#imperfect and lazy. because im getting better and its difficult but easier than i would have expected. and rationally i know thats a good

[opens-up-4-nobody]

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[pravasiga]

June 19, 2017 - Wabi-Sabi: (Im)perfection.

Wabi-Sabi: (n.) "the quality of being attractive because of being imperfect in some way...wabi-sabi suggests that we see the flaw as being part of what is charming. Can apply to pots, furniture, houses - and whole lives." Origin: Japanese.

Trigger Warning: Body Image and Expectations

I wasn't sure how to start this post to be frank with you. I spent a few hours aimlessly looking around for a word to inspire me to make sense of a whole collection of experiences that I've felt since I've been here. Perhaps the most personal post I've made in a long time, I realized that in the last few years, I've lost my confidence in writing because as I grew up, so did my insecurities, so did my stress levels, and so did my ability to self-doubt. Part of my journey towards writing again is the willingness to be honest, to go deeper, to go pick at the scars that haven't healed properly.

As evidence by the slew of Instagram photos that I've been spamming you all with, being in India meant a change in what I'm used to wearing. For those of you that go to school with me, you know that I stick to a steady stream of sweaters and sweatpants because quite frankly if I have to suffer at college, I might as well be comfortable and warm while I do it. When I go shopping, I go straight to the larger and plus sizes. I thought I had learned to stop being disappointed at finding few items that fit and learned to seek out alternatives. But in India, where I have had to buy new clothes and adjust to a brand new style, I've had my fair share of struggles with body image, grappling with an age-old insecurity that has only worsened with the years and only has been exacerbated by hurtful comments, overactive paranoia, and the desperate need to prove to myself that I can do and be better. One of the biggest things that this trip has forced me to confront was a personal journey that I had long been avoiding - the burden I have borne my entire life regarding Asian-American, feminine, and personal expectations on body image and size.

But I don't owe anyone the debt of feeling sorry for who I am, and wearing my first sari, an ensemble that asks me to bare a part of my body that I have spent most of my life hiding, gave me a burst of confidence that there is so much that I should not and will not be ashamed of. I thank you, ahead of time, for reading this post, and hope that you recognize that this post is an expression of freeing myself from some of the worst thoughts I've had, in pursuit of self-acceptance and integrating the imperfect into the (I'm)perfect.

*If you would like to talk, if this post triggers you, I am here for you. As much as I can be with this spacey wifi. :)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------- When yet another size XXL kurta (long shirt) barely made it down over my chest, I was prepared to shed a few tears. The straight, narrow cut of the cloth was not made to fit me and in the dim-lit dressing room, I could only stare at my reflection and feel the same old thoughts come back. If only you had actually used your gym membership this year instead of being lazy. If only you could have foregone that McDonald's meal at the airport. If only you could have just, for once in your life, been smaller. Coupled with a time constraint and limited inventory, I was absolutely exasperated with myself. I had to somehow, find enough salwar kameez combinations to make it through the rest of the summer and so far, all I could be absolutely sure of was that my dupatta (scarf) was not going to be a problem. Though I later was to learn that most Indian women would tailor their clothes or alter it in ways to fit, the pain of quite literally, not fitting into, the new culture and society that I was going to engage with, was enormously difficult to bear. Even at 20 years old, having been overweight all my life, I was not immune to the dread of yanking off a clothing item that didn't fit, praying that no seams would rip.

A Chinese-American woman, I learned at a young age that I didn't fit the mold. I grew up seeing skinny women on runways, in my magazines, and TV-shows. I was fortunate to grow up in a family where my grandfather used to touch the skin on my arm and smile proudly, telling me that my yellow skin ('jing huang pi fu', he would say), golden and luminous, was beautiful. My grandparents were always the most insistent that their grandchildren never forgot to appreciate and love their roots, to continue a proud story that had crossed the Pacific Ocean, weathered world wars, and landed in a strange new country. Save for a brief infatuation with Cinderella where I stubbornly stated that I wanted blonde hair and blue eyes because "that was what princesses looked like", I grew up in love with my long, straight black hair, especially when I could brush it until it gleamed. I used to stare in the mirror at my dark brown eyes, trying to discern the exact rich chocolate brown-black shade of my irises. I decided early on that no matter what color they were, they held light and enthusiasm for life. Enveloped in love, emboldened in a household of two tongues - English and the warm embrace of my ancestors' Mandarin - I was raised in love with my Chinese heritage. But with this, I inherited expectations that would prove to be most constant source of my self-esteem issues - I have never been petite, slender, or thin.

I take a second to dodge questions about my health to simply state that regardless of that condition, it has never warranted the kind of overwhelming pressure to have collarbones that could hold rolls of quarters (http://www.dailymail.co.uk/…/Country-goes-wild-new-social-m…) or a waist that could hide behind a sheet of paper (http://www.nbc26.com/…/asian-women-are-pressured-to-be-peti…). I have never felt quite at home within the Chinese-American community because I have never been able to shake the shame of not fitting what I saw as the ideal Chinese-American woman. It is assumed that our bodies are meant to be a certain way and that it is woven into my DNA to be a porcelain doll, slim and well-proportioned.

I come from a family where love is shared in food, love is communicated in asking about health, and love is given by pinching cheeks and unfortunately, openly asking about my body weight. When my family comments on my waist before my college experience or when I get asked questions, I get asked about my SAT, my GPA, my weight, the amount of times I've gone to the gym far before I get asked about my mental well-being and happiness. I grew up understanding that this was how love was shown sometimes, even when it would twist in too-round stomach and curb my appetite. I have grown up always feeling like my answer was never good enough. I have grown up understanding that this was something I had to desperately change, not simply out of concern for my health, but because - what would other people think? "We just don't want other people to make fun of you," relatives would assure me, "You're a beautiful girl, but you should lose weight."

And so it goes.

I scrambled to find kurtas that fit and while I was able to find some, I couldn't lift the feeling of defeat that followed me out of the door of Big Bazaar, onto the van, and back into my hostel room. I had been so excited to go shopping for those loose garments, wrongly guessing that such loose fabrics and clothes would be easier to fit into. Even though many of my team members expressed similar frustration of finding clothes that fit, I tuned it all out, I tried to hold myself above wallowing but I couldn't help but sink in. That night, I ate less than half of what I had been given for dinner. I felt like I could have burst out of my skin every single time food passed my lips.

When we got the chance to buy saris, I tried to put a lid on the excitement. A sari is a long piece of fabric (anywhere from 5 to 9 yards), often beautifully decorated, meant to be wrapped around the body to form a skirt and to drape over the shoulder. (Side note: it is so hard to tie this damn thing, I tried and ended up hopping around the room trying to keep everything in place). We had been invited to the wedding of the son of a local technology company, known for its dedication to employing those with mental disabilities and pushing for similar practices in other companies. But I was focused not appearing lumpy, misshapen, and enormous in my sari. I was most afraid of what my rolls of stomach fat would look like, hanging out of the skirt, or worse, not fitting in at all.

The sari store was stuffed to the brim with gorgeous fabrics and I remember my breath being taken away as I ran my fingers along the ornamentally decorated trims of red, blue, purple, golden - every color of the rainbow - saris. I had long decided to go with a red sari, taking a lesson from my prom dress shopping fiasco that red, in fact was my "power color". I tried sari after sari, and as the women who worked at the store hastily tied and rolled me repeatedly into increasingly beautiful fabrics, I couldn't help but focus on everyone around me, finding their perfect sari. Between indecision and an inability to be satisfied by anything I had seen so far, I began to feel that same sense of dread that I had experienced the week before in the dressing room. I began to feel like a little girl trying to play dress-up, attempting to mimic an imaginary standard that was always meant to be above my grasp. Time was running out and I was among the last people to choose - and of the few I had tried on, I just felt completely out of place in all of them. I begged the women to let me try one more on - a red sari with tear-drop gold embroidery, and a golden-green trim. I reviewed the photos a friend helped take of me, and still couldn't bring myself to love it. But in all honesty, I don't know what I had more difficulty loving - the sari, or myself.

I bought the sari anyways. I didn't have time to find another one and this was the best I had found from the bunch. I kept my negative thoughts deep in my belly, swallowed to prevent them from reaching the surface. I told myself that I would just have to learn to wear it, learn to love it for all the other aspects. The fabric was beautiful - there was no doubt in that. I would have to do my best to fit myself in its folds and present as little trouble to the tailor in the next few weeks.

The week flew. We got fit for the tiny blouses (which were MUCH shorter than I expected) and patiently waited for our first chance to wear our beautiful new garments. In my room, I clumsily tried to imitate what I had learned from the women at store and "tied" my first sari. I have a long way to go. Getting those folds perfectly evenly and crisp much be a superhuman talent, honestly. I have incredible respect for anyone who can do it perfectly.

But of course, this is a blog post with a happy ending. The first time I was properly tied into my sari, with the little red blouse, my hair swept back, and my favorite red lipstick on, I was floored. I had tried pulling my petticoat up as high as I could, to hide as much of the skin that peeked out, a fact that the women helping us tie our saris noticed. They originally had pinned part of the draped fabric to my blouse, to form a curtain over the expanse of waist that I had hidden for so much of my life. Staring in the mirror, turning and feeling the fabric swirl around my feet, I unpinned that little curtain and tucked it back into my skirt. And I gave myself time to appreciate the form in front of me, a force in red, gold, yellow, and black. In that moment, I thought little of the expectations that I had carried on my back all my life. I didn't feel hidden under the beautiful fabric nor did I feel that the sari was wearing me. The body that I had spent so many years of my life berating, squeezing, hiding, was perfectly displayed.

It was a breath of fresh air, it was freedom from a restriction I had long placed on myself. And you damn well know I had to take a million photos to celebrate.

But more importantly, it is a reminder. It is a reminder that for all the comments of my family, I come from a long line of strong, sturdy women. Women whose hands and arms bore equal weight as the men in my lineage, women who were mothers and doctors and businesswomen and accountants and caretakers and brilliant and brave. Never had I once questioned whether they were fantastic role models. Never once have I questioned their beauty, their grace, their strength. So size zero be damned, I know that I may never fit into anything at half of the store I stop by, but what there is of me, I will love, I will cherish, and I will protect. And so should you, you fantastic, incredible, wonderful human being.

Dhanyavada galu (thank you) Ninna gelati (your friend), Winnie

PS: The wedding was also amazing and great and wow so many people I can't believe they just literally let 30 random Americans in at the last second. Congratulations to the bride and groom!

PPS: I learned the hard way how hard it is to pee in a sari and let me just tell you it involves a lot of folding, clutching, and praying.

PPPS: Photo credits to my least-favorite person and kind-of favorite photographer, Anant Sriram because bless that camera and his patience for dealing with my idiocy and basicness.

PPPPS: I love all of you, just the way you are.