Having said that, there are things that people pin that I have no tolerance for. Some of it just makes me roll my eyes, like all of the photos of shirtless male celebrities. It’s like middle school all over again. Some of it is just so stinking sappy that I can’t stand it. Some of it makes my inner feminist want to rampage through the digital streets of the site like She-Hulk. But the worst, the absolute most infuriating to me, is all of the things women pin as workout encouragement.

These pins all feature a ridiculously skinny, toned woman, usually wearing very little, in some exercise pose (like with weights, or running, or sometimes just flexing), and they say things that range in unhealthiness from (essentially), “Working out all the time may be hard, but it will be totally worth the look on HIS face when he sees you like this,” to “If you aren’t puking, passed out or dead, keep going.” Don’t even get me started on how disgusting it is to me that a woman’s primary motivation for exercise involves attaining an unrealistic ideal in order to impress a man (keeping She-Hulk at bay here). Really. That’s all I’m even going to say about that. And the other one smacks of a serious disorder; does anyone actually think it’s a good idea to work out until you’re either a) puking [I've done that, for the record, and it's NOT cool], b) passed out, or c) dead? Stopping before you reach any of those stages is not weak, it’s healthy.

In this sense, Pinterest provides more and more evidence of how diseased our culture is when it comes to body image. Why do we feel the need to pin photos of women who probably work out as much as an Olympic athlete? Most of us are never going to even approximate that level of muscle tone, no matter how often we hit the gym. So why do we “encourage” ourselves with images that we can’t live up to?

In backlash against these photos, a number of pins–most of which involve Marilyn Monroe–advocate that curvy is sexier than skinny. And while I appreciate the sentiment of these, they’re not really any better. Because it turns out that most of us aren’t going to achieve Marilyn’s lovely hour-glass figure either. Women with my body type, for example, don’t do curvy regardless of weight. When you’ve got straight hips, you’ve just got straight hips. Moreover, while the Marilyn-model leaves room for a slightly bigger waistline than current standards, we’re still dealing with an image of probably the most famous sex symbol in American history. Marilyn’s career was predicated entirely on her sex appeal. Her value–both on the screen and off–was determined by her ability to hold the male-gaze. Her life and legacy are reducible to one thing: her body. No one remembers her for her talent or her intellect, for the way she treated others or the causes she championed. Only her body. She is an object only. Is that really a model we want to hold up for ourselves?

I don’t know if any of you other pinners have experienced this, but all of these pins have forced my own body issues more prominently into my mind. Another thing that gets pinned a lot (that bothers me less) is workouts and specific exercises that target various parts of the body. And what I’ve noticed lately is that I see those and catch myself thinking, “Inner thigh exercises? I should do that”; “Toned abs in three weeks? Yeah.” Of course, what’s really happening in the back of my mind is a slideshow of those super-toned women and a vague idea myself with those abs, those thighs, those arms. But I’ve found myself unwilling to repin any of those exercises. Why? Do I think my Pinterest followers would judge me? Nope. But I’ve realized that those kind of pins would represent me as someone I don’t want to be. It’s not that I don’t want to have a slender, toned body. Because, let’s face it–we all do.

But I don’t want to be someone who’s obsessed with my body. I don’t want to buy into our culture’s obsession with physical perfection. Most of all, I don’t want to be someone who punishes my body for not being perfect. Because for some of those exercises, punishment is all I see. I don’t want to run no matter what, or do exercises that hurt. I don’t want to force myself to do things that aren’t fun or in any real way useful simply so that I can look a certain way. And I really, really don’t want to think of any part of my body as a “problem area” that needs to be worked on. Instead, I want to do exercises that make me feel good and happy, that keep me healthy, that are fun, and that allow me to remember how grateful I am for my healthy, functioning body.

2. On a related note, I have finally come to terms with the fact that I am not qualified to evaluate my own writing. Some of you might remember a fair bit of drama surrounding a paper that I believed to be the worst paper I had ever written. Now, in my defense, girls are entitled to be a bit of a drama queen every now and then, right? And really, of all the Facebook and blog drama you may wade through on any given day, drama over a presumed, acceptable grade on a paper has got to be at least a nice break and at best kind of amusing. Am I right? I know I’m right. Also, it was healthy for me to go through the process of accepting the grade I thought I earned (even though it turned out to be unnecessary). Moving on. Suffice it to say, I made a much higher grade on that paper than I expected, with lots of positive feedback. And I felt two things immediately and simultaneously when I saw the grade: delight (obviously) and sheepish embarrassment. Oh, Shanna. Shanna, Shanna, Shanna. All of that anxiety and DRAMA. And it was public this time [that's right---I said this time]. So I resolved then and there never to make assumptions about grades or the quality of my work again.

3. Okay, working on PhD applications is hard. Not so much the fill-in-the-blank part, which is tedious beyond belief, but the written documents are just the worst form of torture. Seriously. I feel like I should be protected by hazing laws. Or the Geneva Convention. I have rights! Also, 98% of all schools (I just made that statistic up) have the most inconvenient deadlines imaginable. Also, asking for letters of recommendation stressed my inner shy kid nearly to the point of panic attacks. And researching and deciding which schools to apply to is pretty much like trying to read tarot cards. This semester I studied for and took BOTH the general GRE and the Subject in English GRE—hopefully for the last time ever. I wrote approximately seven million drafts of a personal statement. I waded through three days on one revision project for my writing sample before I realized it wasn’t the best thing for me to use. And then I jumped into my second writing sample. But I made my deadlines.

4. And on top of all that, I researched and wrote four papers, conferenced individually with my 15 students 8 times during the semester, stayed [mostly] caught up on my grading, read about 500 pages each week, did four in-class presentations, built and taught a new syllabus, met with my teaching mentor group every other week, ate reasonably healthy food, took regular showers, walked my dog, showed up on time, went to church, enjoyed visits from my parents in October and my brother in November, spent time with friends, and slept an average of 7 or 7 1/2 hours a night [which isn't much for this 9-hours-preferred kind of girl].

I learned from all of this that I can do more than I think I can. Rigid self-discipline is hard, but totally worth it. Paper planners that allow you to write and then ruthlessly scratch out items from your to-do list can help preserve sanity. It doesn’t take as much time as it seems to keep the dish-washing chores maintained, but it takes more time than it should to clean up when all available counter space is covered in dirty dishes. Planning to have one night a week [Wednesday was my night] to be completely self-indulgent [by which I mean eat pizza and watch episodes of Chuck on DVD] is a sanity saver. Leaning on friends and comiserating with friends in the same situation make it a little better.

5. I can read contemporary grown-up fiction and like it. It’s just been a really long time since I’ve read novels written in the last 20 years not aimed at children. And, typically, the young adult stuff I read is fantasy or sci-fi. But I took a contemporary Irish fiction class and read a whole bunch of novels written since 1990, all completely devoid of magic, imagined tech, mythical creatures/deities, and futuristic settings. I didn’t like them all, which is to be expected. But I really liked some of them (found a few new favorites), and more importantly, I enjoyed the reading. So I guess this means I might just break out of my genre-box for future pleasure reading.

6. I love BC, I love my professors, I love Boston, and I like my whole house. I’ve really enjoyed my time up here. I’ve learned and grown and stretched, and I’m a better, stronger, more compassionate person now. It’s been a great adventure. And if I stay here for my PhD, I’ll be pleased as punch. But, in an unsurprising turn of events, Texas keeps tugging at the corners of my heart. I miss flat lands and starry skies, horse hugs and baby birthdays, family, friends, warmth, Tex-Mex, beef barbecue, and all of the other little things that make Texas My Favorite Place. People have asked me if I think I’ll stay up here in, and my answer is unreservedly “no.” Not forever. Because for me, Texas is home in a way that doesn’t change. My sense of self was formed in the West Texas dust. I was made there, and maybe I was even made for there. Or it was made for me. Anyway, I’ve come to understand that I can—and hope I always will be—glad to be wherever I am. But I don’t think any other place will ever have the same kind of gravity that Texas has for me.

My hair is long.

I realize that this might sound slightly ridiculous to you. Because, relatively speaking, my hair hasn’t been short since about second grade. But it used to be really long. Like, below-my-hips long. And it was long-long for quite a while. In fact, it was pretty much my most distinguishable feature for most of my childhood/teenage years/early 20s. It wasn’t unusual for someone who didn’t know my name to refer to me as the girl with the hair. And that’s pretty much who I was, in some ways. I was the girl with the hair that was twice as thick and way more than twice as long as most other girls’ hair. It made a love braid (or couple of braids). In fact, I only really miss the length when I braid it, because it was just so nice. And heavy. Like a rope used to moor a boat. I also sometimes miss it when I have bare arms or have forgotten a scarf, because it was good for covering up and keeping warm, like an always-attached shawl.

But don’t want it to be epically long again, really. I cut it off during my senior year in college. I was ready for a change, and it had started to give me head and neck aches, and I had begun to see it as a general nuisance. So I took off 11 1/2 inches and donated it to Locks of Love, and spent a couple of weeks adjusting to my short hair (which was just past my shoulders). And though I’ve tended to keep it a little longer than that, I’ve always thought of it as short, because perceptions are relative.

So when I found myself thinking that my hair was kind of long yesterday, it was kind of a shock. I’m not sure when it happened, but somehow my personal worldview has altered. And my hair is now long. Well, longish. Let’s not get carried away.

“The heart and the soul, so beloved of God, are both filthied up by residence here, how can we avoid it? . . . I suppose therefore God is the connoisseur of filthied hearts and souls, and can see the old, first pattern in them, and cherish them for that.”

from The Secret Scripture by Sebastian Barry

When I lie on the ground
I rise flushed as a rose in the morning.
In fights I arrange a fall on the ring
To rub myself with sand

That is operative
As an elixir. I cannot be weaned
Off the earth’s long contour, her river-veins.
Down here in my cave

Girdered with root and rock
I am cradled in the dark that wombed me
And nurtured in every artery
Like a small hillock.

Let each new hero come
Seeking the golden apples and Atlas:
He must wrestle with me before he pass
Into that realm of fame

Among sky-born and royal.
He may well throw me and renew my birth
But let him not plan, lifting me off the earth,
My elevation, my fall.

1. A self-pitier
2. A complainer
3. All-around spreader of negativity.

My very least favorite version of myself has emerged, yet again. And I’m done with it. So I am hereby officially instituting two previous personal policies: an injunction on complaining, and a discipline of daily gratitude. My friend Kate has hit a similar wall this semester, and we’ve decided to count our blessings and play the Glad Game (from Polyanna) on a new shared blog. We’ve had enough negativity, and so we’re going to generate some positive energy to get us through this tough semester and PhD applications.

We are accustomed to believe that our world was created by God speaking the Word; but I ask, may it not rather be that he wrote it, wrote a Word so long we have yet to come to the end of it? May it not be that God continually writes the world, the world and all that is in it?

***

We cannot read it, I agree, that was part of my meaning, since we are that which he writes.

from Foe by JM Coetzee

I don’t really have anything to say about what this quote means in the context of the novel it is from (yet), or in relation to the author, or even in relation to theology. But I like it. I find it beautiful and thought-provoking. So I’m sharing it with you.