’m in.”

To convince me, all she really had to say was: “Hey, wanna run three miles in a tutu?”

And my response would have been: “Hell yes I do!”

Later that night, I got into bed with my Kindle and began planning my 5k the way most runners probably do: by creating a Pinterest board. I found an 8 week training program, added the schedule to my calendar, and got my gym bag together for Monday.

I did the first day of the program last night – run for five minutes, walk for one, repeat five times. By the time I was done with that, I was at about 3.6k and I was curious to see how long it would take me to do 5k so I just finished it. I say “just finished it” like I wasn’t dying and extremely aware of the blister growing on my left instep. It took me just over 42 minutes to do 5k.

I know it’s not terrible, but it’s not great either. I’m having a hard time not comparing it to my older brother’s 5ks from high school. Corey is a natural-born runner. Even while eating fast food several times a week, he’s able to maintain roughly three ounces of fat on his body. Jerk. Supposedly, he went to his first cross country practice in high school, ran eight miles and was one of the first kids to finish. This is a kid whose only previous athletic experience was shooting hoops in the driveway. Anyway, my base time (42:20, we’ll say) is twice his time.

I realize that this is a process though, so I wasn’t expecting to run like a Nigerian off the bat. I am, after all, a blogger/reader/violinist. We’re not known for our agility. I’ll shoot for doing a 5k every Monday and I’ll keep you posted on my times. I’m giving you permission to bug me about it by whatever means necessary if you suspect I’m slacking.

Throwback Thursday: A Vending Machine Sticker & Daddy Issues

January 31, 2013January 31, 2013 / Ashley / 3 Comments

September 5, 1998

Dear Genna,

Today It rained. When John and Devon went out for patrol they came back socking wet, I was laughing inside cause if he saw me he would have killed me. Like yesterday he spelled dog wrong – Dog! He chased me into the girls’ bathroom. During recsess Ashley A, Malee, Katy, and me played scrabble. for my frist turn I put down Leo. On my fifth I meant to have oars but I put down Leoa! I was so embarrassed.

When Dad, Corey, Ryan and I went to Piggly Wiggle I think dad was mad Because he looked at Ryan like, “You stop or I’ll spank you!” Well when we were waiting for Dad in the checkout, Me and Corey went to look at the stickers. This teenager came (he was cute) to get a sticker his money was jammed and he said, “If I don’t get a sticker I’m gonna bust this thing!” So he got another It was a stupid one so he gave it to me!

Guess what? I’m getting a lovin’ Leo book! I think he is hot. I have tons of posters of him. Then in an article in Teen machine It was: DiCapro vs. Damon. I wonder who’d win? Maybe..um Dicapro. Duh!

This is the sticker –>

I know it looks like a fat lady but hey a cute guy gave it to me. Me!

Without reading this entry, I remember this event – getting the sticker from the strange teenage boy. I don’t remember my dad being upset at Ryan or what he was upset about, but I do remember those stern looks he would give us when we were misbehaving while grocery shopping. This was back when my mom worked as a cashier at Piggly Wiggly in the evenings. Sometimes my dad would take us to the store to visit her.

I’ve always been a pragmatic person. Though I’ve always been a daydreamer, I’ml aware of reality’s constraints. While walking through the grocery store, I used to imagine that some boy would find himself so enchanted by me that he would be compelled to tell me I was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. I knew this would never happen – I knew that I was too young for anyone to look at me like that, and even if a boy did notice me, the presence of my father would thwart any move he might think to make. So when this older cooler boy engaged me – I was excited but wary. Eventually my dad would walking through the automatic doors, pushing a cart full of groceries and it would be revealed that I was just a child, dependent upon her dad for transportation.

But while my dad was still at the checkout, I was able to indulge my daydream. I’d tell myself that certain things were signs. If he doesn’t get this next sticker, it means he likes me. If he looks at me, it means my shirt is cool. If he gives the sticker to me, it means he’s going to look for me again. While I knew it didn’t really mean anything when he gave me this sticker (it was a stupid one after all), I made it seem like it was. I went home and wrote in my diary, because I thought that just maybe this was the start of something significant.

In the books I read – historical fiction, mostly – boys were always timidly approaching girls and making them feel special by little trinkets. Reality was a constant disappointment for me. I know that my diary makes me sound like I had no concept of reality, but it’s really the opposite. I just always wanted my life to sound better and more impressive than what it really was. My life was boring. I was ordinary. I wanted to be extraordinary. I wanted to stand out for something other than being the girl who wore handmade dresses and played pretend at recess after most of her peers stopped.

This entry is indicative of my early interactions with men – feeling like it was acceptable to receive their leftovers throw-aways. I was so desperate for any bit of attention from a boy that I was willing to accept anything they gave me. After writing mostly about Scott and my father in a personal narrative class, my professor asked if I thought there was a reason I dated a whole slew of assholes despite such a heroic father. I was quick to point out that I didn’t date a slew of assholes, just one for a significant amount of time.

I never truly answered her question, so the question still remains: Assuming a girl’s father is her strongest male figure – the one who illustrates how she should be treated – why did I accept so little from my early boyfriends? From all my boyfriends, for that matter. Even after my most significant relationship ended a little less than a year ago, I still felt like I was just a little bit used – like I had served my purpose for a chunk of time and the time had come for him to move on.

My father has always been there for me – if I’m stranded on the side of the road, if I’m crying about money or about a guy he hugs me, if I need a meal he feeds me, if I’m shivering he’ll give me his coat. It’s not that boyfriends didn’t or wouldn’t do these things for me. Maybe it’s just that I’ve never really given them the chance. Maybe I’ve never allowed room for them to actually impress me since my father is such a significant part of my life. Maybe I’ll always be disappointed by men who are not my father. Damnit, dad. Why are you such a good dad?

Good luck trying to date me, future beaus.

I had no intention of making this post so inquisitive. I thought I’d point out 10-year old Ashley’s excellent grasp of punctuation in dialogue but her apparent disregard for commas elsewhere. I was clearly horrified by my peers’ shortcomings while being oblivious to my own (but come on – I still have trouble spelling recess sometimes) Also, I was obsessed with Leonardo Dicaprio, but I couldn’t be bothered to learn how to actually spell his name.

…and then I went to a rave.

January 26, 2013January 26, 2013 / Ashley / 7 Comments

I woke up this morning with smudged mascara, a sick stomach, and two glowsticks on my kitchen counter. I went to a rave last night. Now, before my family reads this and thinks I partook in some illegal behavior, I’ll assure you that I didn’t.

This was such a new experience for me that I had to turn to Google for advice:

That’s how much my life varies these days. From crochet to raves. I love it. I watched a video that advised me to wear baggy clothes, a bikini, any tshirt with a cartoon character (she recommened Pikachu) on it, and a kiddy backpack. I ended up going with jeans and a slouchy t-shirt because I had neither a Pikachu shirt nor a kiddy backpack.

When I first got there, I wasn’t really sure what I was supposed to do. Most of the crowd was younger, so for the first hour or so I was acutely aware of the fact that I was no longer 20. Also, I had no idea what to do with my hands. Standing there next to Andrea and a guy I had just met, I felt completely out of place. Alex had assured me it would be a great night – full of nice people who didn’t judge you.

I’m sure the dark room lit solely with laser beams and flashing lights was decorated in such a way to cultivate zen exactly the way Siddhārtha envisioned, but I wasn’t really feeling it. My limbs felt heavy, my hands unnecessary, and my whole body was just clumsy. I’m sure the gogo dancers in bikinis, garters, and knee-high furry boots didn’t do anything to help that. So I got a drink to loosen up and eventually I started to dance.

My dance repertoire basically consists of awkward shuffling at basement parties my freshman year and looking like a moron at disco shows while my Puerto Rican friend, Che, danced with the confidence that comes only when you’re completely self-assured. I’ve always been envious of people who can dance.

At some point, I hit a moment that I can only describe as magical. I lost all sense of self-consciousness and just allowed myself to suck in the beauty of everything around me. It was like I fell in love with the moment completely – the sensation of the bass so deep, so long, and so heavy I felt it reverberate in my muscles, the brightness of the lights, and the freeness that came from being in a fresh setting without caring what I looked like. It was pure happiness. It was like I had never felt the feeling of worry, regret, or sadness – like that moment was the only moment that I had ever experienced and ever would experience.

I was hesitant at first to go, but I’m so glad I did. I was introduced to a whole culture I never knew existed. I’m not going to become a raver, but I would probably go to one again – and I’ll probably start downloading a bunch of electronic music so I can dance in my apartment.

I’ve never been much for electronic music. Ellie Goulding is about as electronic as I get. But this was really pretty cool. The musician in me hates that most of the sounds are synthetic, but when you’re surrounded by the music and all the positive people, you can’t help but feel completely content. Anyway, if you want to experience magic, I recommend going to a rave with your best friend, drinking a vodka lemonade, and moving your body however you feel compelled.