"My husband won't LET me..."

Seriously women, we live in 21st century America. Hearing grown women say things like "My husband won't let me" (etc.) makes me both incredibly sad and extremely furious.

Sad that people still have relationships like that. Furious that women allow themselves to have relationship like that.

I'm not some crazy feminist. Obviously, I stay home with my children. I'm pretty sure that is the greatest cardinal sin for ultra-feminists. But I do believe in the independent, strong woman.

J and I have very much a partnership. We are equals.

That means we don't ask "permission" to do things or buy things, etc. Sure, we may discuss things beforehand. Like big purchases or if we are making plans we confer with one another first. That's just mutual respect and a good relationship.

But there is no, "Well, I can't buy H this dress because J might get mad" or "I can't go out tonight because J won't allow me."

Not that I go out.

But that has nothing to do with J.

But I feel like I hear on a regular basis women saying things like, "Oh, I could never buy little Sara this dress I love because my husband would never allow me to spend $30 on a dress!" (And I'm not talking about people who just can't afford it, that's obviously a different story.)

Or, "I would love to go out with my friends, but my husband would never let me go out without him and leave him home to babysit the kids."

So many things wrong with that one. Husband not "letting" them go. Or using the word "babysit" with your spouse...um, it's not babysitting when it's your own kid.

I just couldn't imagine J ever telling me that I could or could not do something. That I could or could not buy something. Etc. It just seems so backwards and insane to me.

It just seems like such a blatant lack of respect to the person being controlled. I mean, they are being controlled. Obviously that is disrespectful.

Sometimes when I'm talking to women I seriously want to shake them when I hear them say such things.

Maybe because I don't get it. Maybe because I wouldn't tolerate that in my relationship. Maybe it works for other people. Maybe they enjoy it.

I don't know.

But I feel like we have come too far as women to let that be okay in any relationship.

The Purple Dress

I'm not really a sentimental person. I've said that before. Especially with clothes.

Well, I am to an extent with my babes. I have the first little hats ever put on their heads. Their first shoes. Their baptismal outfits. And a few sleepers that I just adored. And I will cherish those things forever.

But for myself - no. The only reason I still have my wedding dress hanging in a closet is because, before my first big purge, I read about a cool idea of using the fabric from it to make my daughter's confirmation dress. So I'm keeping it for that because I think it'd be kind of neat.

Otherwise, clothes, sentimental? No way, Jose.

Except.

Except, except, except.

There is always an exception right?

I have this purple dress. Every time I go through a purge, I always bypass it. I never even considered tossing it.

Until today.

I don't know what makes today different. Because the dress is still the same. The memories are still there. And yet, today I pulled that dress right out of the closet, looked at it, thought about the boy it was associated with, and finally said adieu.

Before your mind even goes there, I'm not hanging on to lost love or anything. It was something far more innocent than that. But I was still hanging onto it.

I went to a school where everyone knew everyone. It was one school, k-12, for the whole town. Good, bad, it was what it was. And the people were who they were.

Simply by default, you were friends with everyone. Some more than others, but nonetheless.

There was a boy. We'll call him C. He helped me with my math. A lot. He was going to be the next Bill Gates. He agreed to be my 1st husband so I could have half of his worth someday. This was a lifetime ago before I realized that people married for love, not for finances. A time before I even knew that there was such thing as love.

He was the first boy who ever told me I was beautiful, and not with the intent of gaining something more from me. He was the first boy who ever told me I was smart.

He asked me to the military ball, and I attended, shortly before I moved away during my freshman year of high school. I wore the purple dress. I loved the purple dress. And I loved that night. And I loved how genuinely good C treated me, for no reason other than he was a genuinely good person.

But I left just a few short weeks after that dance. We weren't close enough where we ever talked again.

And then at the beginning of my senior year I got a phone call from a friend that C had committed suicide.

For some reason, it hit hard. This boy who had become nothing more than a memory at that point of my life, was gone. Forever. And by his own hand.

I battled some pretty severe depression the months following that. A good chunk of my senior year I don't even really remember. It was like a foggy haze.

And all because a boy who had once told me I was smart and beautiful had chosen to end his own life.

So the dress stayed. I never paid it much attention, but I was never willing to get rid of it either.

I don't know why. I'm sure a therapist could have a field day psychoanalyzing this, for sure!

All I know is that today when I looked at that dress, I knew it was finally time to let it go.

So I am.

When the age gap is apparent

J is 17 years older than me. I pretty much never think about it to be honest. We're on the same level. It works.

Until tonight.

Tonight he asked what I wanted to do to bring in the New Year. Half jokingly...okay, I wasn't joking at all, I told him we should have a netflix marathon of Dawson's Creek. He looked at me like I was Ted Bundy. As if he truly had no idea who the woman he married is.

"No one wants to watch Dawson's Creek more than once. That isn't natural," he finally said.

"Well," I started. "I was like 10 when it started. So it'd technically be my first time. At least for the high school years."

Yeah, I'm pretty sure he had a coronary just then.

"50 Shades" is glorified abuse

When trying to explain my disgust with what seems to be the best-selling book this past year, 50 Shades of Grey, J was able to pinpoint my feelings exactly: It is glorified abuse.

To be honest, I had zero interest in reading the book anyway, so I’m sure I have some serious biasness against it. But a friend pressed it into my hands and begged me to, saying, “I bet you’ll love it. And if not, blog about it!” Well, here’s the blog…

The whole thing made me sick. I have no freaking idea how anyone can find this to be good literature, much less a turn-on.

Every time Mr. Grey gets annoyed with Ana her first instinctual response is, “Please don’t hit me.” Um…ABUSE. If that were my first comment anytime I annoyed J I think anyone would agree that it would not be a healthy relationship. Yet, apparently it’s romantic in this book.

Maybe I don’t get it because I have a healthy, happy sex life. J and I are still pretty much in the “honeymoon phase” in all aspects of our relationship, even after two kids: we still talk non-stop about anything and everything, we hold hands, we cuddle, we spend time together and are constantly around each other when we’re both home, we never really fight and of course, we still have sex. All the time. So I don’t need to read about someone else’s twisted and abusive sex life to get my fill.

And it’s not just sex. It’s abuse. I mean, he freaking spanks her. As punishment. Not as just part of some kinky sex. Dear Lord, I’d be frakking PISSED if Jaime spanked our kids, especially for rolling their eyes! I’d be saying sayonara! if he thought he’d do it to me. That’s sick and disgusting and wrong.

I don’t believe in causing anyone physical harm. Much less someone whom you have a genuine relationship with.

And the contract. Dear God, the contract. Yeah, yeah, she doesn’t sign it. But the fact that she doesn’t run for the hills as soon as she sees it (or sooner, when she sees the Red Room of Pain) is insane. I want to shake Ana. I want to tell her that she seemed like such a good, sensible girl for the whole first three pages of the book. What happened!?

And I don’t get S&M. So maybe that’s my problem with the whole book. I don’t find it sexy or alluring. I would never be okay with it. I don’t even think it’s sexy to fantasize about. So I don’t get it. Pain does NOT equal pleasure or love or whatever for me. A creepy man wanting to hurt me just doesn’t put me in the mood. Even if he is worth billions of dollars.

I won’t even get into the fact that this book is clearly a blatant rip-off of another sensational book (that’s also a rip-off of another book…), this one just doesn’t have vampires and includes some (not so) awesome sexual abuse. But whatever.

I’m sure I’m in the minority; since this book is everywhere you look. All over the media. In all of my much-loved friends’ hands. Plastered all over the shelves in the library and Barnes and Noble. Apparently there are groups springing up all over the nation of grown woman who get together and discuss this book and all that it entails in order to get their kicks and jollies.

I don’t get it.

At all.

To me, it’s glorified abuse.

And that’s just downright creepy that people find it okay.

But that’s just me.

Perceptions of beauty

My sweet little sister C and I have been talking a lot lately about how people perceive things drastically, especially across different cultures.

Needless to say, she's loving her anthropology classes. C is like a way better version of me I oftentimes feel. We share many of the same human rights passions (human trafficking, circumcision, etc). But she's probably more passionate. She is more active in actually making a difference in these areas. She's less cautious about stepping on toes. But she's also way more gentle and kind at the same time.

Anyway, our common interests makes her one of my favorite people to talk to, because even on the things we disagree on ( and we can be pretty brutal to each other!) I know she and I won't dwell on our differences or ever let them hinder our relationship. (Seriously, why can't everyone be like that - agree to disagree and realize that different beliefs does NOT mean someone thinks less of you???).

Anyway, we've been talking about the perception of beauty. Up until a mere 50 years ago or so a figure was the epitome of a beautiful body. Pretty much universally. But we've gotten very far away from that.

Whereas a woman with hips and that cute little round belly and supple breasts used to be gorgeous and attractive and a beautiful sign of fertility (which used to be a good thing) it is no more. At least not with the 21st century Anerican woman.

J says I'm perfect and beautiful and he loves my body. He said this when I was 20lbs heavier and yet to be pregnant. He said this when my belly was big and round full of baby. He said it when I felt puffy and saggy and was riddled with stretch marks and had a babe in arms. He's always said this, regardless of how I look physically (he claims this even first thing in the morning going on day 3 of no shower...).  I would say it is just because love is blind that he always tells me I'm beautiful, but J simply does not lie. So I know he truly believes it. He's not just saying this for my benefit.

Whereas on another hand certain members of my family have made it no secret that physically they do not view me as beautiful because, we'll, I have a figure and always will. (Which I'm okay with!). But then J's Hispanic mother is truly upset by how "skinny" I am. She tells J I must be sick. The babes are making me too thin. I'm not eating enough ( for those who know me, this isn't true. I'm a bottomless pit!).

To be honest, when she first started making a fuss about my weight I was a bit annoyed.

But I turned to C who was like, "yeah, isn't it crazy the perception of health and beauty between cultures!" And then I was like, "ha! Of course. Differences in cultures." Which is one reason I love C so damn much. Though she will definitely let me complain, and even complain with me, she's good at making me see things differently, sometimes how they legitimately are.

So now I kind if wish I lived somewhere where the cultural norm is to have a good layer of chub and some awesomely saggy boobs. Instead of one where we airbrush our cover models to make women and girls think that's normal and beautiful.

Ah, well. We don't get to choose our cultures. But we do get to choose our perception of beauty. And we get to choose how we teach our children perceptions of beauty.

And hopefully, my children learn first to see the beauty of ones brain and heart. Because, in my perception anyway, those are the most beautiful parts of any human being.