Chivalrous or Devious?

As I was walking home last week from my trip to the library and the wonderful café, The Well, I was asked by a male stranger in an SUV if I needed a ride. My initial thought was “Oh no, I’m going to die.” I politely said no thanks, which was followed by his reply of, "You sure?" I replied, “I’m sure. I’m almost home. Thank you for your kind offer.”  I gave him a courteous nod, and he drove off. End of story. 

This brought me to realize how complex the human psyche is. In his mind he could be been acting neighborly, helping out a fellow citizen whom the foreboding clouds threaten to drench with rain. Or… he could be a serial rapist, luring a vulnerable, naïve girl into his clutches. Or he could have been split somewhere in between the two, offering a good deed while secretly hoping for a reward.

The best thing for me to do is forget the whole thing happened, and make sure that next time I leave the house I don’t look like a hooker. Because everyone knows how provocative the tee-shirt and jeans I was wearing are (sarcasm). Or I could let my imagination unleashed and write two short stories to illustrate how we don't live in a rosy world anymore.

If my situation the other day were the opening page for an historical romance novel, it might read something like this:

Lady Elise struggled to walk gracefully through the debris on the road. The hems of her skirt were soiled from the rain. Splinters and branched stabbed and prodded her feet through her dainty slippers. The town was a sight of destruction from the storm that passed through the previous night. Young saplings had been uprooted, wise old trees had split in twain. The skies were threatening to pour a deluge of rainwater on the already melancholy acreage.

“I must hurry home before my bonnet is soaked,” Lady Elise gasped.

Suddenly, a white carriage pulled by six horses galloped down the street. It slowed as it approached her. Lady Elise turned her head so that she could see who was in the carriage as it went past. However, it did not pass. The carriage stopped, the door opened. Inside was a young man of nobility with golden blonde hair, blue-grey eyes, and a dashing smile.

“May I offer you a ride, m’lady? It would be a shame if you caught a cold from the impending storm.”

Lady Elise stood awestruck for a moment. “Can it really be?” she thought to herself. “I have been walking for at least a mile, wishing for someone I know to rescue me from this horrible predicament, and here comes a dashing young stranger to my rescue.”

“I would be eternally grateful for your kindness, thank you very much Sir,” she replied.

He helped her into the carriage, his dazzling eyes meeting hers, as she knew that the entire fabric of her life had been altered. That was the gaze of love at first sight.

BUT…..

That’s a highly unlikely outcome, reserved only for the crisp pages of paperbacks. Now, if this were a scene from a mystery/horror novel, it would go more like this:

Elise knew that something was wrong. The atmosphere gave her the creeps. Mangled branches hung from trees, the aftermath of last night’s catastrophic storm. The street was unusually quiet. Most people were staying in their houses because the street lights were down. Elise ventured to the library just twenty minutes ago to return her almost overdue books. Now she was on the road, walking uphill in the direction of her house.

“Almost there,” she reassured herself. She could hear the sound of the tires on the road, so she turned to see what it was. A white van had turned around the corner. It was coming towards her. She quickened her pace. It was difficult to walk too quickly, for she was wearing flip flops which did very little to obstruct the pierces of sticks through the bare skin of her heels. The car was gaining on her. She thought about running into the park, but it was roped off with caution tape because dozens of trees had crashed down during the storm. Besides, running further into seclusion was a bad idea. It was better to stay on the road, were people in their houses could see her and come to her aid if necessary.

The car was gaining on her. Suddenly, it came to a stop. The brakes let out a slow screech like the shrill resonance of a five year old playing a violin. The darkly tinted window rolled down, revealing a dark hooded figure in the driver’s seat.

“I’m going to make this easy for you. Get in the car, Elise,” commanded a low, gruff voice.

“H-how do you know my name?” She knew she should run, but her legs were petrified. Her fight or flight instincts failed to kick in.

“No questions,” replied her abductor. “Or else,” he added with a devious, crooked smile.

Elise got in the car imperiously, surrendering to her hopeless fate as the rain began to ooze down the outside of the passenger window.

Lesson of the day: Never get into a car with a stranger. Any kindergartner will tell you.
Second lesson: Don't unleash your imagination before bedtime. I actually couldn't fall asleep after writing that second story. 

Corsetry: Empowering or Belittling

Back in December, I wrote a blog post that compared corsetry and anorexia, saying that they were both drastic and unhealthy means to alter one's body to fit the ascribed beauty standards of the times. While it is true that corsets were a requirement for women in Victorian society, that certainly is not the case today. I realized that my previous post completely ignored the corset wearers of the present, and why they do it. I wanted to know if they lace up because of low self-esteem, pressure to be pretty, or if there is a more wholesome reason. So what did I do? I bought a corset. A real life, steel-boned, waist training corset, the CS-426 longline brocade underbust corset from www.orchardcorset.com.  .

It arrived Thursday morning. I eagerly tore open the package which contained the aforementioned garment. I had ordered it 20 inches wide, because the website recommended ordering a size 5-7 inches less than your waist. I swiftly unlaced the back in order to loosen it enough to fasten the busk in front. This was with some difficulty because I failed to see the instructions that said to unlace it all the way for the first wearing. I sucked in my tummy, struggled for a few minutes, skooting and a shimmying until Voila! It was on. I then tightened the laced as tight as I could, and attempted to breathe with little success. I looked in the mirror. There was a huge inch space between the laces.The hips were too loose, and the middle too tight. Maybe I ordered the wrong size? I looked in the packaging wrappings for the return policy, and instead I found the instructions.

It turns out that corseting is a tricky science. There are actually rules to wearing one. You can't just lace it as tight as you can. I read the instructions and I had pretty much done everything wrong. I was lucky that I hadn't killed my expensive torture device. There's this thing called "seasoning" your corset, which involves wearing it for only an hour the first time you try it on loosely tightened. Then you can increase the time you wear it as well as the snugness by a little bit over the course of two weeks. This is so that the corset can mould to your body, and your body can get used to being laced. Not doing so risks bruising your organs and shortening the lifespan of your corset. Turns out that the reason it was ill-fitting was because I hadn't gone through the proper seasoning phase. Seasoning your corset is like courting it; you have to get to know each other in a safe, controlled way.

The next few days I spent seasoning it. I wore it for one hour on Friday, an hour on Saturday, and an hour in the morning on Sunday, and an hour in the evening. Today it was already significantly easier to put on. The gap at the hips is minimized, and I can tighten it tighter without much resistance. This is because the corset is breaking in and becoming more pliable, not because my bones are deforming and my organs are shifting.

On that topic, I was rather curious about the longevity of my organs. I had completely fallen in love with my corset, but I didn't want there to be an long term health risks. I conducted some research, and it seems that there are very few risks if waist training is done right. Here are the general health facts:

• If it hurts, you're not doing it right. It should never cause pain or shortness of breath. If this happens it means you have laced it too tight, or you're wearing it too long.
• Sure, it can shift your organs, but only a little bit, and they will most likely shift back after not wearing a corset. Women's organs shift a whole lot in pregnancy, and they mostly move back afterward. The human body is made to bounce back to its natural shape. 
• It can take years of wearing a corset 23/7 to get a significant waist reduction that will stay when you take off your corset.
• A lot of the health problems from wearing corsets in the olden days were from wearing corsets when children were still growing. This caused all kinds of deformation.
• The corsets of today are much safer for your back than the corsets of the Edwardian era, which caused a sway-back, which leads to back pain. The corsets of today do the exact opposite for your back; they keep it straight. Some reviews on Orchard Corset even said it even improved their pre-existing back pain. 

Thus, health problems can most likely be evaded by corseting at an appropriate full grown age, and by not pulling the laced too tightly too quickly. But don't take my word for it and sue me if something happens to you...

Those are the health issues, but what about the emotional and psychological issues? I was expecting that I would feel like a slave to patriarchy beholden to an unattainable body image, but that is not the case (at least in these first five days I've worn it). On the contrary, I feel empowered and as fancy as a queen in a palace filled with fine art and a harpist playing at breakfast as I sit on a baroque chaise lounge, sipping tea with my pinky curled. But what is empowering about sipping tea and feeling like royalty? Well, nothing. The empowering part is the feeling of wearing a corset; It feels like armour; I feel protected in a calming embrace that gives me the confidence to know that I am fabulous and no one can hurt me or tell me otherwise.  I look forward to every morning when I get to wear my beloved garment and experience its comforting hug. My posture is improved; I can only stand tall, proud, and confident.

Emotionally, I do not feel demeaned by wearing it. However, that may be simply because I am wearing it out of choice. The ladies of the past might not have had a choice. They might have simply wore it because they had to. I can take it off whenever I want, but if I lived in a world where I was forced to wear it day and night, I would probably loathe and despise it, rather than obsess over it as much like I obsess over my books or my dog. Now, I wonder if I could get away with wearing my corset with a tiara in public...

Fancy Books

I walked into Barnes and Noble a while back to exchange my Leatherbound Classics edition of Crime and Punishment for a nearly identical Leatherbound Classics edition of Crime and Punishment. Why? Because the title on the spine was slightly off center. If this had been a book for a class, I would not have given a hoot about this mild imperfection. However, because this was a volume that I was to display on my bookshelf among my collection of golden gilded, fancy shmancy books which are my pride and glory, the OCD art major in me was peeved by the fact that something was impeding the symmetrical balance of its spinal composition. 

When the sales associate asked me why I was exchanging it, I explained that the off-kilter cover was driving me crazier than Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov after he killed Alyona Ivanova in that book. This encounter made me question my sanity and ethics. A lot of the fancy books I have are available to read for free online, or out in an economical paperback. I could save many of trees, cows, and money if I simply read the ebooks. 

You can't pose in front of ebooks, but you
can pose in front of your fancy bookshelf
and pretend to be a Jane Austen character.

I've come to realize one thing about my reading habits: a book that is hard cover, fancy, and expensive is far more likely to keep my attention than a cheap ebook of the same story. I am not sure if this is a case of consumerism, anti-environmentalism, and susceptibility to marketing ploys (a.k.a. judging a book by its cover), or wholesome traditionalism. But ebooks simply cannot look as dapper as my Barnes and Noble Leatherbounds look next to my porcelain teacup collection. Reading an ebook in public is far less inviting than reading an interesting looking book. Reading an ebook says, "I'm sucked into electronic world. Leave me alone." Whereas reading a real book invites people to ask how it is, discuss themes, motifs, and literary theories, etc. If I'm at college studying in a building, perhaps will stroll by and notice my impeccable taste in literature rather than think I am goofing off on my Android tablet when I am actually reading Tolstoy's "War and Peace."

A few months ago I was at a library book sale with my boyfriend when I spotted three boxes of delightful specimens of ancient and classical literary works for a mere $15. My mom nearly had a heart attack when I brought them home, for she told me the week before: "DON'T BUY ANYMORE BOOKS!" I never thought I would hear that coming from any parent's mouth. Most parents would tell their kids, "Don't buy anymore clothes. Your closet is full." Or, "Stop wasting your time and money on video games." Rather than appreciate that she has a daughter who gets excited about finding a gold leafed edition of William Blake's most famous prose (instead of a daughter who spends money on non-academic, un-aesthetically pleasing frivolities), my mom tells me not to buy any books. Imagine that! This is probably a justified assertion because I haven't read all the books I have ever bought, and I will likely perish of the same fate as described in this Lemony Snicket quote: "It is likely I will die next to a pile of things I was meaning to read." C'est la vie. 

Hot Chicks, Trespassers, and Willow Trees

Divine willow trees (see below)

"DAMN! DID YOU SEE THAT CHICK?" "Yeah dude, I'd tap that." Were the words uttered by two unknown, unescorted hooligans passing by me in the hallway of my residence hall. A little background: boys are not allowed in the halls of any residence hall at Saint Mary's without female escorts. I tried to restrain myself from running to the front desk screaming, "UNESCORTED MALES ON THE PREMISE! CALL SECURITY!" upon hearing their unwelcome words.

I'm sure there are many girls who would be flattered to hear such a "compliment" coming from the mouths of a strapping young Notre Dame students, but I was less than enthused. I felt violated and disillusioned. I felt violated because 1) I was in my pajamas, 2) this is an all girls school; no boys allowed! I felt disillusioned because the vision of a happy world where girls are "beautiful" not "sexy" had melted before my eyes.

Where have the days gone where men would write endless poetry about a lady's eyes, or angelic face? Instead, there are countless songs with men imploring women to 'shake their booties' (not referring to the adorable type of baby shoe). I think this calls for a shift in language and attitude. Gentleman: Next time you feel the need to compliment a lady, do not degrade her with words describing, hotness, sexiness, or doableness; mention her beauty and cuteness. Be a man, be a poet.

Rather than saying, "She's so tall, I'd like to climb her, if you know what I mean," say "Her stature is comparable to a divine willow tree." Compliment women on their natural beauty and countenance that lasts a lifetime, not the mutable sexiness that shrinks away after they remove their push up bras, false eyelashes, and hair extensions. See the beauty within their souls, and acknowledge it as a reflection of the beauty and glory of life.

Makeup and Philosophy

Ever since I started wearing makeup at the age of 14 I felt a sense of guilt in applying it. I feel guilty that I was covering up my natural beauty, that I was fooling people into thinking I looked differently. I felt guilty because I had a nagging feeling that beauty was evil, and that the beauty industry preyed on the shallow insecurities of all women. Vanity, materialism, egoism: these were all negative words that one can associate with the beauty industry. In spite of this, I continued religiously wearing makeup while feeling a pang in my heart due to my overactive sense of consciousness, even though I enjoyed the creative process of choosing a color palette, deciding whether to use a monochromatic blend of eyeshadow, or an analogous color scheme. Although I felt guilty, I knew there must be a flip side to the negative aspects of wearing makeup.

It wasn't until 5 years later that I got my answer. Last Tuesday I read "On Beauty" by Plotinus for philosophy class at Saint Mary's College. Although Plotinus's works are from around 18 centuries ago, his wisdom is still relevant to my modern day problem. As I understand it, Plotinus believes that there is one uniting principle that makes all things beautiful. This uniting principle is unknown to our minds, but our souls, being divine, are able to recognise the divinity in beauty, and are thus attracted to it.

Plotinus describes beauty as of a "higher order." This means that beauty is not a lowly earthly plight that drags our souls down, tying them to the material world. Rather, beauty is a glimpse of the higher orders that reminds us of what existence is like above. In effect, when I put makeup on because I think it is pretty, I am applying it according to what my soul recognises as a glimpse into spiritual realms. I am not applying it to be superficial, hide my self-consciousness, or to make people lust after me. I am applying it to be an earthly embodiment of the intangible sublime.

I have no way of knowing what the truth is, but at least my mind is at ease, and I can do what I love without feeling guilty. Regardless, natural beauty is always a safe bet.