Amanda Jenkins's Blog, page 7

Camera Lies

Read through the most recent edition of Allure Magazine on a plane last weekend. Fun fact: out of 267 pages, 179 were ads--147 of those, full-page. Unreal that we pay to be solicited, and to be told over and over and over that we need to be better, thinner, smarter, healthier, and more fashion-forward.

In fact, the Want to Look Younger? section is made up of ads disguised as articles, the first brought to you by Olay and a host of other products that claim to curtail aging. The second is about all the procedures you can have done to turn back time...brought to you by Latisse (a prescription treatment for fuller lashes), Juvederm (an injectable gel for wrinkles), and Botox. My point being, we need to see behind the curtain--to stop letting the way we see ourselves be defined by companies trying to sell us stuff.

We need to add savvy to our tool box, and save the $3.99 for the airline's boxed lunch of goldfish and weird cheese.

The Elle Train

Today Elle is coloring and making gifts for our family. Here's the back of the necklace she gave me. She made me promise to keep it forever.

I assured her that wouldn't be a problem :).

Full Disclosure and the Kitchen Drawer

A previous post I took down briefly. If you didn't catch it the first time... I get together with my small group every Sunday night. We attend the same church and we spend a couple hours each week talking about the most recent sermon or what we’re thankful for or what we’re struggling with. We challenge each other to be authentic, to trust one another with hard things, and to ask for prayer when we need it. And as a result, we’ve become a close-knit group, committed to doing this season of our lives together.
Yet, somehow I still manage to go into a cleaning frenzy every Sunday afternoon when it’s my turn to host. My friends have been to my house dozens of times and couldn’t care less what it looks like. Nevertheless, loose paper, stray socks, Nerf darts, and anything else I don’t have time to put away get shoved in a drawer I pray no one opens. Because the drawer—and by that I mean closet—exposes my life for what it really is…messy and full of unpaid bills and half-naked Barbie Dolls.
Honestly, I’m not comfortable talking about the drawer. Being a perfectionist means not only do I want people to think I’m perfect, I actually want to beperfect. So the drawer is a double whammy—a threat to my image and a reminder that I’m not who I want to be. And so, I resolve each week to work harder, clean more, get caught up, and remove the need to hide things; to maintain a house that can withstand the unannounced drop-in…you know, that thing when a friend is in the neighborhood and just wants to say hi? 
(Spoiler alert, I’m not a fan.)
Thing is, I know life is messy and that my problem isn’t the drawer or spontaneous friends; it’s the fact that my disdain for messy things has become more important than my love for people. I bark at my husband and kids for leaving stuff out. I put off lunch dates to organize cabinets and finish house projects. I often ignore the doorbell because things aren’t put away or I don’t want to stop cleaning—or I’m not wearing mascara. Bottom line, I’ve missed opportunities to pour into people because I’m too concerned about the way they see me. And the way I see me.
And while I’m sitting here not sure how to make this post end pretty, God is bringing a full-exposure moment to my mind, and I sort-of can’t believe He wants me to share it, since it’s the opposite of pretty.
But I’m nothing if not obedient, says the perfectionist. 
A few years ago, I went to a dermatologist for mole-mapping (which, as it turns out, I like talking about even less than my secret drawer). I have a lot of freckles—lucky me—and some were starting to look more like moles than freckles. Since mapping involves taking pictures of my entire body under fluorescent lights, I wasn’t thrilled by the prospect. Understatement. When the doctor was done, she told me I looked great. I knew she was referring to the moles, but since she’d just seen every inch of my post-three-pregnancies body, I said, “Well that depends on what you mean by “great.” She doubled over, her unbridled laughter confirming that my control-top-tankini from Lands’ End was a wise purchase.
So what does my embarrassing experience at the dermatologist’s office have to do with my messy drawer? Only this: that even in my most vulnerable moment, under unforgiving lights and sharp scrutiny, my fear of being exposed had been overblown, and facing reality wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.  Actually, it was sort-of funny and a relief to just laugh at myself and move on. And as I’m choosing more and more to be authentic, that seems to be the rule—anticipating telling the truth is always worse than just telling the truth. More than that, it’s consistently a relief to let my guard down and my personal expectations go. And, of course, the by-product of both is that I have more time for people, which is exactly what God wants. That, and for me to know I’m loved by Him already, in spite of the things I do or don’t do.
Maybe the next time my friends come over, I’ll start with the drawer/closet/spare room I usually keep locked.
“Hey, y’all, look at my messy drawer and the things I never have time to put away. Because along with the freshly vacuumed floors, flickering candles and goodie-laden counter top, the drawer really is me. Now let’s hang out.”
Or something like that.
I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.
 Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever! Amen. Ephesians 3:16-21

Camera Lies

Check out this link. LOVE it, especially when the subjects make mention of their inner beauty. Because until our outer is less important than our inner, not even the message of this incredibly encouraging commercial will keep us content.

http://realbeautysketches.dove.us/


But the Lord said to Samuel, “Don’t judge by his appearance or height, for I have rejected him. The Lord doesn’t see things the way you see them. People judge by outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”  1 Samuel 16:7

The Elle Train

    Quintessential Elle and a glimpse into her world. Literally.

Chapter 1: Vanity continued...

A continuation from yesterday's post. After this, no more freebies ;).

Downhill From Here

A few weeks ago I had an appointment with a new dermatologist regarding a mole. Since I was already there, I thought I’d ask if something could be done to tame the wrinkles around my eyes. But when I stepped into the lobby, I knew I was in trouble. Turned out the dermatologist’s office doubled as a spa, which in LA is code for all things cosmetic—from chemical peels to lip injections. I had a hunch a really good moisturizer wouldn’t be the doctor’s only recommendation.
 
And it wasn’t. She told me I did have a lot of wrinkles, especially for someone so young, but not to worry—with a little Botox she could make me look eighteen again. Um, looking like a teenager hadn’t been my initial goal. But somewhere between having my “before” pictures snapped without warning under the fluorescent lights and hearing what my face will look like in ten years without “intervention,” eighteen started to sound pretty good.
 
Truth is, we don’t have the money for Botox. Dallas and I have three kids under ten, which means cosmetic intervention doesn't exactly make the short list of things we can afford. And that’s a good thing, because it’s not just my face that’s beginning to fail me. Since I had kids, the whole system seems to be breaking down. Varicose veins have shown up on my thighs, and my armpits sweat for no good reason—sometimes one without the other. I have stretch marks, some explained by pregnancy and others not, and yesterday I realized I’d buttoned some skin into my jeans and it didn’t even hurt. Oh—and when I laugh too hard, a little pee comes out.

Yeah, if money weren’t an issue, I imagine a lot of procedures would be tempting, which is why we see it time and again in the lives of the rich and famous—first a lift, then a tuck, then an injection of some sort. Watching it play out in Hollywood is enough to prove the whole pursuit is futile or, at best, unending. There are websites devoted to outing celebrities for their surgeries. My favorite sites post the before and after pictures, which have to be updated every time they go under the knife, be it to fix what they had done and don’t like or to tweak what they liked but now droops or to tackle a newly aging feature.
And yet we wonder what it would be like to fix that one thing.
 
Ha.
 
And it’s not just cosmetic surgery—it’s all the things we do to get pretty and stay pretty. After my third child was born, I was ready to buckle down and get back in shape. For a year and a half I exercised almost every day, watched my diet, and got more rest. I looked really great, too. The baby weight came off, and my friends praised me for being so disciplined. But eventually I got tired of the strict routine. I decided to take a short break, which turned into the past year and a half of infrequent exercise and a lot more sugar.

That's the problem. I don’t just feel the pressure to look better, because even when I reach my goal, I have to somehow stay there. I have to maintain. And since maintaining in my thirties is a lot harder than it was in my twenties, it’s clear each decade will bring a host of new problems. The pressure never lets up, and once again the race I find myself running is a no-win. I fixate on a flaw, compare myself to someone else, work hard to change, fail to reach my goal, fixate, compare, work hard, reach my goal, fail to maintain.
 
Sigh.
 
I’m a mouse on a wheel.
 
And in my exhaustion, I turn to God. Perhaps He should have been my starting place, but alas . . . I often think of Him as a last resort instead of my first line of defense.

Chapter 1: Vanity

Here's a snippet from my book, Confessions of a Raging Perfectionist, that you can have in your home for just pennies a day :). The next section of the chapter will post tomorrow. Working hard to be more authentic in my life, so each chapter begins with my real stats. Sigh.

Chapter 1: Vanity

August 16th
Weight: 142 pounds
Calories: 2,260
Pants that are too tight: 3
Wrinkles: 8 too many

Resolve to lose 7 pounds and double up on eye cream.

Beauty Queen
Tara McClary’s a good-lookin’ woman—the quintessential Southern belle. Perfectly mannered and manicured, blonde hair and brown eyes, tall, thin, and tan. It’s little surprise, then, that in 1990 she and her mom were crowned Mother/Daughter USA. She’s a pageant success story, and in truth she’s the kind of woman most of us love to hate. Problem is that once you get to know her, you’ll have a hard time finding just cause.
I met Tara when I was a junior in college. My boyfriend, Dallas (now my husband), and his family had known the McClarys for years. And after reconnecting in their early twenties, Tara and Dallas came up with an idea for a book they wanted to cowrite. As a non–title holding, average girl, I felt a bit unsettled when my boyfriend told me he'd be working hours on end with a beauty queen.
When I expressed my concern, he explained that he didn’t think of her that way. She was a family friend, and besides, she wasn’t his type; she was too perfect. He preferred the girl-next-door.
Hmm.
Much to Dal’s surprise, I didn’t feel better. That is, until I met her. Turns out she wasn’t a threat—and not because she wasn’t perfect; she kind of was. But she was beautiful without pretense. She was genuinely likable.
The three of us spent the weekend at Dal’s parents’ house (she to flesh out ideas for the book and me to stand guard), and we got to talking about pageant life. It seemed like a lot of pressure to me—so many beautiful women all competing for the same crown, their bodies and clothing being scrutinized by the judges and, no doubt, by each other.
She laughed and agreed. She had felt the pressure. But after years of chasing perfection, she realized there would always be someone more beautiful. It made no difference how often she exercised or the number of beauty products she used—someone would always upstage her. So she abandoned the goal of attaining perfection, accepting her limitations and, in turn, herself.

It was simple enough. If Tara McClary had to come to terms with the fact that there would always be someone prettier, even with her beauty credentials, then it was certainly true for me, too. And it sounded great—embracing the idea would be like throwing insecurity to the wind. I’m me, and you’re you. If you’re prettier, good for you.
Poof. Pressure’s off.
Because that’s what we do, isn’t it? We compare. She’s skinnier, she’s got bigger boobs, she has perfect hair—and there’s no end to the madness. Whether it’s a girl in line at the grocery store or celebrities in magazines, we find fault with ourselves based on a standard set by someone else. And dropping out of the race made sense to me.

Problem is that in spite of Tara’s wisdom and the freedom it brought her, I haven’t been able to stop comparing. Logically speaking, I know I’m running a race I can’t win; someone will always out-pretty me. But even when I’m not comparing myself to someone else, I keep an ever-growing list of things I’d like to change. If only I could tighten up my abs and get rid of a few wrinkles, then I’d be content.
Yeah, right.
So if logic doesn’t snap me out of my vain haze, how will I be able to accept myself, flaws and all? And since the pressure to be beautiful seems to come from both the inside and the outside, is it even possible to escape it? What’s the trick to being happy just to be me?

Camera Lies

For anyone like me, who needs to be encouraged today. And also for anyone who likes to rock out.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FOY2gJCbM-o

Intro to my book

Woot woot! My book, Confessions of a Raging Perfectionist, is out and can be ordered on Amazon. Click on the link in the sidebar to purchase, or read the intro below for free. Free is always good, right??
Introduction This is not a book. Well, now it’s a book, but it didn’t start out that way. It began as my journal—a way to keep track of all the yucky things God was showing me about myself and what I’ve come to know as my addiction to perfection.
And I am addicted. Like most perfectionists, I want everything in my life to be beautiful. I want my home to look fabulous, my car to sparkle, and my love handles to disappear. I want my closets to be organized, my children to be well behaved and happy (usually in that order), and my editor to find zero mistakes. I want people to think I have everything under control, and I want to actually have everything under control. Safe to say, I have a number of unattainable goals. And what’s worse—I constantly keep track of how I’m doing to reach those goals. Or not. 

Maybe that’s why I love the movie Bridget Jones’s Diary. The plotline centers on Bridget’s diary and the drama in her life that becomes its content. She begins each day’s entry by listing her stats—pounds gained or lost, cigarettes smoked, men interested, books read, party invites received. She is, to put it mildly, a work in progress—someone who can’t get life quite right, no matter how hard she tries. And every success and failure is documented in her diary.

Aside from her British accent and chain smoking, I’m a lot like Bridget Jones. I begin each day with a list—keep the house picked up, limit myself to one Diet Coke, spend special time with each of my kids, work out, pray, avoid sugar, read a chapter in a book about something important, and so on and so forth. And then I determine each day’s worth by how many of those things I actually did. Like Bridget, pounds gained or lost, items checked off, stuff accomplished. 

And I must say, my lists are good. The things I want to do lead to good health and better relationships. While not everything is necessary, a number of things on the list are. After all, bills have to be paid, clothes have to be cleaned, and kids need attention. So, generally speaking, my problem is not my list. 

My problem, I’ve recently realized, is the significance I attach to the list—that if I lose five pounds and spend twenty minutes reading my Bible, I’ll be a better, more spiritual, more loving, more lovable person. When I fail to live up to my own expec­tations, I feel inadequate. Or more specifically (and as my stats frequently read), overweight, lazy, disorganized, and unworthy of the approval I seek. 

Thing is, I don’t think I’m alone. And I don’t think perfection­ists are the only ones whose identities are wrapped up in impos­sible goals. Most of the women I know, from our high school babysitter to my precious grandma, base much of their self-worth on stuff that can be crossed off a list. For Christian women, that’s a tragic irony—tragic because, like everyone else, we spend most of our time working toward unattainable goals; ironic because Christ died to free us from the notion that we must earn our worth.  

So it begs the question: Why do we keep track of our stats? And if we experience time after time the frustration and failure our personal expectations bring, why is it so hard to leave them behind? Is it possible to ever really be free? 

Hard to imagine because, as I said, I’m a raging perfection­ist, though this book isn’t about perfectionism, per se. Instead, it’s about how the pursuit of perfection has led me down a very wrong road—one that has produced and nurtured a dozen chap­ters’ worth of strangleholds. 

Because the things I’ve tried to make perfect have become my idols. 

In the past few years, God has been working to change my heart and move me toward the only perfect we’ll know in this life: Himself. And while that may sound pretty, I assure you it’s been rough. Coming to terms with my addiction to perfection has been hard and sad and exhausting—and at times, embarrassing (case in point, this book). But I’m on board with what God is doing; I want freedom. 

And so, in an effort to embrace my imperfect reality, every chapter of this book begins with my real stats. I’m hoping my transparency will pry me from the things that have become my idols, loosening their grip on my heart and mind.  

And I pray God will use my journey to further yours.

The Elle Train

Elle often has a hard time falling asleep, which is pretty typical of autistic kids. She often comes out of her room shortly after we’ve put her to bed, so last night I told her to stay put until I came back to check on her, or she’d be punished. When I went back twenty minutes later:Elle: Mommy, I felt tepered to come of my room. Wait-what’s that fancy word?Me: Tempted? Elle: Yes, I felt tempted to come out of my room. I wanted to come see you, but I tried really hard and I didn’t. Me: Honey, that’s so great! That means you're stronger than the temptation! Elle, giggling: Yes, I AM stronger.  

Sweet Girl. I could eat her.