My name is Erin. And I have hips.

"Hi Erin."

Let's talk for a second about curves. In our current world, curves on the road in a fast fancy car commercial? Good. Curves on the girl driving (or, more likely, riding in) said fun fancy car commercial? Not so good.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the role body image plays, in my life and beyond. This is largely (no pun intended) on my mind because I, who used to be the stick-thin, long-legged, gangly girl am...well, no longer stick thin and gangly. I've grown up, in some sense of the phrase, and have recently had to accept that the body I inhabit has also grown up, changed, and perhaps doesn't WANT to fit into those jeans from college. That realization alone is enough to send you straight to the pint (of Ben and Jerry's, that is). However, recognizing this shift and dealing with this change is not what upset me. What really gets to me is that my first reaction to this whole situation was guilt. How could I let this happen to me? I'm going to have to *gasp* go up a size! How dare I allow my body to mature past the age of 18!

A look at art throughout the ages is often used as an illustration that heavier women were once the ideal shape in the Western world, and how bodily ideals change as a result of the current societal and cultural views. And to an extent, I agree. A part of me is convinced that the "ideal" body shape is dictated only by the shape for which current fashion designers create clothing (Can't find a blouse that fits? Your body must be the wrong shape). But don't you also have to take into account that artists from the Renaissance and beyond painted many different shapes of women, not to mention they all had patrons who dictated the image they were to create? Ideal, schmideal.

A recent article in the Salt Lake Tribune reported that neither the hourglass figure, nor any figure for that matter, are "ideal" as once was thought, stating that all body shapes have their trade-offs ("the human body is a compromise"). It goes on to remind people, "In the past, women were their bodies. Now it is about what we're doing in our lives and who we are as people." So yes, bigger hips may mean scientifically more fertile, which at one point in time may have been an "ideal" way for women to be. And maybe now, as an assertion of our independence from that mode of thinking, we somehow managed to create a culture that worships straightness, flatness.

My bottom line with all this? Beauty doesn't have to be (and SHOULDN'T be) curves or no curves or some magic ratio in the middle. Why is there so much importance placed on what size we are and not how healthy or happy we are? If we actually are the strong, independent and no-nonsense women we claim so loudly to be, why do we let the number on the tags of our clothes dictate how we feel and treat ourselves?

Columbia Haiku

The last steps to home:
A new place to rest my head
And old, true, close friends.




The everyday-ness of love in my life right now is a bit overwhelming, and definitely not something I've experienced in this capital city before. But as I prepare for a bit of reading this Tuesday night, I feel full. For the first time in a long time.

ps- I thought of writing an ode. But odes are lonnnng. Haikus are much better for my about-to-go-to-sleep, writing-on-a-whim style. 5-7-5 and done. Woot.

Will Travel For Hugs.

Let's all pack up and move this year
Slip the liars and disappear
Leave memories for auctioneers
And those just standing still
M.N.

There's something both comforting and tragic about having so many close friends living so very far away. On one hand, if I close my eyes and imagine these friends, it's as if the earth is pulsating with warm, gentle vibes just for me, with epicenters in San Francisco and Copenhagen; Brazil and Colorado; Amsterdam and London and Washington DC and even (on particular Wednesday evenings) WaKeeney, KS. I am a lucky and loved girl.

But when my eyes are wide open and I have a hard day, imagining these love-vibes is not a sufficient replacement for a deep strong hug. And even the magic of skype can't recreate a hearty laugh with an beautiful friend over a few cold beers under a warm starry sky (How's that for a lesson in prepositions?).

I crave physical connections. If I like you at all, on any level, chances are you have endured being hugged, patted, poked, squeezed, punched and generally touched by me. And when a separation happens and you leave or I leave and I'm unable to love/abuse you physically, I feel a little bit disconnected with not only you, but myself. Note to self: become better at phone conversations. And find new people in my geographic region to prod and jab.

It's so exciting to watch how everyone's path is being laid out before them, stone by stone. Or rather, to see which stepping stones we're all choosing. Jobs, marriages, families; it's all so adult of us. Yet most of the time I still feel like a pre-adolescent version of myself, watching from the outside, itching for my adult adventures to begin but secretly being happy that I have some more time to just be a kid.

"You can't fill up when you're holding your breath."*

For the handful of you who are kind enough to occasionally click over and see what's going on in my world, I apologize for the extreeeme lack of activity. You've begged, you've pleaded, you've even given me gifts to lure me back. And I'm sorry to say it, but this is not probably not exactly the return you had in mind.

Turns out that right now I'm focusing on a few very key things, the most prominent being a spiritual rut I've recently found myself in. When this happens, I read. A lot. Not necessarily books on faith, but I try to allow words to reach in and move SOMEthing inside me. I hate feeling stagnant, bored. And while I'm now attending church regularly, I'm going to different churches each time, searching for something...better? more comfortable? And trying to decide why the place where i worship seems to matter so much to the strength of my faith, and if that's a healthy balance. But it's not all about finding a church, it's also about redefining who I am and what I believe. Which some days feels pretty damn daunting. And maybe also a tiny bit more important than thinking of a clever blog topic.

During the other hours of my day I work. Work is going very well right now, thank you for asking, however I've recently been given a lot more responsibility and am having trouble reconciling my feeling of accomplishment with my constant worry that it's too much and I'll inevitably screw something up and ruin the foundation forever. And no, I'm not that important at all, but you already know that I exaggerate. But I really am adjusting to this whole concept of responsibility and trying not to be completely abysmal at it, which takes at least a little energy each day.

So, with all of this introspection and 9-5 gobbledy gook, I haven't had much time for this lovely little (lonely) blog. Or much time to clean my apartment. Both are pressing issues that I promise to remedy as soon as I possibly can. I assure you that the wittycreativeandlighthearted girl you seek will return here eventually. When she's not feeling so daggum grown up and little all at the same time.

*I'm convinced that Ann Lamott can read my soul. Seriously.

The Thaw.

Stepping outside into the afternoon sun, I literally feel the earth spinning toward spring.

The heavy winds prove that Mother Earth is as anxious as I am for an end to this dark, dreary season. She’s not losing any time hurtling us back into long days and balmy evenings, flirty skirts and exposed toes, impromptu picnics and freckled skin. My soul could use a heavy dose of sunshine and riding with the windows down.

A part of me worries that I will be never be able to adjust to the colder, wetter climate of my future dream city. But mostly I’m just ready to live in a place I’m not constantly trying to escape, which hasn’t happened since I drove west, away from my low city on the sparkling water.

In other news, I love February. The compactness of it all. Festivals and carnivals; bright purples and greens and pinks and reds which replace the gloomy bareness of January; long weekends with good friends and hot chili; oyster roasts and cold beer and cheering for big games. All of this crammed into the shortest, sweetest month, which this year has been granted a generous 29 days to allow time to complete our annual leap around the sun.

*scampers off to enjoy her well-earned weekend*

A Good Night.

I found a mountain coffee shop in the middle of the city.

Following crafty signs up creaky wooden steps, the smell of coffee and sound of guitars floats down from the warm shop. I am given a chipped mug and told the internet password is Revolution. I can tell the workers love telling people that. I find my way next to a cold window and set up my area across from a hippie family of four. The mother spends her time gazing at her beautiful girls and knitting...a scarf? a sweater? The father tirelessly draws with the girls, himself as genuinely amused as they are. He laughs loudly and often. I haven't seen a family this happy since the Italian mothers doted on their bambinos near the gray water.

As they get up to leave, the father begins to show fatigue. Yawning through his smile. What a blessing to see God's idea of family in such a real way.

It's a good night to be alone. It's a good night to not make conversation, with close friends or strangers. It's a good night to absorb and make myself another cup of coffee.