Chavah

My Leg Hair, Myself.

“You know, she doesn’t shave her legs…”

“Asa!”

“What? I just wanted him to know what he’s getting into…”

This conversation happened just after my first official date with the man who became my husband roughly 6 months later. Needless to say, I was mortified.

In a way, I still am. Why is the state of my leg hair of such critical importance?

Because it is. In American culture, female hair is a really big deal. Just stop, for one moment, and think about just how much money and time goes into managing, or removing hair from various parts of the female anatomy. Mind-boggling, isn’t it?

Leg hair, as it turns out, is a big deal to me. A really big deal. God put it on me. Why should I be expected to remove it? But then, those Barbies I played with as a child had long, slender, monochromatic limbs, free from messy little growths. They shone. They were beautiful.

I have long, slender legs. With a good tan, they used to look quite a bit like Barbie legs. Now that I’m in my thirties, I am beginning to notice irritating imperfections, like stretch marks and little purple spider veins.

Wait a minute. Why am I even LOOKING at my legs? Ugh.

Because we all do. I watched a children’s movie tonight with my family, and I was stunned by the number of shots of women’s LEGS, smooth, hairless, slender, toned legs, that were displayed. Did I mention that this was a CHILDREN’s movie? Oh, how effectively my offspring are being indoctrinated.

It makes me angry.

Asa was right. When I met my husband, I didn’t shave my legs. My relationship with hair removal has been on-again, off-again. Literally.

At the ripe old age of 12, I started begging for the “right” to shave my legs. It was the way things were, according to the fashion magazines I read, the puckered and plucked women I saw on TV, and the pretty, popular girls in school.

But there were always the women who didn’t. And they fascinated me. How could a woman walk around, especially in a bathing suit, as I saw some do, with clearly visible leg and armpit hair? Where did they get such confidence? Where did they get such a counter-cultural self-image? Were they dirty? Didn’t they notice “everyone” staring?

When I left my hometown, I generally stopped seeing “hairy” women. And, over the years, I noticed that, when I was least confident, I was most groomed. During my most abusive dating relationship, I found myself obsessively concerned with always presenting a perfectly groomed, nearly hairless physique. It gave me pause. My feelings toward my leg and body hair reflected my feelings toward myself. By the time Aaron and I began dating, I had laid down my razor, and promised myself a level of self-acceptance that I was, frankly, incapable of maintaining.

You see, I was raised on Barbie, and 17 magazine. (I begged for them.) I grew up listening to completely sexualizing music. I wanted to see myself as something amazing, but deep down, a picture of myself as a mere sex object reigned.

So, when it was time to get married, I got out the wax. If I wax my legs, I’m not shaving, right? After wax, I tried an old-school, metal coil epilator, those little sandpaper pads that abrade hair off of your body, sugaring, harsh chemicals that burned the hair off, and more. I guess I was pretty worried about not being “enough.” You see, my husband was raised on those same images of femininity, the ones that demand a perfectly sculpted figure, smooth, flawless skin, and dear god, don’t grow hair anywhere but the top of your head, and your eyelashes. For those, absurdly long and thick would be best.

So, for the last 14 years or so, I’ve shaved, waxed, and plucked my way through life. My irritation with the entire concept of hair removal regularly rears its head, and my husband is stuck trying to snuggle up to a very prickly woman, as I let the shaving of my legs slip, again and again.

Recently, my family and I moved back to my hometown. And I am seeing hairy women, again. I see women with leg hair. I see women with armpit hair. I see women who are aging gracefully, with long, thick braids of hair, in their natural colors, shot through with white. I see fit, shapely, happy women, who are unashamed of the way their body was designed to behave.

I stare at them.

I stare at their legs, and try to decide if they’re beautiful, or horrifying. I stare at their armpits, and wonder, if I let mine go, how much would my own armpit hair show? And, would I get terrible body odor?

I stare at these women, and pray they don’t notice. I watch them with a fascination that might make some doubt my sexual orientation.

I don’t want to have sex with these women. I want to be one of them. But I’m afraid of the stares, probably of women like me. Women who are envious. Women whose addiction to a razor feels like a compromise of their true selves. Why should I have to spend hours a week removing the hair God put on my body?

And, what if I stop?

Age is Not My Enemy Anymore

You have no idea what you have done for me. Your face is still lingering in my memory.

Regal, undeniably sexy, attractive even to me, you sat at my table. Your smile was knowing, your eyes had seen much. I wanted to sit at your feet, and soak up your wisdom.

Your shoulders were held back; your head was held high. You owned the room. Your clothing was subdued, yet spoke of quality, not fads. Your hair was softly curled around your smiling face. You had nothing left to prove.

All around us, young, vibrant girls of 19, and 25, perhaps, buzzed. Their clothing was the latest fashion. Their makeup was flawless. Their figures were without a roll or stretchmark. They looked one another up, then down, comparing. They fretted, smoothed, adjusted to hide each flaw.

And you smiled at me, knowing.

We were something beyond these children.

And your smile at me was an honor.

And you changed me.

You dear woman. I love you. I wish sincerely that I had asked you for your name, for your number. But perhaps I am wrong. You have done your work, here.

And you are not alone. You are joined by others, your fellow sages, who appear to me, silently, confidently, displaying the grace that comes with age and experience. I will never look back. Like you, I will age well, like a fine, red wine. My boldness transformed to richness and complexity.

Like Sophia Loren, and other gracefully aging beauties, you have given me a reason to look forward, not back. I cannot ever be those children, again. But someday, I hope to be one of you. I am eager for that day. The day that I, like you, become regal.

To Avoid Pain, Embrace it Now

Getting by is NOT enough. Survival is not the goal. We were not made for comfort.

Physically, your body is either getting stronger, or weaker. Every day, you get up and make a choice between degeneration and rejuvenation. What’s it going to be? The comfortable path, the couch, the inactivity, will lead to one place: PAIN. Inescapable, inevitable pain.

Pain is the only means of avoiding this pain. Doing the uncomfortable thing, day after day, is the path to strength. Use it or lose it, as they say.

I’m not just talking about physical exercise, here.

Oftentimes, I see a cultural envy of happy and successful people. I see an overwhelming assumption that people living blessed lives have somehow found their “beauty” by chance. That’s not how it works.

Achieving greatness in ANY arena means rejecting “good enough.” Embracing an adventure means leaving safety behind. Claiming strength means giving up comfort. Reaching the summit of a mountain takes climbing, getting hurt, growing blisters. It means pushing past the comfortable, and forcing yourself to be more than you were yesterday.

To get what you really, truly want, you have to give up what you have right now.

To live somewhere better, you have to leave your old home behind. And you have to trust in God, and/or the Universe that, when you get where you’re going, it will be worth it. You can’t sky-dive with one foot still on the plane.

Who are you, really? Can you let him or her thrive? Can you force yourself out of your self-imposed prison? No one else has the power to keep you inside. If you are trapped by expectations and circumstances, you are the only person with the ability to change them. No one else can do this for you. And yes, you might have a fight on your hands.

Because when you grow, when you change, you begin to challenge others. It’s supposed to be that way. Now, I don’t mean that you should beat people over the head with your new revelations, projects, and beliefs. I mean that, when you show up in a room full of people wearing dependable, serviceable blue, and you’re wearing red, or blinding white, it’s going to draw attention. Don’t be afraid of the attention. Usually, the audience just wants to understand. Every one of us wants more than we have, more than we were yesterday, because we’re wired that way.

I never cease to be amazed by how many “fighters” and potential “fighters” are out there. Again and again, I share my vision, my goals, what makes me tick, and I hear stories of other peoples’ dreams. People “get” me. Often, it’s the people I least expect. My dears, you, and your dreams encourage me. Thank you.

The saddest conversations, to me, are the ones about the “Good Old Days.” I have no such days, because I am always reaching for something better, becoming something more. I don’t look back with longing. There’s a reason we aren’t born with a spare set of eyes on the back of our heads. We were designed to move forward.

When you refuse to grow, when you refuse to share, you rob the world of something that was sent here as a blessing. You, truly free, truly manifesting all that you can be, are here to change the world. Staying in your comfort zone is theft. You are robbing the world of the wonder of you.

To quote on of my favorite songs, the profound “Willing to Fight,” by Ani DiFranco:
“…’cause I know the biggest crime
is just to throw up your hands
say
this has nothing to do with me
I just want to live as comfortably
as I can..”

Where are you called to go, today? Who are you longing to be? What blessings hide within you, waiting to benefit the world? Are you willing to fight for them? How hard are you willing to work? What will you risk, or even leave behind to get there, to become that?

I’m building an army. And yes, boot camp is part of the plan.

To quote Ani one more time:
“…you’ve got your whole life to do something
and that’s not very long
so why don’t you give me a call
when you’re willing to fight
for what you think is real
for what you think is right…”

Give me a call, write me a comment. For what are YOU willing to fight?

Forgiving myself…

I am strong. Some days, my own strength frightens me. I’m afraid that my ambition, my enthusiasm, and my charisma will carry me away, like a bouquet of helium balloons gone terribly wrong. In my strength, I find myself tempted to despise the weak shell that I used to be. Who was that woman, anyway? Who lives with that many excuses? I did, apparently. Or, did I, really?

Yesterday, I woke up glutened. For those of you who do not have celiac disease or gluten intolerance, this word will appear to you as it does to my spell-check. “Huh?” Those of you who share my struggle are, by contrast, nodding in sympathy. After weeks of energetically zipping about with a big grin on my face, I suddenly found myself weepy, anxious, sleepy, nauseated, overstimulated, and in a whole lot of pain.

I was knocked down, but not out. And for the first time that I can remember, I didn’t hate myself for being weak. At first, I was confused and a bit frightened. “What’s wrong with me?” Eventually I figured it out. I loved myself, and forgave myself. I found ways to cope. I put away my superhero cape, and turned on some cartoons for the kids.

I am grateful for yesterday. Now, don’t get me wrong. I won’t be eating a doughnut anytime soon. Gluten is still my kryptonite. BUT, every time I get “glutened,” I forgive the woman I used to be a bit more. I understand her better. I apologize for all if the time I wasted in self-loathing. I smile at myself in the mirror, and say, “You’re gonna be just fine.” I thank God that I am now, generally, well.

In case you are wondering, experts estimate that 3% of our population has Celiac Disease. Of them, 95% are currently undiagnosed, or worse yet, misdiagnosed. Personally, I used to get called a hypochondriac. Here’s a site where you can learn more abut celiac disease, and take a test to determine if you might be affected by it.

Constantly Comparing, Missing the Obvious

For men, Life is a Locker Room.

Are you a Show-er, or a Grow-er?

Think about it.

I’ll show ya LOVE! (This might hurt a little.)

Someone hurts you. What do you do? Someone cheats you. What do you do? Someone slanders you. What do you do?

Rolling over and playing dead is not the answer.

Standing up for yourself, and standing against abuse, whether physical, verbal, financial or emotional, is not a selfish act. Refusing to sit down, shut up, and go with the flow is not prideful. It is LOVE. Courage is love. Loving yourself spreads love.

When other people try to hurt us, in whatever fashion they choose, they are feeding an evil within themselves. Every strike hurts them more than it hurts us. When other people try to bully us into conforming, they are restricting themselves even more. The only way that abusive or hurtful people will ever be free is if someone says, “No more.”

Now, before you go quoting Jesus at me, let me explain. I am not advocating a “He hurt me and now he’s gonna suffer” mindset. “Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord, I will repay.” I am not going to stand between an All-Powerful God and His right to seek vengeance on my behalf. I’m not stupid. You shouldn’t either. Revenge is a murderous mistress. You don’t want to sleep in her bed. She will make you the evil you hope to combat.

But I see, over and over, Godly people allowing themselves to be wounded and cheated, because they are trying to “turn the other cheek.” Meanwhile, their abusers sink further and further into depravity. And other people suffer at their hands, as well. Because God’s people refuse to stand against evil, evil triumphs all too often.

No MORE!

If you’re allowing yourself to be a punching bag, stop it! Do you really think that your abuser is benefitting from your inaction? Is he or she becoming a happier, more whole person through hurting you? Is he or she learning to love and laugh and achieve true joy by bullying and slandering you? I think not.

For my part, I will no longer perpetuate evil by refusing to stand up for myself. No way. I will warn abusers (Oftentimes, they don’t even realize what they’re doing.), and then I will close the door, if I must, on hurtful people. If losing me is pain enough to drive them to repentance, then praise God. If a business cheats me, I will give them the opportunity to make it right, then I’ll warn people far and wide to avoid them if they don’t. If I am attacked by a man, he’ll never hurt another woman again, guaranteed.

The thought of allowing one more person caught in abusive behavioral patterns to continue in their depravity, without my doing whatever I can to put an end to their insanity, is abhorrent to me. I’m looking forward, to the next woman they meet, and I’m asking myself, “What’s my responsibility to HER?” It is great, indeed.

Why I have so MUCH ENERGY!

I am regularly asked, these days, “where do you get so much energy?” I tend to make a lighthearted quip, or provide a short, conversation-deflecting answer to this question, in general. I don’t want to be that boring lady that made you listen to my life story because you asked a simple question.

Nevertheless, I feel that an answer is appropriate. I want to give a real answer, one that responds to the longing within the people who ask. We all want more energy. (No, this is not the part where I sell you the latest energy product. They are generally counter-productive.) This is my answer to all of you who wonder how I “do it,” day in and day out.

I have a chronic illness. All of my life, I have suffered with mild to severe decreased energy, depression, nausea, headaches, confusion, abdominal pain, and more. I have lacked coordination, and been physically weak. My illness grew in strength throughout my life, rendering me helpless, at times, to do anything but sit in a chair and hate myself, thinking that I simply had an overly-developed case of laziness.

Finally, a few months after the birth of my sixth child, I had a simple, outpatient surgery to repair a small, umbilical hernia (caused by my short-waisted self overworking my body while hugely pregnant.). I didn’t get better. My surgery was the beginning of what I began to see as the end, potentially. I had many days that I couldn’t get out of bed. I had fainting spells, and my already compromised balance abandoned me completely.

I thought I was slowly dying. I was afraid to be left alone with my children.

Finally, Aaron (my husband) picked up a copy of The Maker’s Diet, by Jordan Rubin, at Goodwill for $.70. In it, Mr. Rubin claimed that he could teach me to eat according to God’s design for my body, and that if I followed his diet for 40 days, it would change my life. I had nothing to lose, except a few hundred dollars’ worth of vitamins and supplements.

After 4 days, I no longer felt that I was dying. Suddenly, I had hope, and knew that, somehow, food was the key to whatever was happening to me. After 2 weeks, I felt worse. At the end of the six weeks, I felt terrible, but it was cyclical, and I was trying to pin down the culprit.

I decided that carbs were the problem, but potatoes didn’t bother me. Finally, one Friday afternoon, I had my breakthrough.

You see, I was a whole-foods eating health nut, and I was kneading my homemade, whole wheat (that I ground in my own stone mill) sourdough Challah for Sabbath. It had farm-fresh milk, eggs and butter in it. Beautiful. And deadly.

I wasn’t planning to eat the bread, but even the process of making it seemed to be affecting me adversely. I called my doctor and dear friend, Virginia Frazer (http://blueheron.highlandmidwife.com/) at her office. She answered the phone, herself. “Ginger, if I seem to have some kind of problem with carbs, can just kneading bread make me sick. I’m getting this headache…”

“AmberDawn, you’re Celiac*. Get rid of all gluten from your house and diet.”

I got started immediately, and we confirmed the diagnosis with blood testing. We discovered myriad secondary allergens, the result of living on my own personal poison all of my life. I ruthlessly cut every one out. I hired someone to come and clean out my cupboards, because the gluten-removal process was making me too sick and weak to actually complete it. I practically became a hermit, because neither I, nor others knew how to protect me outside of my house.

I obsessively protected my seemingly INCREASINGLY fragile health. Cutting gluten out of my diet seemed to make me MORE sensitive. The first 9 months were not easy, and to this day, there are people who believe, and gossip to others, saying that I faked it all, as a way to lose weight. (I certainly did lose. At first, when the inflammation in my intestines was going down, I lost up to 4 lbs a WEEK.) Relationships suffered under my refusal to eat food that might knock me down and out for a week. I wouldn’t compromise to be polite. I just couldn’t. My children turned out to have sensitivities, as well, and were fed allergens, anyway. “It was only a little bit…” Ugh. Could you keep them until they recover, please? Or, maybe not…

Most people, most of the time, have been amazing. The acceptance and understanding I’ve received have blown me away. The last 6 months of my life, I have rarely been “glutened.” I have eaten amazing foods, created by friends and businesses who take the time to understand proper safety precautions and prepare gluten free treats.
Best of all, my body and my mind are strong. Finding a whole new way of eating, without most grains, eggs, dairy, garlic, beef, some kinds of beans, nuts, and more, has given me the opportunity to live on life and energy building foods. If I’m cutting out all of my previous favorites, anyway, I might as well learn to love the good stuff, right?

So, no, I can’t join you for pizza. But I can climb a mountain, swim laps, have a dance party with my kids, and start a business on the side. I can’t have ice cream, but wine and chocolate are my friends. I am not deprived. I am ALIVE! I tell people who ask why I’m so happy that I spent the first 32+ years of my life depressed, and I have at least that many years of ecstatic joy coming to me.

*It is estimated that 3% of the American population has Celiac Disease. Only 5% of them have been diagnosed. That’s a whole lot of people who are always sick, and don’t know why.

Our Next Sexual Revolution

I want to create an army of sexually confident women.
I have already gotten started.
I cannot be stopped.

One woman at a time, I will encourage, entertain and educate. I will scream, if necessary, over the voices of a culture that tells her that she’s too round, to flat, too wrinkled, too droopy, too frigid, too thin, too hairy, too stiff, too clueless to be a sex goddess.

We are the daughters of Chavah. We are the vessels of LIFE.

It’s time we started seeing ourselves clearly.

I’ve been seeking an outlet for this need for years. I’ve told my husband, “When I grow up, I want to be a sex therapist.” I have listened, counseled and encouraged any woman bold enough to share with me her concerns and experiences. Yes, I have been the “pervy friend” that can be called when sex goes terribly, terribly wrong. Or, for that matter, when it goes deliciously right.

I want to be more than that. I want to know that I know that I KNOW that the advice I offer is good, and right.

And, for the good of myself, my marriage and my family, I recently found myself in need of a part-time, evening and weekend job. But said family comes first, and the idea of bowing to a restaurant or bar staff schedule seemed frustrating. I like control. So, my husband suggested a home-based business.

I had sworn off of those years ago. But the TYPE of business he suggested intrigued me, because I realized that it was a step toward living my dream. I COULD change womens’ lives. Lots of women. Starting now.

So, I jumped online and researched every romance product home party plan company in existence. There are a LOT. And most of them scarred me. I’ll never be the same, but that might be a good thing. I found just one company that spoke to me. Pure Romance focuses on womens’ health and sexual education, and my “ICKY” alarm remained silent in the face of their subdued, classy style. They partner with a graduate school to provide incredible training to their consultants. I would truly be able to help women.

I signed up, bought lots of lotions, lubricants and accessories, and got started. My business launch weekend is behind me, and the future is looking great.

My guests said, “You were born for this.” and “I know I feel better about myself in general after your party last night.” They told me that they had learned important things about their bodies, that they hadn’t understood, before. Without fail, they said that their husbands liked what they brought home. I cried. It was snotty, and somehow beautiful.

And what’s my husband’s take on it? He thinks that the men will be grateful, too. “Unless he’s the ultimate sexual explorer, he’s not going to know what she likes. Sexual self knowledge shouldn’t be treated like pirate’s treasure she’s hiding. For men, having a partner who understands her own body just might just give him permission to move beyond the, ‘uh, uh, uh, UH.’ It will challenge him to be more.”

When I mentioned the fear of offending their partners that some women display, he advised their men to buck up and deal, “If you’re afraid that a toy will be a better lover than you are, then maybe it’s time to become a better lover.”

Yes!

So, I’m going to educate women about their bodies, help them to be safe, and to become the sex goddesses they were intended to be. They will go home and teach their men to become better lovers. I see no downside, here.

I do house calls. Parties, to be exact. Adult women only.

I am coming to a house near you, and my car will fly, if necessary. Because you see, like the Blues Brothers, I “AM ON A MISSION FROM GOD.”

PS—you can check out my new business website at: http://amberdawnmccall.pureromance.com

An Open Letter to My Children

Dear Ones:

Thank you for giving me life. I know that the world says that I gave life to you, but it’s wrong. You gave me life, abundant and full. I am honored to know each one of you. You are each unique and wonderful to me.

As I move into a new stage of my life, where I expand my personal horizons beyond my role as wife and mother, I want to assure you of my complete love and acceptance of each one of you. I am grateful to be your mother; I am proud of you, and I want you to be proud of me.

I have several things for which I want to thank you.

1.Thank you for showing up, and changing my entire vision for my life. My plans were so one-dimensional, and you have made my life rich, and full. I will honor this gift by not allowing my role as mother to become my new, one-dimensional vision. I will not hover, or smother. I am here for you, but I will not make you the center of my world. To do so would put pressure upon you that you cannot and should not have to handle. You are your own persons, not an extension of my ego, or a substitute for the life I “could have” lived, if only you hadn’t been born. So, along with your father, I will model a “looking outward and forward” way of being in the world, and show you by example how to make a difference. I will not teach you, by my focus upon you, that you are the center of said world.

2.Thank you for the stress that bearing each one of you put upon my body. Without that stress, I quite possibly would have spent my whole life wondering why I was so often sick, and weak, without ever reaching the point of crisis that forced me to seek answers and treatment. I am stronger now than I ever imagined being, and you have been part of making me this way.

3.Thank you for challenging me, and making me a wiser woman. Thank you for asking, “why?” and “Why, not?” Thank you for your unending curiosity, and for forcing me to look beyond the surface, and question my own assumptions, so that I can answer your questions.

4.Thank you for giving me something bigger to measure myself by than the world’s opinions.

5.Thank you for the security of knowing that, for the first time since I was 6 years old, I have people in this world who have the same blood running through their veins that I do. Thank you for the excitement of seeing my eyes, my smile shining back at me from your beautiful faces. You have made me feel beautiful.

6.Thank you for healing my relationship with my body. You have made me the vessel of life, and my curves are now my friends. I am proud of them.

I am eager to move forward, both within and beyond my relationships with each one of you. The 11 years I have invested in being exclusively your mother have been the best of my life. I expect the coming years to become better and better.

I am becoming all that I was created to be. I encourage you to do the same. I know that your Creator’s plans for you are beyond what I can anticipate or completely understand. I will not try to limit you to my own ideas of God’s will for you. I want you to soar so high, so free, that I could never hope to net you. I want to be able to brag, “That man/woman started life as my child! I had no idea they could become (…)!” I want you to find my name worth “dropping” as well.

Thank you for the honor of being your mother. I hope to do you proud.
AD

A Wee Bit of Sex-Ed

And G-d made sex, and it was good.
Really good. Excuse me.
…
…
…
…
Yup, still good. Better and better, in fact.
Huh? Sorry.

So, here’s the deal. I’ve been happily married for over 12 years. I have six, beautiful, incredible children. They arrived as a direct result of sex. Lots of it. And it was fun. And messy, and awkward, and mind-blowing, and funny, and heart-wrenching. Just like marriage. Because that’s what sex is. It’s a becoming. It’s a joining of two halves of one Being. And it is GOOD.

Forget what they told you in Church. Sex is not dirty. Sex is not shameful. Anyone who tells you differently is trying to rob you. Sex, however, IS DANGEROUS! (Does anyone else feel like that makes it more exciting?) Sex is not to be handed out like candy at a parade.* For better or for worse, sex changes us. It changes the dynamic between two people. It changes the people, themselves.

And I’m all about change, when it means growth. Sex, rightly done, with commitment, good humor, and a bit of adventure, can make you a happier, healthier person. And, as an added bonus, you could join me in the ranks of people who will, someday soon, have a house FULL of teenagers. Awesome.

“What about the rules?”
“Do good girls…?”

Last time I looked, there were no rules, save one: Do no harm. Beyond that, have fun, LOVE, learn, and grow, together. Leave your demure self outside the bedroom, and COMMUNICATE! Sex can’t be incredible if your partner is guessing what you like. He’ll never get it right if you fake pleasure. Send mixed signals, and you can’t grow.

Talk, laugh, learn, and PLAY! God made Sex. It is GOOD. Sex is a gift, and, at its apex, it is an act of worship, a celebration that we were made flesh. Have fun!

Remember, dear readers: Practice Makes Perfect!

*No one wants an STD/STI. Be SAFE. Try out abstinence, and monogamy. Abstinence is guaranteed, Monogamy is a close second. Condoms are a distant third: because they have been known to break, and they can’t protect you from everything.