Tag: writing

Thought of the Day

Chubby Girls Wanna Feel Pretty Too

L.J. LaBree

I know it’s nothing new, but the fashion industry really needs to check their fat-phobias at the door. 

I’ll be attending a wedding soon, and the dress code is formal & cocktail. 

Now one thing that’ll pop up in people’s minds is the fact I hardly ever, if ever at all, wear dresses or skirts. I’m always in either workout pants, leggings, or jeans. And of course shorts during the warm months. 

My reasoning is simple: They’re easy to style, durable, and I can bend and climb and crawl into some tight spaces without fear of flashing whoever’s around me at the time. And believe me when I say I get into those situations an awful lot! That maaay have been encouraged by my father, who was very much a blue-collar working man and loved teaching me how to do things like changing the oil in my car, chopping wood, and digging in the garden. 

But can I tell you a secret pleasure?

I love dresses. 

They’re just so pretty and flowy! Especially the ballgown ones that make you feel like you’re a princess running through the forests or down the ancient stone hallways. Just imagine all the fantasy daydreams where you’re in a field full of swaying flowers and tall wheat, being greeted by a mysterious (but gentlemanly!) knight in dark armor, while wearing a flowy knee-length dress adorned by fabric petals and embroidered leaves and a matching flower crown. Or you’re striding through torch-lit hallways in the dark of night, determined to set the generals straight and prevent a war while wearing a wide bell-shaped gown that ripples and sways like water in the low light with every step. 

It makes my heart sing at the very thought. 

But here’s the thing. Well-made dresses for the pleasantly plump are hard to come by. If they exist at all.

I can’t tell you how many stores I’ve gone into where their largest size is a rare 16, followed by a handful of 14’s and even more 12’s. I won’t name the stores outright, as nowadays it would be seen as a personal attack (they rhyme with Lacey’s and Fordstrom). But what I will say is by the time I had gone through every single rack, including the business-formal and clearance, I was disheartened and wondering why I didn’t deserve a nice dress too. It was a slippery slope trying to prevent myself from looking into the mirrors and thinking I looked like I would benefit from one of those crash-diets. 

Full disclosure – NO ONE SHOULD EVER GO ON A CRASH DIET. Those kinds of diets are horrific, shame-inducing, and deserve to be buried so deep in the earth that they burn from the core’s heat. 

If you’re wondering whether I had found a dress that fit and didn’t make me look like a lumpy sausage, I did. I had to buy it off Amazon. The fabric isn’t as nice as an Oscar de la Renta, or a Calvin Klein, but it’ll do the job in a pinch. 

So many high-end fashion brands, as well as designers, think that the highest a women’s body size can, and should, go is a size 14, and that’s giving a generous size.

Why are they so afraid of dressing a plus sized woman? Are fat and extra skin really so scary and nightmare-inducing? What about the women who don’t have the extra jiggles around their middle and do a lot of weightlifting? Or the women whose genes created a real-life Amazon woman, complete with giantess height and strength? 

Why is the only acceptable kind of woman the ones who are small, thin, barely any curves, and look like they haven’t had a decent meal with meat and potatoes in the last five years? 

The rest of us ladies want to feel pretty too! We want to feel like we’re running through all the stone hallways in a winding castle, waiting for our knight to come home.

The fashion industry needs to do better. They need to be better. They need to know that women come in all shapes and sizes, not a certain skinny cookie-cutter size. 

We used to worship plump women in Edwardian times; the countless paintings of chubby goddesses dressed in chiffon drapes, languishing on Victorian chaise chairs reading or sewing prove this. 

What happened to that? What happened to looking at a woman who literally has a body like this and thinking “absolutely stunning”? 

What happened to having chubby girls feel pretty? 

Thought of the Day

Who Left Hell’s Doorway Open??

L.J. LaBree

I knew this would happen.

It happens every year – everything’s spring-like, breezes are carrying scents of lilac and other pretty-smelling flowers, temperatures are a comfortable 60’s to a barely scraping 70, and there’s just enough balance of rain and sunshine to make the gardens grow into a lush paradise.

And then BAAM! Temps ramp up to 90-100’s, the air feels like a thick pea soup in the lungs, and I might as well be a portable always-on sweat faucet.

How? How do I always know that this will happen, and yet I’m always surprised by Summer’s intense presence?

Even as I’m writing this now, I know tomorrow’s the Solstice and official start of summer. And yet, I’ve just spent 15 minutes installing, rather reluctantly, my a/c so I don’t end up dying from heat exhaustion in my third-floor bedroom and cursing the heavens the entire time (which by the way, stays really warm in the winter months. I’ve actually had to turn the thermostat down to a comfortable 64 degrees!)

Don’t get me wrong – I am grateful for Summer and everything she has to offer. I enjoy going to the beach and lounging on the sands while drinking a nice tall glass of iced tea under a giant umbrella. I also enjoy watching the fireflies dance in my parents back yard and getting to catch them with my bare hands. No, I don’t kill them!

I also love the fact that I don’t have to bundle up in 5 layers and trudge around as if I’m impersonating a penguin and having to tread carefully so I don’t slip on ice, and end up slipping anyway!

But would it really be so hard to graaaadually turn up the temps and allow us all to acclimate? Is that really such a difficult thing to ask?

Thought of the Day

A Home is a Home…

L.J. LaBree

Everyone has a place they call home.

Whether it be in a bustling blinking city that never seems to need sleep, or out in the vast valleys of the west, nestled between the forests and mountains beneath a sea of stars, there is a place on this Earth where it feels like it was made especially for you.

Though I am currently in apartment #5 ( or is it 6?), I’m still in search of that one place where I can put my roots.

I’ve thought about it over and over, time and again, and I’ve decided I want a home that’s similar to the one I grew up in: someplace that is in the healing aura of the woods, but not too far away from the city life. A place where I can sit outside in summer nights and listen to the peepers* singing their songs, searching for their mates.

(*a small brown frog with markings to resemble tree bark and makes a loud shrill peeep peeeep noise as their mating call. They often live close to large bodies of water – ponds, marshes, and in my childhood, lakes. Get your mind out of the gutter.)

I dream of a place where I have a large corner fireplace, with a wide open mouth and space to bake bread by the fire. There’s a large plush couch nearby with a short sturdy table, capable of holding giant tea mugs and several thick books.

A wide porch wrapping around the entire house, allowing me to move around and follow the sun’s rays like a cat, or a sunflower. Several rocking chairs sit peacefully in pairs at each direction with a small table in between.

I dream of a room with several plush chairs and a couch covered with several fluffy blankets, each wall covered with books upon books from floor to ceiling.

Several bedrooms are on the second and third floors with enough room to fully stretch out in – not just physically, but mentally as well. Each room has enough space to fit two twin-sized beds, or one king-sized bed with leg room to spare.

The bathrooms (two at the minimum!) will each have the space to fit a claw-foot tub, a toilet with elbow-wide room, and a large sink. There will even be enough space for a small bench and a decent sized linen closet.

I can picture the main bedroom as a behemoth of a room, with a small reading nook in the corner, complete with a small table and a floor lamp.

I can picture the kitchen with tons of counter space, lots of storage, a large dishwasher (which will be a staple in my home), and a fridge large enough to hold an army’s worth of meals. There will definitely be space enough to have a pantry. Maybe even a second fridge. And of course the dining room with a table to seat eight people will be adjacent, complete with chairs that don’t quite match, but go with the style of the room.

The laundry room’s gonna have state-of-the-art washer and dryer, and space for not only a folding station, but for an ironing board as well. And there’s going to be enough room to have an indoor hanging space for sweaters and tops that really shouldn’t be in the dryer.

Of course when I do get a house of my own, some things will need to be compromised. I can only do so much with the actual square footage and how it’s set up. Though I do have to question how some houses I’ve seen while browsing were allowed to be built. Did the architect who built said houses actually live in one? A lot of the rooms did NOT have any functionality at all!

But whenever life gets a little too down in the dumps, or I have days where I just don’t wanna, I often think of my dream house. Because when I think of the place I’ll someday own, I feel a little bit better. And when I feel a little bit better, I can pick up where I left off. I can finish the day.

Thought of the Day

No Two 34’s are the Same I Guess…

L.J. LaBree
Daily writing prompt
What were your parents doing at your age?
View all responses

You ever wonder how similar or different your life is, compared to when your parents were your age? Granted, I’m sure we’ve all thought about this at least once in our lives, but to actually sit down and think retrospectively about it?

In little more than a week, I’ll be turning 34.

It’s such a wild concept – I always knew (and hoped) that I would most likely live until well into my 80’s/90’s, but seeing myself becoming an age I’ve long considered deep into adulthood, it’s absolutely mind boggling. I still have random thoughts of “I honestly didn’t expect to live this long”.

In honesty, I don’t feel like an adult at times. At least, not one who is responsible and has everything figured out.

And thinking about my age, I find myself thinking about when my parents were my age.

When my father was 34 years old, our family was living in an apartment building called The Revere House. I don’t remember a whole lot of that apartment, but I do remember having a pink fluffy rug and a white crib in my small bedroom. I also remember KitKat, our pet cat, used to climb into the crib when Mom and Dad weren’t looking and snuggle with me during my naps.

And suddenly in April of 1994, I wasn’t living in the Revere House anymore. I started living in a larger (purple, obviously) bedroom in the house my parents still own to this day. I think it wasn’t long after when we adopted our dog, Kaydee, from next door.

When my mother was 34, she was busy raising me, 6 at the time, and preparing me for the biggest milestone of my entire short life – Kindergarten. Dad was still working nights as a driver at AG, and would often take care of me during the day while Mom was at work. But with this new opportunity to send me to school, Dad would be allowed to actually sleep during the day, instead of snoozing and having the occasional hazard of me trying to play with his nose while he snored.

Today, I can’t say I have a house. Nor can I say I have a 6 year old to prepare for the next 12+ years of learning and educational opportunities. I also can’t say I have a significant other to help around the house and bring in a double-income. But I can say I’ve accomplished other feats. Feats that are just as important.

I can say I’ve accomplished two Degrees, something only a few members in my family have done. I can say I took a chance and moved several states away without prospect of a job. I’ve written two manuscripts, and working on several more. I ended up working for one of the best educational institutes in the entire world.

Just from those aspects, I can safely say my life is vastly different than my parents when they were my age.

But maybe that’s a good thing? They were 34 in the early 90’s, where boom boxes were prevalent and people were convinced a little thing called the World Wide Web wouldn’t take off. For them, it was a time of peace to raise their daughter the best way they knew how.

And for that, I am eternally grateful. They may not have known it at the time, but they prepared me for how my life was going to be when it’s my turn to be 34.

And someday, I’ll be preparing my children for when they’re 34 too. I can’t wait to see how different their 34 is from mine.