Happy New Year!

I know a lot of people make resolutions this time of year, and I swore to myself that I wouldn't make resolutions. They're always the same, and I never seem to make them realistic or specific enough to accomplish them.

Instead, I'm making one resolution this year: to be kind to myself.

In theory, being kind to myself could be construed to cover all of the other resolutions I might make. You could say that, to be kind to myself, I would lose weight to improve my health and comfort. You could say that cleaning the kitchen daily would make me feel better about my home. You could say that having a consistent yoga practice would be kind to my body, and watching less TV would be kind to my creativity. You could say all of that, and you would be right, for the most part. But really, I beat up on myself too much, so I don't want to make resolutions that I'm just going to berate myself for not keeping.

I'm just going to be kind to myself.

I'm still going to make some goals. Simple things, like knitting something for myself, experimenting on my new loom, and learning how to use a DSLR.

I'm going to make some business goals, too, like getting a certain amount of things listed on etsy, getting a resellers license in CA, and refreshing my branding.

But if I don't get all of that accomplished, or if I don't accomplish it in quite the way I imagined, or with the perfection I demand from myself, I'm going to try to remind myself that my only resolution this year is to be kind to myself. And instead of berating myself for not accomplishing a "resolution", maybe I'll go get some ice cream. Or go for a walk. Or call someone who makes me feel good about myself. Or eat a bowl of cereal and binge-watch The Gilmore Girls.

That's it. That's all. Just be kind to myself.

Be kind to yourself, too.

How to Talk to Girls

Today, as I surreptitiously searched the internet for pictures of what the Obama women were wearing, I felt a little uncomfortable. I was at work, and couldn't watch the inauguration, so I was listening to it on NPR and I was just DYING to see Michelle's new bangs. Michelle Obama is so much more than the gown she wore to the inauguration (Jason Wu!) and yet that's one of the first things I wanted to see.

I rarely give a damn about what the men are wearing, and it's not just because I prefer women. Men's clothing hasn't changed much in the last 50 or so years. Sure, the lapels get wider, the ties get skinnier, and sometimes there's a different color shirt, but really - who cares?  Once in a while you'll see something outrageous on the runway - a MAN wearing a DRESS (SHOCKER) for example. But that rarely has a trickle-down effect.

Women's clothing is infinitely variable, and driven, I would wager, almost entirely by the garment industry. (Here I'm drawing almost entirely on the Costume History class that I took almost 20 years ago and didn't exactly ace) But fashion used to be driven primarily by function - so, especially in peasant or servant classes, the clothing changed very little over hundreds of years.

But despite my own interest in fashion - and it's that of a witness, certainly not as a participant - I'm really not comfortable with how quickly and easily it reduces women to how they look. And where I find this especially disturbing is in the effect it has on little girls.


I happened upon this interesting article on HuffPost today - it was written almost two years ago - and it neatly sums up that challenge.

I find myself doing this - talking to little girls about how they look. She's right, it's the standard icebreaker. Little girls, for the most part, think a lot about what they are wearing. I've seen this manifest in absolutely awesome ways - one of my nieces went out wearing jeans, a tutu, a t-shirt, sparkly shoes, and a mismatched cardigan a few years ago. I was jealous! She so clearly put on what she felt like wearing, and I found myself wishing I could do the same. But at some point, that unself-conscious dressing for oneself becomes dressing for other people.

And that's where it all breaks down for me. I know I'm about to sound like a RAVING liberal (hide your children! You don't want them thinking!) but when we reduce conversations with women and girls to what they are wearing, not only do we diminish them, we also miss out on the opportunity to talk to them about what they're thinking.

I'm thinking about this even more because I have nieces who are nearing those dangerous ages - ages when they become all-consumed with their bodies and their looks. I have one niece especially who is really struggling right now - whether she realizes it or not. She's dangerously consumed with appearing sexy. And I can't help but wonder how things could have been different for her. Are the messages of the media so pervasive that no amount of parenting can prevent a child from this kind of self-hate?

I got a review the other day from a woman who was very upset that the writing on something she ordered was hot pink instead of red, as she thought it would be. She said she wouldn't give it to her sons because it had pink writing on it. I've read other reviews from people upset that a heart-shaped charm on a new baby ornament was PINK on a BOY ornament. It made me wonder - do boys really naturally not like pink? Do girls really naturally like pink? Or, when a girl sees pink and wants pink, do we ooh and ahh and encourage her with pink feathers and tiaras and tutus and bedspreads and socks and sequins? And when a boy sees pink and wants pink, do we tell him "pink is for girls" and hand him a red and yellow truck?

I could get really off-topic here, and start talking about the psychology of color, but I'll save that for another post. For now, I'll continue to wonder if my obsession with Project Runway enables a society in which women will continue to be judged on their looks, and men will continue to be judged on their ideas.

Holiday Dressing

I still don't know what to wear to the holiday party on Saturday. I always think I am going to come up with something bold and fabulous and jaw-dropping and then ... I don't. I also always think that I am going to lose weight, and get highlights, and whiten my teeth, and get a pedicure. Then I get really anxious about the fact that I don't weigh 120 pounds and I don't have white teeth and, on one toe, I still have the remnants of toenail polish from my last pedicure in July. 

I'll probably panic the entire week about it, spend all day Saturday throwing clothes and fabric and jewelry around, then break down crying about an hour before we are supposed to leave and decide not to go. Jules will get fed up, pull something out of the closet, and tell me to put it on. I'll argue with her about not having the right underwear, shoes, or eyeshadow until she tells me that she's leaving in an hour with or without me. 

I'll spend the next hour working on my makeup and hair, change clothes, shoes, and jewelry three more times, and try to cram every jewelry item I own, four lipsticks, a spare pair of shoes, and a bottle of wine into my purse. Jules will point out that they will have booze at the party, that I don't need a spare pair of shoes, and that I have a perfectly lovely wristlet that I bought for the express purpose of "going out" - a phrase she will have to explain to me - and that it has room for some cash, one lipstick, and my ID. Since I have never been in a situation where I think I can get by with  some cash, one lipstick, and my ID, said wristlet still has the tags on it.

(I once read something that said you should be wary of girls who carry big purses. Girls with a big purses think they always need to be prepared for everything because they are completely incapable of knowing in the morning what they might do or where they might go that day, and why would you want to be involved with that kind of chaos? I tried not to take it personally and cleaned out my purse the next day... but really, if a purse isn't big enough to carry a knitting project or two, what's the point?)  

After cramming two lipsticks, a lipliner, a compact, eye drops, my ID, my phone, some cash, ibuprofen, gum, and an instant coffee packet into the wristlet, I will try to convince Jules that we need to stop at Macy’s on the way so I can buy a different wristlet. She will, rightly, object. I will change clothes three more times while scheming how to get my knitting bag, a spare pair of shoes, and my Kindle into the car without Jules noticing.

Five minutes before we leave, Jules will dampen and comb her hair, brush her teeth, and throw on a sweater.
She will be hit on five times before we even get to the party.

Maybe I should just start drinking now.