Are burkinis the real problem?

            Recently in France, a mayor of a beach front city has banned burkinis. If you are unfamiliar, these are swimsuits that allow Muslim women who wear the traditional hijab to still be able to participate in beach activities and swim in public. The mayor cited that hijab’s are a sign of Islamic extremism. In response, the president of Kyrgyzstan said that “women in mini skirts don’t become suicide bombers”.  Now, I could go into how this is restricting the freedom of religion, the freedom of speech and just wrong being able to essentially restrict any woman who adheres to a code of modesty that she can’t do what every other woman does.

            But that’s not what I am going to be focusing on, because I think that this perspective has been thoroughly discussed. And so while I throw my support behind this argument, let’s look at something else.

            While I am not Muslim and I do not wear a hijab, I feel that my rights are being restricted. When it comes to normal every day clothing, I’m usually not one to be a stickler and I can often be caught wearing things that aren’t very modest. That can be short shorts/skirts, crop tops or low cut tops. But ever since I was a kid, I never liked having to wear bathing suits.

            My parents didn’t care if I wore two pieces and I often wore my favorite two piece in my backyard pool. However, if I was going somewhere public, I might choose my one piece I had inherited from a friend who had gotten into diving. And I still felt uncomfortable in that one. When I went to pool parties, I would keep on my external clothes as long as possible and maybe even swim in the cotton cheer shorts I was wearing over my one piece.

            To me, this law is enforcing what I already knew: when it is time to swim, we as society only accept women who show almost every inch of their skin. I hate that swim suits bottoms are as revealing as underwear. I hate that when I go to a store, my only options for modesty is a swim skirt that barely covers my butt or, now as an adult woman, a one piece with “tummy tucking abilities”. Maybe I don’t need my tummy tucked. Maybe I want a cute skirt that goes almost to my knees that can go in the water. Maybe I just want to enjoy swimming without worrying about my butt falling out the way I can go to Zumba and wear as much or as little as I want. I like options, I like the freedom of options.

Image from a report by the BBC

            Does one have to be prude to demand they be able to walk down the street in whatever they are forced to wear swimming? Why are we forcing children to participate in this? I’m mad that my country is forcing me to either wear a full burkini or a string bikini. Is there not an in between? Why aren’t people as mad as I am about this? Why can’t I dress comfortably without being stared at when I go to a pool?

            Today, women are fighting to free their nipples. They want to dress as provocatively as they want without being judged. As a free American woman, I am demanding to be able to dress how I want without being judged. And if I need to buy a burkini and cut it to my own satisfaction, so be it. 

Learning a Second Language

            I recently read a book called Flirting with French by William Alexander. This book was all about how a 56 year old man set out, determined to learn how to speak French fluently. It accurately highlights his ups and downs, though it’s unfortunately mostly filled with downs.

            I have to say that my experience with learning a second language has been similar. In high school, the foreign language I took was Latin. I didn’t do this out of passion for the language, but because the Latin teacher seemed much nicer than the French teacher and I heard the class would be filled with Greek and Roman mythology. I continued with Latin for four years rather than quitting after the required two. This was also not out of passion for language. My friends were in the class and my teacher essentially guilted me into continuing.

            But I had always wanted to learn French. Ever since I had learned what French was, I knew I would speak it one day. Had the French teacher at my high school not seemed to be so terrifying, I would have been in French all four years. When I made it to college, I knew I had to take French. I wasn’t content with just passing the classes, I wanted to be fluent.

            For whatever reason, I expected to be a natural. I think it was because I was so in love with France and the idea of the language, I thought Jesus would just come down and grant me with the ability to speak French. Or I’d at least pick it up easily enough. Instead, I struggled through every class and every exam. I had never learned how to speak or listen in another language. Latin was purely reading and writing and always accompanied by some sort of vocabulary aid. With a modern language, you have to know what you’re doing if you want to communicate.

            I could nail the French grammar like nobody’s business. Reading it was a piece of cake and I could write it well enough. Then for exams, I failed every listening portion. I crammed myself with vocabulary for speaking exams and promptly forgot it all afterwards.

This was my face when asked to speak French.

            This is where I was when I went to France. I didn’t understand anything that had slang in it. I couldn’t understand a single French person who talked to me. But I thought it would be alright. In my mind, my semester abroad would be the time when everything clicked. I’d come back to the U.S. speaking French like a native. I’d fly through every French class my university back home had to offer. I’d have the vocabulary to keep up with modern street French as well as official press conferences.

            Well, as you can imagine, it didn’t work out exactly like this.

To be continued…

Think of Me Fondly

          I’m sure many of you have, like me, have taken many a cheesy quiz online. Usually it tells you something like “Which Spice Girl Are You?” or “Should I Get off the Couch Today or Take More quizzes?”. My least favorite question from these are always when you have to answer what your friends would say. Often it is “How would your friends describe you?”. I really hate this question because I never know how to respond.

I’m a fairly introspective person. I overthink everything I do and say, and I constantly question what type of person I am and who I would like to be. But for the life of me, I can’t answer a simple Buzzfeed question about how my friends view me.

I was thinking about this today when I was writing in my journal about my friends I made during study abroad. I was thinking about how much I miss them and describing them in my journal. I began to wonder how they would write about me. What memories stick out when they think of me? 

Because even when I think of myself, I think that I change so much day today, even moment to moment. Sometimes I’m silly and fun, the next day, I may be quiet and not very talkative. Do people think I’m obnoxious, loud, chill or funny? I would lean towards goofy and short.

Of course this applies to more than just my study abroad friends. I often wonder where I stand with people, even those who I've known for much longer. This probably comes from having been surrounded by a lot of fake people throughout my childhood and on into- well today. People may be nice and seem to like you one day, then they're never inviting you to anything and complaining about how you act. When they agree to hang out, it feels like you’re practically forcing them. Which sucks, because if someone doesn’t like you, you would want them to be honest so you’re not wasting your time.

All of this is back to my point that it is hard to know how others think of you. What side of yourself do you always show to a person or a group? Did you meet them on an off day that you forgot about, but that is their lasting impression of you? I myself am guilty of holding first impressions against people, until I am reminded that they probably forgot about that one thing they did once. I want to be more mindful of how I think of others, giving them the chances they deserve to give the impression of themselves that they want to give. And maybe someday I’ll be able to tell Buzzfeed if my friends would describe me as book smart, a jokester, sassy or spontaneous.

 

Maybe they think of the Jillian who makes flower crowns.

But Daddy I Love Him!

           Do me a favor and listen to “The Color of Your Eyes” from the musical Daddy Long Legs. I’ll give you some time…

Now tell me that’s not a beautiful song. Tell me that you weren’t just filled with so much beautiful imagery of strolling through Manhattan in spring. Or fall. Or whatever the most romantic season is to you.

Daddy Long Legs was a musical that played Off-Broadway until this June. It was the first show to live stream so that peasants like me in Oklahoma could watch New York City theatre without the plane ticket or hotels. It starred Megan McGinnis, who I’ve loved since the musical Little Women, and her husband. They are the only two people in the show as it’s a show of Megan’s character sending letters to her benefactor (played by her husband).

Cute little Jerusha, writing her letters.
daddylonglegsmusical.com

This show is full of hits, but also a lot of misses. I watched the live stream back in December, listened to the album, then stopped. I’ve rediscovered my love for the music this summer. However, every time I listen, often within the same song, I may be shouting “Yaaaasss!” in my car followed immediately by a disappointed “ohhh…”.

Many of the misses can be attributed to the story on which it is based. It was written a century ago and is fairly outdated. It exists in a time when women were at the mercy of men and ending up with a man twice your age was common if not encouraged. They work around this pretty well in the show, but I haven’t brought myself to watch the movie starring a young Leslie Caron and an aging Fred Astaire…

Unfortunately, it’s not just the story that is weak. There are amazing songs like the one suggested earlier, “Graduation Day” and “I Couldn’t Know Someone Less”. But these are accompanied with the opening number (that is so awkward..), “The Secret of Happiness” (which is supposed to be the big song of Jerusha, but is boring and falls flat for me), and “What Does She Mean by Love” (dude, chill out and stop being such a hermit). Along with this, even in some of the good songs, there are such unforgettable cringey moments. For example: in the song “I’m a Beast”, Jerusha says “Daddy I’m no good at being bad”. What? What kind of line is that?!?

But Daddy Long Legs will remain my guilty pleasure. Megan McGinnis is too delightful, the good songs are amazing, and it hits me right in the, often suppressed, Rom-Com part of my heart. Yeah the romance is weird, but it’s like a Maury episode you can’t look away from and I love it!

This post is an honest love letter to the show I’m currently obsessing with. If you join me in this obsession, let me know!

Classified Documents

I have a few Word documents on my computer marked “Don’t Read”. This command isn’t meant for my mom snooping or anyone else. It’s a message for me.

            You see, these documents tend to be written at the lowest points in my life. It usually means I’m dealing with a problem which seems so large that I feel like I can’t tell someone about it or even say it out loud. It’s either embarrassing, feels monumental or ridiculous. But, I have to put my worries somewhere out into the world. So instead of writing it by hand in a journal, because ink just feels too permanent, I write a word document. Something that can easily be deleted with the push of a button.

            However, I never delete these files. Maybe it’s because, in the past, it has come with the satisfaction of opening one of these a year or two later and being able to smile at how much something weighed on me that has since been resolved. Maybe it’s a reminder that things get better, even when they feel so hopeless.

            There have also been times that they were still too relevant. Either I hadn’t resolved the problem, or it’s something that is so much a part of me, it can’t be resolved. These I will go back and look at every so often. To torture myself? No. To wallow in self-pity? No. I don’t really know why. Maybe it is just interesting to see how I thought about something a year ago. Or I like to read over it because I do my best writing when I’m utterly devoid of happy thoughts. Maybe a mixture of both.

            This is my first post that’s serious and kind of a damper. So I’ll end it on a slightly more positive note. Writing is how I feel better when something is getting me down. It’s a great stress reliever for me. What is yours?

 

Maybe I'll write something like this next time I'm sad?
One can only hope.

My First Yoga Class

My own Downward Facing Dog

So I briefly mentioned before that I don’t work out. The most vigorous form of fitness that I do willingly is Zumba, which I will definitely have to write a post about soon because I really love it! However, I’ve realized I probably need to branch out and start trying something new if I want to continue pushing myself. So before I actually do that with weights or machines or something else ridiculous, I decided on yoga. I never would have considered it except a friend of mine recently received her license as a yoga instructor. So I grabbed the mat I had gotten for free years ago and went to an actual yoga class rather than trying Youtube videos.

            The class started with our eyes closed, which honestly, I didn’t appreciate. I felt like I was sitting wrong or moving wrong or even breathing wrong. I kept peeking making sure my friend, the instructor or anyone else was looking at me which was too stressful. I suppose I could have assumed everyone else had their eyes closed and didn’t care about me, but that would mean using logic and being less insecure.

            Overall, the class was relaxing, fun and great for flexibility. Yet, I’m disappointed we didn’t actually say “Om”. Not even once. We did say “namaste” at the end, but it crept up so quickly and the class said it so quietly. So I just whispered it to myself. Shameful.

            While it was calming and I will probably do it again, an hour after it had ended, I just wanted to move around. I had too much energy that I hadn’t exerted in my hour of fitness. So I got home and ran around with a puppy. Times like this I feel like I’m 5. I mean it’s not like I got in trouble for being too hyper around the house with my 10 year old brother. Oh wait...

All about that Bass?

            As mentioned previously, I spent this past semester in France. Well, because of this past semester-

            Wait, I need to back up further. I was born with a booty. You look at pictures from when I was 2 and I already had womanly hips and a butt that just wouldn’t quit. I always forget puberty is supposed to bless you with this because I can’t ever remember wearing a skirt that was as long in the back as in the front.

            On top of this, I love bread. Like, I don’t think you understand. I seriously LOVE BREAD.

            I have always struggled with my size. I was always aware of how much curvier I was than the other girls my age. I used to watch Will & Grace when I was a child and saw myself in Karen’s body type. This was really brought out when I did dance and would be surrounded by toothpick girls as we all tried on the same costumes.

            In the past, I had tried to lose weight. I would be reminded by how out of shape I was, I would look at the scale, or the Wii Fit would tell me that I was in the “danger of obesity” range. All of these factors have led to me having a love-hate (mostly dislike) relationship with my body. So when I tried to lose weight I would watch what I ate, maybe try to drink less soda or cut back on the PBJ’s. But it always ended in me devouring an entire bag of Dove dark chocolate, because you know, heart healthy. So I thought, as long as I don't do something like that again, I'll be alright. 

            However, for the first time in my life, I’m on a real diet. After a semester in which all I did was sit around, drink and eat baguettes and eclairs by the basket, I ended up back at home 20 pounds heavier than when I had left (and I had left in that Wii danger zone). I used to be able to justify the number on the scale by appreciating my hourglass, my tapered waist and my strong legs. But the few attributes I took pride in disappeared. This was the wake-up call I needed to make a change.

            So here I am with my mapped out weight loss goals in my planner, my calorie counter on myfitnesspal, and my tennis shoes laced up and ready for Zumba (because girlfriend doesn’t do real workouts).

I have lost 11 pounds since my return about two months ago, and I plan to lose 39 more as a Christmas present to myself. If I don’t reach that specific goal (that I came to as a compromise between what I’m “supposed to weigh” and what may actually be possible), that’s ok. Because even if I only lose 20 pounds total, I’ll be healthier than I was, more confident than I was, and I’ll probably look hot as hell. 

These guys made some great Kebab. I blame them for every pound. 

This was not sponsored by MyFitnessPal, just an app I am loving. Here is a link if you are interested. My username is amourdebaguette (because I don't have enough problems).

Bonjour à tous!

          If you can’t tell from the title of the post and that it is obnoxious in French, today I will be talking about France. But more specifically, my time studying abroad.

          Like many college students today (most, maybe? It feels like everyone at least does the two week “study abroad”), I studied abroad.The Spring of 2016, I was studying in Clermont-Ferrand, France. It’s a smaller city smack-dab in the middle of the hexagon and surrounded by volcanoes.

          Ready for a real cliché people? Study abroad changed my life.

          If you are on the fence about study abroad, do it. If you don’t want to study abroad, do it. If you’re scared to death of travelling and planes, pop some Xanax and do it.

          Study abroad changed my life in so many ways, but the one I will be focusing on today is perhaps the most important: Study abroad opened my eyes to how unimportant I am. This may not sound great, but when you’re born a perfectionist who feels like all eyes are on her and if she screws up, the space time continuum will be shattered, this realization was freeing. I messed up a lot in Clermont. I enjoyed every minute of it. I failed a few tests, I got kicked out of my apartment one night, and I wasn’t someone’s best friend when they wanted to be mine. And shockingly, the world kept turning. Before study abroad, I had to ace every test, I had to be the perfect, reserved girl, and I had to be everyone’s best friend. I blame Barney. He really sets up unrealistic expectations for us all. That stupid flawless dinosaur.

          I will probably talk about my study abroad experience a lot in this blog, this was merely a preview. So buckle up and get ready to be bombarded by dorky, international pictures. 

In front of my favorite and the coolest monument ever. Heck yeah Eiffel Tower.

My middle name isn't cute

         This is probably the most random, irrelevant topic for a first post on a new blog, which means it's probably a great preview for how I actually am.

          I don’t have a cute middle name. I thought about this when trying to come up with a blog title. I had some clever domain names in mind, but my favorite are always the blogs that are first name, middle name. For example: carlyrenee, sarahnicole. Adorable, right? One of my absolute favorites is an old friend who named hers coloregrace. I think Grace is one of the cutest middle names.

          However, this formula would not work for me at all. My middle name is my mother’s middle name. It was the name of my grandpa’s mom. My mother doesn’t even like this name, she just did it for her dad. Plot twist: my grandpa forgot it was my middle name. He asked me what it was a few weeks ago. Thanks mom. Thanks for everything.

          So what is this middle name? Ugh, fine. If you must know…

          Corean. Not Corinne. Not Korean. Core-eene. Anyone who first sees it never pronounces it correctly and I don’t blame them. I tell people, they don’t understand. “Carina, you mean.” No, Corean.

          None of my clever ideas were really clicking. I’ve learned from experience that when I come up with a fun domain name, I hate it a few days later. So I settled with first name, last name. But hey, my last name has a water bottle and apparently a poor town in so England. So… winning?