Hey There Delilah...Here's to You

I don't know much about Meg Cabot's past other than she has published a butt-load of books, mostly for the tweenie boppers, and got rich and famous when Disney took her Princess Diaries series to the big screen. Now, the self-proclaimed high school "freak" and New York Times bestselling author walks around in a pageant crown.

Oi...(Insert cringe here.)

I've seen several pictures of Meg in her famous crown. In fact, I've seen TONS of pictures of Meg, and let me tell you, she is very petite in every single one. Look, normally I could care less about another woman's size. However, I had to get a look at her after reading her novel, Size 14 is Not Fat Either. I picked it up at the used bookstore because I was intrigued by the title and thought it would be the type of self-esteem boosting novel that would empower the average-sized woman to be confident in her own skin.

Wrong.

One chapter in, and I knew a lifelong skinny girl had written that book! Hellooooo, "fat" girl stereotypes abound!!!! I have to say, I doubt Meg was ever anything more than slightly pudgy in her entire life and that was probably a phase she went through during the 1980s when the cherubic round face was in. I'm not trying to rag on Meg and her inability to write from a size 12 heroine's perspective; I'm just pointing out how her characterization of her heroine Heather Wells sounds like it was written by a thin girl trying to understand the complex feelings of a woman who has spent most of her life struggling with her weight. Heather Wells is not authentic because Meg doesn't know what it's like to be her or any other woman who is not a size 2 or 4.

Red Flag #1: Meg never gives a physical description of her heroine Heather Wells, except to say she's a borderline size 14 and can't fit into her jeans. It's as if the only description we need is her double-digit clothing size. Can't girls with some meat on their bones be beautiful, Meg? Without any hesitation, I can name ten women I know who are drop-dead gorgeous, and all of them fit into a size 8 or above.

Red Flag #2: Heather Wells comes off as an unhappy, unsuccessful woman who finds her cream cheese and bacon bagel the highlight of her otherwise uneventful day. This chick spent the entire novel obsessing about food---eating it, wanting it and even smelling it. One minute, she's solving a crime involving a decapitated cheerleader, then suddenly, out of freakin' nowhere, she starts talking about food and mouth orgasms. What?!?!

Red Flag #3: Heather Wells never feels sexy or confident, and she definitely thinks she's fat. Such a bummer to have a heroine unhappy with herself and just settling from day to day. That's real motivational, Meg. Thanks.

Here's the thing. I don't think a size 12 or 14 is fat. Every woman looks different at different sizes. You could be perfectly healthy, happy and fit at a size 12. There's so much to consider...height, muscle mass, body type, genetics, CONFIDENCE...blah, blah, blah...the point is, size is just a number, baby! Believe it or not, women are meant to be a little meaty!

Clearly, Mrs. Cabot doesn't understand that or that ladies who are not blessed with size 2 bodies do not spend the entire day obsessing about food. Get a life, lady!

I can't even begin to describe to you how frustrated I was when I finished this novel and then saw the title of her third installment in the series...Big Boned.

Nice.

After that debacle, I was skeptical about my next read, The Perfectly True Tales of a Perfect Size 12 by Robin Gold. Expecting another hot mess of inaccurate stereotypes and underdeveloped heroines with no real pizazz, I was shocked to meet Delilah White, a striking, successful, witty, intelligent and confident size 12 heroine. Whoop! Whoop! Hallelujah!

This chick has spirit! She was totally confident in herself and truly loved her life and how her body looked. She enjoyed food but was not obsessed with it. She was active and adventurous yet feminine and sexy. She wore a bikini without apology or grimace and even skinny dipped with a hot, abtastic man.

You see, I just love that Robin Gold chose not to focus on Delilah's size and instead focused on how a woman who is not society's ideal is just as successful, desirable and perfect.

I was so excited, in fact, I broke out my trusty highlighter and marked some of my favorite awe-inspiring lines from the novel:

"Resembling a Botticelli beauty with voluptuous curves, Delilah White likes herself just the way she is: a perfect size 12." 

"Delilah looks at him deadpan. 'Alfred, I've got some booty goin' on. It's okay, I'm fine with it. The way I see it, a woman trying to hide her butt with a sweater is the same thing as a man trying to hide his bald spot with a toupee: neither one is fooling anybody. We all know what's hiding underneath!' She smiles affectionately, removing the sweater."

"I'm talking about being sick of being forced to abandon ideas I love and am passionate about---ideas that might not be cookie-cutter mainstream but are good and reflect who I am...Why should I struggle to fit a confined, suffocating mold that no longer suits me...I'm talking about wanting more."

Perhaps Meg Cabot should take a lesson from Robin Gold (who, by the way, is a perfect size 10ish and not a member of the super-exclusive New York Times bestsellers book club). Delilah White put Heather Wells to shame, and seriously, it would be nice to see more average-sized female heroines who actually make women feel positive and empowered about who they are just the way they are.

So, Mrs. Cabot, do you think you can manage to give Heather Wells a break in your next book? Or, do I have to take matters into my own hands and break into your New York City apartment, sidestep your one-eyed cat, kidnap your computer and breathe some life into Heather the Average Heroine?

Just sayin'.

To the Land of Bikini and Back

Whoa! It's been two weeks since I've posted here; is the world ending? Was I swallowed up by a giant sea squid or imprisoned for being way too brash? Better question: have you missed me and my weekly blabber gabber I send out to the Never-Neverlands of the cyber world?

My crazy, happy, beautiful brood.

Well, I missed you, and I want you to know I didn't abandon my post here. I've just been soaking up some rays at the Outer Banks, which was a much-needed respite from the daily grind. Change is always a good thing, particularly when the days are so stock-full of errands and appointments you forget when the week started and when it ended.

Don't think, though, I was there purely for fun and play. You see, I was in the trenches, my friends. I was getting down and dirty and sandy (and a little bit salty, I must say) on the very frontlines of a simmering battle between what should be and what is. I was a torch-bearing, ass-kickin' rebel leading the charge in the Bikini Revolution.

And, yes, yes, YES!, I donned my very first bikini in twelve years. Can I get a Whoop! Whoop!

Sadly, prior to my recent bikini phenomenon, I had only modeled a two-piece twice in my entire life. The first time really doesn't count as I was about three years old. The second time I was in college and on a very private beach with my younger brother, Mark, who I have to say was my champion that trip and made me feel like I could pull it off. I never thanked him for that, but looking back, I really appreciated his unwavering confidence in me because I certainly had not found mine yet.

Chillin' on the shore with my sexy man.

Fast forward roughly 12 years, and here I am, a 30-year-old mother of three with a size 8 body (still under toning construction, I might add) and the pouchy remnants of three c-sections and perhaps a few more dimpled parts than I'd had in college...and of course, my crowning glory, my boobs, which have endured three booby feeders, the third of which is still clinging on like a monkey high on ripe bananas. You do the math and figure how that equates to major, jaw-dropping droopage.

The point I'm making, though a little roughly, is I am not perfect and definitely not a poster girl for society's ideal bikini bod. Really, though, most women will never meet society's expectations of what we should look like, which is why it is so important for me to stand up for the average woman (Who is not a size 2, by the way! Didn't you ever notice the only sizes left on the racks are size 2 and extra small?)

Regardless of my bikini anxiety, I had committed to wearing a bikini this summer, and I was not backing out of my promise. The truth is I needed to overcome my fear of the two-piece in order to fully accept my body the way it is and to be comfortable in my own skin. And, I wanted to do more than run my mouth about how we as strong, independent women need to stand up to society and say "enough!" I needed to take some action. So what if I am only one woman and one bikini. Perhaps I influenced some other women on the beach last week to take the plunge, embrace their curves and flaunt some skin. I mean, come on, if I can do it, anyone can.

Look, I have four legs!
You know you love my meaty
drumsticks, right?

So, I packed in my suitcase two bikinis, and I added my leftover bikini from 12 years ago to my supply just for good measure. I packed no other swimwear other than a rash guard in case the kids wanted to ride on my back in the pool (Irish skin, man. I burn like a mother!). I gave myself no outs, no excuses and nowhere to run except the naked road. And, my husband had already put the brakes on that particular avenue. Such a prude, Rick. Such a prude.

I have to tell you, I was extremely self conscious the first day at the beach. No lie. I had a brief moment where I set foot on the sand in my new bikini, and I wanted to dig a hole and bury myself in it so deep no one could see the monstrosity underneath, and I planned to wait right there, snug in my little hole until Rick brought me a cover up. I swear I felt like every eyeball on the beach was trained on my not-so-perfect body, and every mouth attached to that eyeball was either laughing or cringing in a not-so-encouraging manner. I felt like the carnival freak show had come to town, and I was its opening act.

The money shot.
See...not the ideal, but damn it
was nice to feel free! 

Five seconds later...my little self-conscious girl moment had passed, and I no longer gave a shit. I raised my chin, walked out onto that beach and strutted my stuff in front of the entire Corolla population. Take THAT, society! And, the funny thing is, once I got passed those first few moments before I took the plunge into the land of bikini, I felt like a new woman...liberated and strong, confident and sexy, and I really just didn't care what anyone thought. I was comfortable; I was happy; I felt amazing; and in that moment of what the New York Times called the "come-to-Jesus" moment, I became the "good-attitude girl" and fell head over heels in love with my bikini.

For those of you snickering right now and thinking, good for you, Mary, but you won't catch me in a bikini this summer, here's the cold, hard truth.

My girl in her bitsy bikini.
Totally too big for her, but hey,
she's got time.

No one was looking at me. No one cared. I had entered the mecca of the bikini universe, and I was just one more semi-naked body in a sea of self-loving women.

Apparently, I am a little late to join ranks in the Bikini Revolution. It's been going on right under my nose, and I never sniffed it out. There were bikini babes of all shapes, sizes and ages running around the beach that week, and no one seemed to care what was hanging out or in some cases, not hanging out of their two piece. Grandmas, mommies, teens and even little girls rocked bikinis...on the beaches, at the pools, up and down the streets and even in the grocery store. It was like women's liberation had laid claim to the Outer Banks, and these women were going to do what they wanted to do whether or not they fit the ideal stereotype of the bikini bod.

Needless to say, I relished in it. I drank up the plethora of female confidence like a frosty margarita on a steaming hot day. It was refreshing. It was beautiful. It was heaven, and I took full advantage and cloud surfed this wave for the entire week and literally LIVED in my bikini.

So, there you have it. I followed through on my promise, and I overcame my fear of the dreaded bikini season. And, you know what, it wasn't so bad after all. I hope my little Emma appreciates what I did for her, and in the process, what I did for myself.

Rock on, ladies. The summer is just starting, and we have a looonnggg bikini season ahead of us. Saddle up, put on your big girl panties, and take the plunge into what may be uncharted waters for you...just make sure you've got that hot, sexy bikini on when you ride your first wave.
___________________

Got bikini on the brain? Read more articles about this topic on my Fresh Press page.

The Big Boob Debate

Boobs are like hair. Most women have some, but they are not necessarily content with what theirs looks like. The Julia Roberts of the world spend hundreds of dollars on flat irons and anti-frizz serums and hours upon hours trying to get their hair straight and shiny. While the Gwyneth Paltrows of the world have perm envy and secretly wish to be one of those free-spirited girls with hair flying wild in all directions. In the world of boobs, it's no different. D cuppers envy girls who can bounce around in spaghetti strap sundresses while B cuppers desperately yearn for Grand Canyon cleavage and tight tank tops.

Nope. Not mine. However...
with a good bra?

I inherited my mother's cup size...a perfect C, so I can't complain. I kind of see the C cup as a middle-of-the-road size, not too big and not too small. Perfectly manageable. Unfortunately, I did not inherit my mother's perfect-looking boobs. My left is bigger than my right. My nipples were flat until I breastfed so long they finally agreed to come out of hiding. And, sadly, National Geographic may one day offer the twins a cover shoot if they keep heading farther and farther south every winter. Don't know what Mom feeds hers, but apparently, mine are not coffee drinkers.

So, you see, not even a "perfect" C is perfectly content. We all want something a little bit more than what we have. Clearly, it's a losing battle women fight every day. And, it doesn't end at boobs and hair. That's just the beginning. We critique and over analyze and tear apart and put back together everything we are given no matter how perfect it may seem. We are our own worst enemies. We are, each and every one of us, a seasoned Vogue editor.

And, that is so very, very sad.

But what is the solution? How do women learn to accept what we are given and not yearn for something different?

My friend told me over the weekend she was thinking about getting breast implants at some point. I would wager she's a small B cup, but she's also a petite girl, and honestly, I couldn't imagine her with anything more than she has now. To me, she is perfect. Yet, you see, it really doesn't matter what she is to me. It only matters what she is to herself. No matter how many times I tell her she is beautiful; she will never believe it unless she starts to see it for herself. And, there is no magic mirror out there that can make us see ourselves in a better light. That particular magic is rather hard to come by, and it involves taking a most uncomfortable trip inside ourselves.

I know this to be true because I've taken that very trip, and trust me, it's not a weekend getaway. It's a trip to fat camp and back. It's like the worst roller coaster ride you've ever been on while totally hungover. However, it's a trip every woman has to take at some point in her life if she ever hopes to one day look in the mirror and feel sexy just the way she is. I used to look in the mirror and see nothing but what I needed to change about myself. Now, I look in the mirror, and for the most part, I see what I like about myself. And, if I don't like something I try to focus on the features I do like.

Now, don't think I've never thought about getting some help with the things I don't really like. I'm sure I would look a whole lot better with a set of new, perky boobs even if they are a bit plastic. However, I've had three c-sections and the thought of someone cutting into my body for the fourth time just does not appeal to me. And, seriously, I'm one of those freaks that would obsess about having some foreign material in my body, and I'd spend the next ten years waiting for a silicon spill. Not very conducive to a normal life, huh? I mean, I was the girl on the operating table who in the midst of an emergency c-section was less worried about the lack of anesthesia and more concerned with reminding the surgeons to count their gauze before stitching me back up.

However, for some girls, breast implants will allow them to look in the mirror and love what they see. And, who's to say this is a bad thing? I say, if you do it because you want it, then it's the right decision for you.

My husband met me when I was a C cup, and it wasn't until I had three kids over six years that he became the spoiled playmate of bountiful, post-baby breastfeeding boobs. I'm talking solid D cups here. Now that the baby factory has been shut down, my girls have returned to their pre-baby Cs, which I have sorely missed, let me tell you. My husband, however, is in D-withdrawal at the moment, and I think I hear about my shrinking bosom at least once per day, if not more. So, what would I do if one day he came to me and asked if I would consider breast implants?

I would say no.

I like my C cups, and I did not love my Ds. So, for me, breast implants would be the wrong decision because I would be doing it to please someone else, and that's just not cool.

But, for my friend a new pair of silicons may be the only way she will ever see how beautiful she really is. Sometimes you have to improve that one thing on your body that really bugs you before you can clearly see all the other beautiful features you've got going. Think of it as a prescription for clarity.

I just hope that before she takes the plunge and goes under the knife she takes that trip inward and really thinks about whether getting C cups will make her feel better about her body. Sometimes cuts run a little deeper than we originally thought. However, if she comes home and boobs are definitely the missing link, then I say do it. For you.

The Italian Code

Can I just say how much I love, love, LOVE Italian men? They are completely sexy in a dark, mysterious, I could drink you up all day long kind of way. They are romantic and strong with a high pain tolerance for opinionated, strong-willed women. They tend to be the type of men who could totally kick your ass, but they don't need to because they have way too much confidence to waste their time on you, which eliminates the whole obnoxious man-eating, ego-spitting, testosterone-dripping episode that usually shadows insecure men like a pop-up thunderstorm---totally unpredictable and comes at the most inopportune time. I can tell you with confidence they are exceptional at...ahem...many things, and most important, they adore women. Um...and let me make this distinction clear in case you missed it...they adore W-O-M-E-N. Real women. Not women trapped in a girl's body. Not women with fake this and fake that. Not cover girls who look like they missed one too many meals. They adore a woman with a little something to hold onto. They want a woman built the way a woman should be built...boobs, butt and more curve than a jacked-up highway after a few too many drinks.

Now, let me set the record straight here. I am not talking about the men you see on Real Housewives of New Jersey. I'm not talking about Planet Jersey at all (though I will give props to the Joes of the world who embrace their curvy wives with such gusto it can make even the toughest critic blush.) I'm talking about men like my husband who is a Californian and part Italian and clearly had a mom who raised him right. He has all the Italian traits I love without the the chauvinistic edge that, unfortunately, can ruin even the hottest of hot Italian sex gods. (Sorry, boys, but a confident, strong woman is not going to waste her time playing mommy to you all day long no matter how gorgeous you are.) In short, if I had made a wish list of all the traits my future husband should have, I would have been writing about him.

I could go on and on about the many things I love about my husband, but today I will focus on the trait I think most women will appreciate. He does not have an American perspective on women's bodies, yet he was born and raised in the very heart of plastic America. My husband is one of the few men I've come across who truly and unconditionally loves a woman with some meat. I'm talking boobs, hips and even that little pouch of fat on our lower abs we ladies would sell our left arm to never see again. He loves that. (For the record, I'm not in love with my baby pouch, but it's nice to know someone can appreciate the leftovers from three c-sections.)

And, perhaps this is the time to reveal my stats. Yep. I'm one of those women who did not win the genetically thin lottery. I have the type of Southern farm girl build that holds onto weight in all the right places just in case you want to breed some more farmhands or move some bales of hay before dinner. I have HIPS, not hips. I have what my husband lovingly refers to as drumstick legs, which would make me first pick for a survival expedition just in case the food ran out. However, they are not so conducive to everyday life that may involve things like...I don't know...shorts, skirts, high heels. The funny thing is he likes my strong legs, and although I have had a life-long struggle with my perception of said legs, I have kind of grown to appreciate their strength and in that way, their unique beauty. They are what they are, and I am proud to have a trait that sets me apart from the ideal. In the great words of Caroline Manzo, "I own it."

Look, my husband may have been raised to love women the way they are, but I was raised to hate the way I look. And, it's literally taken me YEARS to come to terms with what I've got. The truth is I'm not what most people would consider the ideal. I am strong and in shape and solid and healthy, and I have the curves of a woman. I'm just not capable of being a size 2. It's not in my genetic code. It is, however, in my code to maintain a healthy size 8. And, you know what, I can honestly say I am okay with that now. It's so strange how I have come to actually love the way I look. Sure, there are parts I'd like to tone up a little more, but overall, I like what I see in the mirror. That is HUGE for me. And, seriously, it has helped being with a man for 12 years who loves me and wants me just as I am with no revisions and no deletions.

So, part Italian or not. That makes him pretty perfect for me.