Bathingsuit Blues not just for Women

I love that the NY Times printed an article about a man having drama with picking a bathing suit. I think sometimes we women forget (or don't realize) we're not the only one's out there with body issues struggling to find the perfect fit.

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Does This Swimsuit Make Me Look Fat?

By Henry Alford

IN its Platonic ideal, a bathing suit removes you momentarily from yourself, and perhaps unleashes heretofore dormant aspects of your personality. Wriggle into a great-looking suit that’s black and snug and tailored, and suddenly you’re ready for an underwater cocktail party; rock a pair of floral Hawaiian board shorts and suddenly you’re convinced that the only way to spell “dude” is with two o’s.

My annual quest for such a garment got its kick-start in late May when a friend e-mailed me a link to a site called Socialite Life, which featured a folio of 23 photos breathlessly headlined “Jude Law: Shirtless in Cannes!” Squinting rakishly in the brilliant Mediterranean light, Jude looked worldly, post-coital, regnant.

When you clicked on the upper left hand of the first photo, you learned (incorrectly, I found out too late) that Jude’s fetching canary-yellow bathing suit was from Dsquared2 and cost $268. I downloaded the image, and hied myself to Bergdorf Goodman on Fifth Avenue, where I showed it to a smiley salesman in his 20s named Beau.

I told Beau, “I want to be mistaken for Jude Law.”

I explained, “My looks are kind of preppy and innocent, so I need a suit that will take me to ‘wayward English schoolboy’ rather than ‘toffee-nosed prat.’ ” Beau said, “I understand.”

I did not tell Beau about how I recently dropped my Scrabble board and tiles onto the sidewalk in the middle of Sheridan Square, creating a clattering hailstorm of nerddom; I did not tell Beau that I recently had a heated discussion about the use of the semicolon.

The store, alas, could not find the fetching canary yellow suit, but Beau whisked me through the men’s department, showing me other options. We hit Etro, Michael Bastian, Thom Browne. When we saw six black, slinky suits coiled like snakes in the Dolce & Gabbana section, I said, “Ooh, these might be too Jude Law.”

Once in the dressing room with Beau’s and my three picks, I came face to face with a thorny verity: It is the curse of the middle-aged male body simultaneously to shrink and enlarge. Your belly pooches out, ever more parabolic, while your legs dwindle down to mere sticks, two knobby rods with the surface tension of plucked poultry. One day you look down at your half-sphere atop its two spindly rods and realize, “I’ve turned into a Weber grill.”

The suit most flattering to my Weber grill was a pair of belted, snug-fitting, mid-thigh $230 Orlebar Brown trunks. “These are Jude-like,” I told Beau as we gazed into the fitting rooms’ mirror. “Jude would accessorize them with designer shades, a shirt unbuttoned to the navel, and a whisper of Drakkar Noir masking a base of animal ripeness.” Beau’s eyes widened, and I sensed that he wanted to introduce me to a licensed professional who could tell me all about lithium.

Alas, the color of the Orlebar Brown trunks (fiery tomato) was too bracing for my Pepperidge Farm brand of wholesome. I headed on to Saks, where I showed my Jude photo to three salesmen. But they also couldn’t find the yellow trunks. A thin, expressionless young Michael York look-alike showed me other possibilities, but I demurred. I apologized and said, “I think I’m hung up on looking like ...”

“... Yeah, yeah, yeah: Jude Law.”

Eager not to beat a dead horse, I left my photo of Jude at home for my next two bouts of shopping. During the course of two days, I would visit eight more stores and try on 26 more suits. I loved the festive, Lilly Pulitzer-esque prints at Vilebrequin (which, as I now know, made the Jude Law swimsuit), but the suits’ puffy, bustle-like silhouettes vaulted my pear shape from Bosc to Bartlett; I loved the contained but non-packagey look of one pair of Marc Jacobs’s trunks, but wondered if I wanted to pay $345 for something that would be riding shotgun with a lot of cocoa butter and PABA.

A perfect fit kept eluding me, and kept me from being the best Jude I could be. A pair of knee-length board shorts in a floral print at Osklen in SoHo looked great except for a strange gap they created between their waistband and my spine.

“These make me look like I have a little storage area,” I said to the salesclerk, a sly brunette in her 20s. “A place for pencils or filberts.” (Her: “Yeah.”)

In another instance, it was equally the fit and the fit’s attendant implications that slowed me in my tracks. “I can’t tell what the look is,” I said to an H & M salesclerk referring to a pair of $17.95 tight navy square-cut nylon trunks with a red, white and blue rope belt. I asked, “Is it randy French sailor, or is it Fourth of July picnic on the town green?” Harried, she told me: “They’re Swedish, that’s all I know. They’re from Sweden.”

My favorite salesclerk was a middle-aged woman who was eating a salad when I walked into her tiny, messy boutique, Pesca, on East 60th.

“I like the elastic waistband,” I said of one of her suits, all made by a company called Sauvage; she explained, “they use a very good Lycra.” She left her desk to come look at me standing in front of the mirror in a sky-blue mid-thigh number. “I’m 49 years old,” I told her, “but in these I look 48.” She said I looked sexy. I thought of my Jude fixation and confessed to her, “I probably want the world to think I’m sauvage, but in reality I’m more domestique. In reality, I’m more médecin de campagne.” She asked if I was a doctor.

I finally hit pay dirt at Parke & Ronen, a Chelsea boutique that sells many scanty men’s clothes hammered in the forge of brazen confidence. The store’s fitting mirror, unlike the ones at all the other stores I visited, faces out onto the street. The mirror’s daunting amount of requisite exhibitionism rattled me when I skittishly looked at myself in the first suit, but by suit No. 5, calmed by the store’s friendly staff, I was shirtless, unfazed and furtively bopping to the Lady Gaga throbbing over the sound system.

I loved a pair of fitted $95 Parke & Ronen four-inch trunks in a blue, green and purple floral paisley on a white background; they had a two-grommet tie waist that cinched away all Weber-based impurity. The suit’s overall effect was slightly ... swinging London. Slightly ... Jude Law dirty weekend. Kuh-ching.

I first wore the suit to the N.Y.U. pool, where its comparative jauntiness, against a backdrop of collegiate Speedos and board shorts, was galvanizing. I can’t say I swam any faster, but I certainly swam with more verve.

I wore it one sunny afternoon on my building’s roof deck, where I didn’t need to sip at a Pimm’s Cup or a Campari; both were implied. I wore it to my office one hot day. Indeed, so comfortable and unbosomed was I in it that I decided to wear it for a trip I’ve happily made four times before: out to Amagansett, where I like to spend the night on the beach.

I made a reservation on the jitney. Doubting that any changing room would be open by the time I reached the beach at 7 p.m., I wore the suit under my pants to make the trip out to Long Island; as I boarded the bus, I found myself smiling slightly, and thought, “I am wearing very exciting underpants!”

I spent a lovely, contemplative evening picnicking and walking around a deserted beach in the suit (though it was, alas, too cold to swim); I crawled into my sleeping bag at 10 p.m. The suit’s smoothness felt satiny and delightful against the sleeping bag’s slippery insides: a hot dog in a bun. The surf raged, the stars twinkled. I felt new and brimming. Jude at last.

But then, just after midnight: blindingly bright car headlights aimed at my head. “Hey! Hey!” yelled a male voice from inside an East Hampton Marine Patrol vehicle. The officer then asked, with some irritation, “Why are you sleeping on the beach?” Groggily, I explained, “I just bought a new bathing suit.” He snorted and said: “You just bought a new bathing suit! What kind of reason is that?” I mumbled an incoherent answer. He wrote me a summons.

It was too late to call anyone. Back up in Amagansett, I sat on a bench on Route 27 and waited for a 4:20 a.m. jitney back home. “Jude, Jude, Jude,” I thought, “Where have you taken me?” Many inebriated 20-something revelers sauntered by, including a young woman skittering in high heels who, on hearing that I was waiting for a 4:20 bus, gushed: “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

Moments later, I took my summons out of my pocket and gazed at it. I contemplated the embarrassment of a forthcoming appearance at the East Hampton Town Justice Court. I thought, I’ll definitely need to be at my most confident and cool for that. I thought, I’ll definitely need to be at the top of my game. I thought, I’ll definitely need to wear the suit.

Weight = Life Burden?

So my first thought when reading this article was they need to do way more research and study various generations as well. I'm not denying that being an "over weight" teenager is hard (on both girls and boys) and that studies have shown women make less then there male counterparts. But this study is all over the place (in my opinion) - from women who are heavier are less likely to graduate college, to they are less likely to be hired for a position (with of course fostering the stigmas and stereotypes of "fat people are lazy"), to plus size girls aren't active in sports in high school, etc. 

Maybe it's just me and my personal story not connecting AT ALL with what they're "findings" are showing. I was on the "heavier" side in HS and not only graduated HS with a 3.75 but went on to be accepted into a highly rigorous academic college program (which I finished in the normal 4 years) and then went on to a (mostly) satisfying (female dominated) career (making 15.50/hour). Thank you very much.

Like I said, an interesting read nonetheless but perhaps a bit early to publish their "findings"

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Heavy in School, Burdened for Life

By Christy M Glass, Steven A Haas and Eric N Reither

Published: June 2, 2011

MUCH of the debate about the nation’s obesity epidemic has focused, not surprisingly, on food: labeling requirements, taxes on sugary beverages and snacks, junk food advertisements aimed at children and the nutritional quality of school lunches.

But obesity affects not only health but also economic outcomes: overweight people have less success in the job market and make less money over the course of their careers than slimmer people. The problem is particularly acute for overweight women, because they are significantly less likely to complete college.

We arrived at this conclusion after examining data from a project that tracks more than 10,000 people who graduated from Wisconsin high schools in 1957. From career entry to retirement, overweight men experienced no barriers to getting hired and promoted. But heavier women worked in jobs that had lower earnings and social status and required less education than their thinner female peers.

At first glance this difference might appear to reflect bias on the part of employers, and male supervisors in particular. After all, studies find that employers tend to view overweight workers as less capable, less hard-working and lacking in self-control.

But the real reason was that overweight women were less likely to earn college degrees — regardless of their ability, professional goals or socioeconomic status. In other words, it didn’t matter how talented or ambitious they were, or how well they had done in high school. Nor did it matter whether their parents were rich or poor, well educated or high school dropouts.

Our study, published last year in the journal Social Forces, was the first to show that decreased education was the key mechanism that reduced the career achievement of overweight women — an impact that persisted even among those who lost weight later in life. We found no similar gap in educational attainment for overweight men.

Why doesn’t body size affect men’s attainment as much as women’s? One explanation is that overweight girls are more stigmatized and isolated in high school compared with overweight boys. Other studies have shown that body size is one of the primary ways Americans judge female — but not male — attractiveness. We also know that the social stigma associated with obesity is strongest during adolescence. So perhaps teachers and peers judge overweight girls more harshly. In addition, evidence suggests that, relative to overweight girls, overweight boys are more active in extracurricular activities, like sports, which may lead to stronger friendships and social ties. (Of course our study followed a particular group from career entry to retirement, and more study is needed to determine whether overweight girls finishing high school today face the same barriers, though these social factors suggest they do.)

That overweight women continue to trail men — including overweight men — in educational attainment in America is remarkable, given that women in general are outpacing men in college completion and in earning advanced degrees.

What does this mean for policy? Previous studies have shown that overweight adolescents feel stigmatized by their peers and their teachers, have fewer friends and often feel socially isolated. Teenagers who feel less connected to teachers, school and peers are less likely to graduate and go on to college. So policies to help overweight girls need to work on two levels: promoting healthful behaviors and shifting attitudes.

Obesity is occurring in children at younger and younger ages, so prevention needs to start as early as primary school. While early intervention has obvious potential health benefits, it is also critical from a career perspective. In addition, overweight girls should be encouraged to participate in college preparation courses and extracurricular activities. Health education that focuses on diet and exercise but does not stigmatize overweight teenagers is critical.

Teachers and principals need to be aggressive in limiting bullying and looking for signs of depression in overweight girls. Teenage girls, regardless of body size, struggle with self-esteem and are at higher risk of depression than boys, so expanding health education to include psychological as well as physical health could help all girls. Public health campaigns should reframe the problem of obesity from one of individual failure to one of public concern.

The economic harm to overweight women is more than a series of personal troubles; it may contribute to the rising disparities between rich and poor, and it is a drain on the human capital and economic productivity of our nation.

Christy M. Glass and Eric N. Reither are associate professors of sociology at Utah State University. Steven A. Haas is an assistant professor of sociology at Arizona State University.

Just a little Nip and Tuck.

I admit.
I'm a photoshopper. 

Goodbye sags under my eyes. 

Goodbye giant blemish on my chin.

Are there parts of my body I'd like to lift, tuck and suck? Sure. Doesn't mean I'm going to (no offense to anyone but I still don't trust the medical techniques out there). 

I think there is a time and a place for these alterations: i.e., getting rid of that giant red pimple on my nose before sending out the family Christmas cards.

There are some physical body-modifications I have a harder time with. I'm all for freedom of self and you can do to yourself what you want...I just start worrying when parent's are making these choices for their children and when modifications turn to addiction. But then I also know I'm not in any place to make the call for others.

Beauty changes with time and everyone's view of what "beauty" is, is different.

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Capturing Beauty, With All Its Flaws

By Simone S. Oliver

May 17, 2011

IN 2010 there were more than 12 million cosmetic procedures — from breast implants to Botox injections — performed in the United States, according to the American Society of Plastic Surgeons. Meanwhile, there is at least one mother who has injected Botox into her child, a beauty pageant contestant (as seen on “Good Morning America” last week); a steady stream of models in uneasy relationships with their body weight, and magazine layouts in which skin color and body shapes have been digitally modified.

All of these subjects are examined in “Beauty Culture,” the first fashion- and beauty-themed exhibition to be held at the Annenberg Space for Photography in Los Angeles, the heartland of Hollywood goddesses and plastic surgery. A celebrity-filled gala will be held tonight for the show, which opens on May 21 and runs through Nov. 27.

As visitors walk along the winding halls of the exhibition space, they will find 175 images by more than 100 photographers, from straight-up glamour portraits to more-unsettling images, such as a needle entering a lip.

“We wanted to talk about the ugly side of the beauty industry alongside the beauty,” said Kohle Yohannan, its curator. But, he said, “I didn’t want it to just be a finger wag. This is the beginning of a dialogue. it’s not a statement.”

Patricia Lanza, Annenberg’s director of talent and content, asked Mr. Yohannan to be involved in “Beauty Culture” after she visited “Model as Muse,” a 2009 exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art that Mr. Yohannan curated with Harold Koda.

Mr. Yohannan said it was important to him to present the pictures in “chapters,” such as “The Marilyn Syndrome,” “Beauty Inc.: The $300 Billion Cosmetics Industry” and “What Color Is Beauty?”

“The story of beauty is complicated,” he said. “Trying to generalize it is lazy.”

Many of the photographs were shot by heavyweights in the fashion industry such as Steven Meisel, and some are by lesser-known artists, including Nino Muñoz, who has worked extensively with the model Gisele Bundchen.

One of the show’s highlights is a 30-minute documentary that will play every hour. It was directed by the photographer Lauren Greenfield, whose prints are also featured.

Ms. Greenfield has covered beauty-related subjects like aging throughout her career, mostly from a cultural perspective. During her research for the film, she said she learned to look at the subject from a biological standpoint with the help of Nancy Etcoff, an assistant clinical professor at Harvard Medical School, who is interviewed in the film. Dr. Etcoff wrote the book “Survival of the Prettiest,” an exploration of the biological relationship people have with beauty.

Ms. Greenfield said her dialogue with Dr. Etcoff “gave me perspective when shooting things like eating disorders, plastic surgery, fashion.”

For her part, Dr. Etcoff said she thought the exhibition could make people “think again about many issues: about what they consider beautiful and why, why it is part of human nature and what role certain images and photographers and media play in our ideas about the boundaries of beauty.”

Digital photography has made it easy to manipulate how people appear, resulting in unrealistic examples of beauty that may skew some people’s expectations of themselves and others. The exhibition examines this with the Beauty Culture Digital Salon, where guests can alter a photo of themselves and choose a “before” or “after” picture.

It is tempting to think that the digital revolution introduced new levels of fakery, said Zed Nelson, a photographer featured in “Beauty Culture” who has spent part of his career considering the effects of the globalization of Western beauty ideals. But retouching and clever lighting are as old as portraiture itself, he pointed out.

Such manipulation, he said, is “kind of like the apple in the Garden of Eden: it’s so readily available that people use it without thinking. And I think that’s had an effect. Some images in magazines, they’re almost becoming illustrations instead of photographs.”

There has been some backlash against such images. For example, the May 2010 issue of Marie Claire had Jessica Simpson, without makeup, on the cover. In this month’s issue of Harper’s Bazaar, Diane Von Furstenberg, photographed bare-faced by Chuck Close, says she believes that imperfections and wrinkles give a person character.

But such experiments are rare.

“We have a Venus for every era,” Mr. Yohannan said. “And the war that pop culture wages on the female body should be looked at closely. These models are not the norm.”

One current pop goddess, Lady Gaga (on the cover of May’s Harper’s Bazaar), is challenging beauty norms. There are no photos of her in “Beauty Culture,” but she may share some of its goals.

“When everybody around you has had their breasts enlarged, their teeth whitened and their skin peeled, then you become the odd one out, you become the freak,” said Mr. Nelson, the photographer. “That’s the scary thing. And so anything that draws attention to that is a good thing.”

Fearless Women

I was lucky growing up. Not only did I have a family full of strong and independent woman but they also encouraged me to read and gave me a number of books with strong female characters. I am so glad more and more authors are giving young girls more female heroes and women to admire. 

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Picture Books About Fearless Women
By Pamela Paul

In the 1980s, biography-loving schoolgirls had to content themselves with predictable accounts either of a few favored first ladies like Dolley Madison (with the inevitable ice cream associations) and Abigail Adams, or of the courageous nurses Clara Barton and Florence Nightingale.

Remarkable women, for sure. But in the last decade especially, authors of children’s biographies have put their “Free to Be” ideals to paper, not only writing sophisticated history, but also exploring the lives of women quite different from the usual girl-crush suspects. Two new biographies, the bittersweet “Queen of the Falls,” written and illustrated by Chris Van Allsburg, and the rollicking “Nurse, Soldier, Spy,” written by Marissa Moss and illustrated by John Hendrix, are admirable and enlightening examples.

In “Queen of the Falls,” daredevil heroism comes unexpectedly from a former charm school teacher, 62-year-old Annie Edson Taylor. Widowed and poor, with few marketable skills, Taylor had the inspiration to barrel (literally) over Niagara Falls as a way to fame and fortune — an early-20th-century David Blaine. She was the first person to perform the stunt, and remains the only woman ever to go over the falls alone.

Best known for fiction, in particular his Caldecott Medal winners “Jumanji” and “The Polar Express,” Van Allsburg adeptly turns an oddball historical footnote into an accessible adventure story for young middle-grade readers. The language is straightforward, and Van Allsburg’s trademark sepia-toned pencil drawings are, as always, superb. The book’s only shortcoming is its failure to explain what could have been going through Taylor’s mind, though perhaps such folly is ultimately unknowable.

“Nurse, Soldier, Spy” tells the fascinating story of another nonconformist, the cross-dressing Civil War hero Sarah Emma Edmonds, who, under the name Frank Thompson, joined the Union Army at age 19, becoming a battlefield nurse (“something only men with the strongest stomachs did”) and later a spy. Moss, best known for her winning middle-grade series, Amelia’s Notebook, is a lively prose writer, and Hendrix’s illustrations inject humor into what is actually a serious, if somewhat improbable, subject.

Edmonds’s life story (described in an 1865 memoir, “Unsexed; Or, the Female Soldier”) will appeal to a wide range of readers — girls hungry for heroines, Civil War buffs, adventure story lovers. The only question is for what age. Moss treats Edmonds almost as a transgendered man, calling her “Frank” throughout the story — though still using the feminine pronoun. It’s a decision that may confuse less sophisticated readers (and perhaps merits the publisher’s recommended age range of 9 to 12, though the book would otherwise work well for 7-year-olds). Refreshingly, however, “Nurse, Soldier, Spy” doesn’t shy from historical specificity, naming battles and addressing issues like desertion and treason.

Both books are well researched and include historical afterwords as well as photographs of their subjects — women who deserve this newfound recognition.

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Vibrators on a Shelf Near You

Vibrators Carry the Conversation

By Hilary Howard

Toothpaste? Check.
Tampons? Check.
Vibrator? Check!

For years, vibrators were bought quietly in sex shops, and later online, arriving in discreet unmarked packages. They were rarely discussed, other than perhaps during a late-night girl-talk session fueled by many glasses of pinot grigio. But now you can find them advertised on MTV and boldly displayed at Duane Reade, Walgreens and other mainstream drugstores, mere steps from the Bengay and Dr. Scholl’s.

The newest model on the shelves is the Tri-Phoria ($39.99), created by the condom company Trojan after a study the company conducted in 2008 in partnership with the Center for Sexual Health Promotion at Indiana University revealed that over half of American women had used vibrators, and of that group, nearly 80 percent had shared them with their partners. James Daniels, vice president for marketing at Trojan, said: “The idea really came from consumers. They kept telling us vibrators, vibrators. And we just laughed. And then we realized they were serious.”

The Tri-Phoria joins the A:Muse Personal Pleasure Massager by LifeStyles, which arrived in stores in January, and the Allure, by Durex, which made its over-the-counter debut in 2008; both models are $19.99. Alan Cheung, senior brand manager for Durex, said that sales of the company’s vibrating products are up 60 percent over the last six months, compared with the same period last year. “Consumers are definitely not shy about this kind of purchase in the retail environment,” he said.

This comes as no surprise to Rachel Venning, a founder of Babeland, a chain of sex-toy stores that opened a store in family-friendly Park Slope, Brooklyn, in 2008 to nary a ripple of protest. “I know women will buy them at Duane Reade, and as a lifelong cheerleader for sexual empowerment I’m thrilled at this development,” Ms. Venning said. “It’s one more step in the evolution of vibrators to just another consumer product, unburdened of its freight of shame, sexual defect and sluttiness.”

Liz Canner, who directed the 2009 documentary “Orgasm Inc.,” agrees. Her film confronted pharmaceutical companies that suggested women were dysfunctional, and therefore needed some sort of medicinal or therapeutic help, if they could not climax during sex. “It’s easier in a repressed culture to have a disorder than go to a sex store and get a vibrator,” Ms. Canner said in a recent interview. “Vibrators have been shown to enhance sexual pleasure for over 100 years now. Why not partake?”

Vibrators made occasional cultural cameos in the 1990s, with scenes in films like “She’s the One” and “Slums of Beverly Hills.” But it wasn’t until an episode of HBO’s “Sex and the City” —called “The Turtle and the Hare,” featuring an actual device called the Rabbit Pearl — that the vibrator truly emerged from the nightstand drawer.

“ ‘Sex and the City’ did as much for women’s sexual comfort as really anything has done in the past couple of decades,” said Dr. Laura Berman of “In the Bedroom with Dr. Laura Berman,” on OWN: Oprah Winfrey Network.

Dr. Berman, a prominent sex and relationship expert, also has a line of sex toys (drlauraberman.com), which she said grossed $5 million in 2010, up from $100,000 in 2005. After one appearance on “Oprah” that focused on adult women who had problems climaxing, one of her top-selling products, the Aphrodite, “was back-ordered forever,” she said. And in 2006 she sparked a national debate when she encouraged mothers to buy vibrators for their teenage daughters. “If she gets hot and bothered on a date,” Dr. Berman said about the daughter, “she can go home and self-stimulate, instead of getting pregnant.”

(Of course, a plastic battery-powered device is not needed for self-stimulation, but there is no market potential in that idea.)

Assessing the vibrator’s current ubiquity, Dr. Berman said, “Women are getting less and less caught up on an unrealistic and puritanical vision of what a good girl is. When they can embrace their self-stimulation, they can take ownership of their sexuality.”

Men interviewed proclaimed themselves not only unthreatened by the addition of accessories to their partners’ sex lives, but downright enthusiastic. Jeremy, 31, a content strategist in the entertainment business who lives in New York and wanted his last name omitted for privacy, said, “From my perspective, a woman who has thoroughly explored her own body, both alone and with or without whichever toys she finds interesting, makes for a significantly better lover.”

Kate, 29, a programming coordinator in New York who has been Jeremy’s girlfriend for a year and a half, calls herself “an evangelist for vibrators.” In college, she recalled seeing a Hello Kitty-themed one. “I wanted it just because it was kitschy and cool,” she said. “I thought it was so ridiculous that I ended up doing a bit more research and started to take it seriously.”

Kate, a devoted Babeland customer, said that at one point she asked her friends to pool their money and buy her a fancy vibrator for her birthday, which she promised to review for them.

And when Lou, 44, who lives on Long Island and has been married to Sarah, 47, for 20 years, was found to have prostate cancer, he used a make-your-own vibrator kit to make a mold of himself for his wife before having surgery.

“It never entered my mind that, oh, my God, this was bad,” he said.

Carol Queen, who is the curator of the Antique Vibrator Museum and a staff sexologist for Good Vibrations, a sex-toy retailer since 1977 that bills itself as the “original clean well-lit place to buy vibrators,” attributes more-honest discussions about sex and pleasure to fear of H.I.V./AIDS in the early 1990s, which led to frank discussions about condoms. She also mentioned a shift in published erotica at that time.

“There was something of a pendulum swing from the sex conservatism of the ’80s to the lively sex publishing of the ’90s, zines, anthologies, small presses,” she said. “Then people in more-mainstream venues heard about toys. As soon as mainstream culture looks at an issue, it becomes fair game for everyone else.”

And now, thanks to Suki Dunham, 43, vibrators also have an iPhone app.

Ms. Dunham, a former business manager for Apple, was a stay-at-home mother for four years before founding OhMiBod, a line of vibrators that synchronize rhythmically with iPods, iPads, iPhones and other smartphones. (But, she said, “Our product line won’t be sold at the Apple store any time soon.”) She got the idea after her husband, Brian, who was then traveling frequently for his job at Tyco, gave her an iPod and a vibrator for Christmas.

He later quit to help his wife market her invention, which has faced some hurdles. Nylon Magazine refused to run an ad, Ms. Dunham said. And the federal Small Business Administration denied her loan application because they said she ran a “prurient” business.

“I can sit with my 10-year-old daughter during prime-time TV and watch a commercial for Viagra,” Mr. Dunham said, “but I can’t advertise our OhMiBod fan page within Facebook.”

OhMiBod’s Freestyle :G is more expensive than the drugstore versions, at $120, a price comparable to other models from Jimmyjane, Lelo and Je Joue. Perhaps the top of the line is the Lelo Inez, which for $13,500 offers a “virtually silent” engine, according to the company, and either a 18-karat gold-plated or stainless steel finish.

But inconspicuous consumption remains the industry standard. Dr. Berman said she packages her toys in what look like “perfume boxes.” Trojan offers a discreet lavender box. Passion Parties is a direct sales company that offers products at in-home parties, during which women place orders with a salesclerk in a private room. “We don’t have a porn star on the package. To us that’s just degrading,” said Pat Davis, the company president. “There is still a strong desire for the confidentiality of it.”

The ability to shop online has surely helped the rising popularity of vibrators; Good Vibrations’s business has grown by 60 percent since the ’90s. “I am all about the Internet,” said Ellie, 32, a student and Babeland customer in Old Town, Me. “People want them, but they don’t want to go to the creepy stores with the creepy people.”

But the creep factor has also decreased significantly since vibrators began to be portrayed in popular culture. Dr. Berman’s vibrating panties appeared in the 2009 movie “The Ugly Truth,” starring Katherine Heigl and Gerard Butler. “That scene would not have been in a major Hollywood movie 10 years ago,” Dr. Berman said. Her products were also in a recent episode of “Private Practice” on ABC, though they remained in the boxes. And Kandi Burruss, a singer-songwriter and one of Bravo’s “Real Housewives of Atlanta,” has decided to create a line of vibrators with Ms. Dunham’s help.

The history of the device is an ongoing source of fascination. In a poke at early 1960s prudishness, an episode in the first season of “Mad Men” featured a wired girdle called the Electrosizer. Sarah Ruhl’s critically acclaimed 2009 Broadway play, “In the Next Room (or the vibrator play),” explored the socio-cultural reasons behind the invention of the vibrator, which was to treat “hysterical” women medically, in the 1880s.

And “Hysteria,” a romantic comedy in post-production that will star Maggie Gyllenhaal and Hugh Dancy, will recount the same point in Victorian history. The plot revolves around Mr. Dancy’s character, a young earnest doctor who takes a job massaging women’s pelvises into “paroxysms.” But when the doctor develops carpal tunnel syndrome, his best friend (Rupert Everett), who is obsessed with electricity, invents a device that has impressively efficient curative powers.

“Americans are ready to laugh at the vibrator as a medical device,” said Tanya Wexler, the director of “Hysteria,” whose movie takes a winking look at what Ms. Canner alludes to in her documentary: the medical treatment of women who aren’t perfectly orgasmic — about which Ms. Wexler feels similarly perplexed.

“People don’t need doctors for it,” she said “They just need a little bit of freedom.”

Article: Fat Bias Worse for Women

I am in no way supportive of the B.M.I. and believe that the world needs to work on their use of the term "obese". With my height and weight I'm considered "morbidly obese"...what a disgusting term. Still terminology aside I think this is an interesting (introduction) article about women experiencing more weight-discrimination then men. 

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Fat Bias Worse for Women

By Tara Parker-Pope

It only takes a modest weight gain for a woman to experience weight discrimination, but men can gain far more weight before experiencing similar bias, a new study shows.

The notion that society is less tolerant of weight gain in women than men is just one of the findings suggested by a new report from the Rudd Center for Food Policy & Obesity at Yale University, published this month in the International Journal of Obesity.

For the study, researchers documented the prevalence of self-reported weight discrimination and compared it to experiences of discrimination based on race and gender among a nationally representative sample of adults ages 25 to 74. The data was obtained from the National Survey of Midlife Development in the United States.

Overall, the study showed that weight discrimination, particularly against women, is as common as racial discrimination. But the researchers also identified the amount of weight gain that triggers a discriminatory backlash. They found that women appear to be at risk for discrimination at far lower weights, relative to their body size, than men.

Based on body mass index, which is a measure of body fat based on height and weight, a normal weight is in the range of 18.5 to 24.9. The study found that women begin to experience noticeable weight bias — such as problems at work or difficulty in personal relationships — when they reach a body mass index, or B.M.I., of 27. For a 5-foot-5-inch woman, that means discrimination starts once she reaches a weight of 162 pounds — or about 13 pounds more than her highest healthy weight, based on B.M.I. charts.

But the researchers found that men can bulk up far more without experiencing discrimination. Weight bias against men becomes noticeable when a man reaches a B.M.I. of 35 or higher. A 5-foot-9-inch man has a B.M.I. of 35 if he weighs 237 pounds — or 68 pounds above his highest healthy weight.

The study also revealed that women are twice as likely as men to report weight discrimination and that weight-related workplace bias and interpersonal mistreatment due to obesity are common. The researchers found that weight discrimination is more prevalent than discrimination based on sexual orientation, nationality or ethnicity, physical disability and religious beliefs.

“However, despite its high prevalence, it continues to remain socially acceptable,” said co-author Tatiana Andreyava, in a press release.

Age Descrimination

New York Times: Social Q's

by Philip Galanes

"Long-in-the-Tooth Teasing

I’m the youngest person at work, and my co-workers tease me about it incessantly. Think how appalling it would be if they teased the oldest person for being old. So why is this all right? I’ve tried laughing it off, changing the subject, and not reacting — to no avail. How can I stop this?

Allison, New York City

Being teased for being young is like being teased for being gorgeous or rich. It’s practically a compliment — since most of us covet the underlying condition. (You must be very young if you can’t see that, Allison.)

Still, if you want the ribbing to stop, head to the ringleader and say: “Not to be a killjoy, but your jokes are getting old. (Har har.) Would you please knock it off?” Bet it stops. And don’t worry too much if it doesn’t. You’ll be wizened old crow, like the rest of us, before you know it."

The Internet is the real world

"I was blinded by the common belief that somehow a relationship forged on the Internet isn’t real. When I saw that fated text message — “I love you” — I realized the truth. The Internet is not a separate place a person can go to from the real world. The Internet is the real world. Only faster." -excerpt from Modern Love - Instant Message, Instant Girlfriend. New York Times

Navigating in a Long-Distance Affair

Navigating in a Long-Distance Affair
By Michael Parker

That there were 1,200 miles and several states between us meant constant motion: planes, taxis, buses, trams. And a lot of sitting around waiting — in airports, for cabs, for one of us to pick up the other.

Over time, the states between us grew emotional as well as physical: not only Tennessee and Arkansas but also anxiety, longing and anger at cancellations or delays and irritation at those who haunt airport gates all over America yelling into their cellphones (“We’re here!” or “I had Quiznos for lunch!”) Or worse, detailing the specifics of their vocation, which, sadly, is never sex therapist.

When you are in a long-distance relationship, you try to accept the conditions of the arrangement. I became very good at packing. I kept my bag half-packed in the closet. And I became better at collecting frequent flier miles, printing my boarding pass in advance, checking for threatening weather in the days before my flight from North Carolina to central Texas.

I became used to passionate greetings in dark garages used for short-term parking; exhaust fumes will forever be an aphrodisiac to me. But I never became used to the dreaded drop-offs, which were excruciating despite my attempts to mask the pain with stoicism or strained humor or complaints about the expectation of long lines at security.

They were little deaths, every time. That tense hug in the no-waiting zone in front of the terminal, the quick “I’ll see you in no time” kiss, the baggage handlers bored by the sight of our ritual, the police urging us to move along.

And then inside the airport, the heavy fluorescent lighting and stained carpet made me feel so beleaguered I would consider eating a soft pretzel, even though I was never hungry, just tired: of traveling, of parting, of trying to figure out how to live in the same town with the woman I loved. The atmosphere of airports, their sterilized but frayed utility, became the psychic landscape of my pain.

“Baby, come back,” I wanted to scream into my cellphone. I wanted to forget about all the reasons we were stuck in different towns: jobs, children, aging parents, mortgages. We would quit our jobs and downsize to an Airstream. We would watch the local news on a rabbit-eared television and warm up pizza in a toaster oven.

We had met through a mutual acquaintance in Austin, Tex., where I was a visiting professor for a semester and she was working in advertising. I’d grown up in North Carolina, she in North Dakota, and aside from everything else we had in common, our being from the more northerly states of twin provinces torn asunder seemed significant. But we had only months together before I had to return to my permanent job in North Carolina. And though that might have been the end of us, we kept coming together.

“Hey, we’ll try it,” we told ourselves. A few times we gave up. It was too hard, too far. How long can we keep doing this? What’s the long-term plan?

And then there was a plan, and it was to keep on doing what we were doing, because apart we suffered.

We missed each other so much we ventured into the cyberworld of Skype — which was sweet seeing her face and hearing her voice in real time, and unsettling in the way that, at some point in the night, we would have to say goodbye. I’d push a button, the screen would go blank and I would be alone again.

Last summer I had 10 days with her in Texas. She managed to get a day off from work to spend with me.

“What should we do?” I asked. We had spent the last few nights grilling out and watching movies, enjoying a rare domesticity, and it was tempting, every time we were together, to stay put and play house.

“We could go tubing,” she said. “I haven’t been on the river since I moved down here.”

She had taken a new job south of Austin, and had moved to a town famous for its two rivers and for the tubing outfitters along its banks. Neither of us had ever thought of floating down the river, despite that she lived a half-mile from one of the largest and busiest outfitters in town. In fact, we’d made fun of the throngs of high school and college students who, with warmer weather, had begun to appear half-naked and sweaty-wet on the sidewalks of town, clinging to their slick black tubes.

“I think we have to get a tattoo first,” I said. “I don’t think they’ll let you on the river if you’re tattoo-less.”

“You get tramp stamped,” she said, referring to the lower-back tattoos typically seen on women, “I’ll get sleeved.” (She was a fan of gender role reversal: I did all the cooking, she drove the one-ton pickup.)

It was late spring, Texas-hot already, and with only seconds of trash talk that passed for aforethought (for aforethought defined us, deciding when to visit, how long to stay, exactly what time we could leave and still make the flight), we decided to hit the river.

In the cool green Comal River, we lashed our tubes together with twine and floated for the next four hours. There were a lot of other people on the river that day; it was the Friday before Memorial Day. And at a certain point the crowds, floating in clumps at the center of which were tubes sunken under the weight of stocked coolers of beer, were so thick you could scarcely see the water.

But we were barely aware of the revelers, and the water below us felt divine, as did the dilatory pace down the river, the easy, lazy conversation we had, my arm around her sun-touched shoulder, the lack of anxiety I felt about our future, my return to North Carolina, the next time I would see her.

Three-quarters through our voyage we came upon a tube chute, which diverted the throngs from a dam in the river. Since she is not a strong swimmer, she decided to portage her tube, putting it in again a little past the dam. I chose the chute, and told her I would meet her on the other side. The eddy spun me in quick exhilarating circles, and in seconds the frothy channel deposited me on a shallow shelf of rocks.

Though the landing hurt, it wasn’t physical pain but separation anxiety that plagued me as I waited for her to arrive.

I decided that the river, its pace picking up again, was just another form of movement. I wanted what we had before we’d reached that dam: the two of us barely moving, lashed together, light touch and easy laughter on a spring afternoon with hours of lazy time ahead of us and a few days before we had to part.

The current spun me off to the side. I grabbed a branch on the bank and waited and with each second grew more frantic. Maybe she was ahead of me on the river. How would we ever find each other? There were buses to transport us back to where we put in, and if worse came to worst, we could meet back at the car. But I did not want to board a bus without her.

Suddenly she was alongside me, her tube spinning in a way that indicated she had decided to risk the chute. I was proud of her fearlessness and told her so.

A couple of months later, after a tearful phone call in which we decided that we could not keep doing what we’d been doing, that the distance between us was just too great, I thought of that tube chute.

A love affair is not a short story. A story hinges upon a single moment that encapsulates the conflict — a continental divide on the other side of which the water flows off to a different ocean.

Singling out that afternoon on the river, the tube chute in particular, was an artificial construct, a way for me to understand our potential future. Increasingly, that moment when we approached the tube chute, and what happened after, became the instance that proved we could outwit timing and distance, as if doing so was as simple as finding a passageway to whisk us around our obstacles and deposit us, aligned, in the wondrously slow current.

That’s how these things work in fiction. Out of the water that spring day, limping up the steps to where we would wait for a bus, I told her about landing on those rocks, and she confessed to the same fate. Later, at home, when we compared our bruises, we found we were chafed in the very same place: the so-called sit bones, so sensitive to sitting around while waiting to come or go.

Michael Parker teaches writing at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. His novel “The Watery Part of the World” is forthcoming in April from Algonquin.

"When a Former Life Beckons"

I read this article in the NYTimes today - the title "When a Former Life Beckons" but it was the subtitle and tag-line that really made me decide to read.

The subtitle: Renewing a Tattoo

The tag-line: A youthful mark turns out to be a good inoculation against atrophy

Being as I have a tattoo I've been thinking of having up-dated and working at a medical school I was amused by the topic and word choice - my curiosity was grabbed.

I read through it and had an initial reaction of "Awww."

I cheered when she reclaimed her body and put a new and thought out tattoo over the old alcohol-induced-spontaneous one, "I decided to get a new tattoo. Or rather, I decided to reclaim my old one."

The romantic heart in me fluttered when the story ended with her husband asking her a question she wasn't asked before, "Did it hurt?"

*     *     *

Then I stopped. I began to wonder, "Would this be me?"

Not the regretting my tattoo or finding myself open to "something permanent" in the man I marry...but the feeling like I've "lost my swagger" or regretting a "Lucy Jordan" life.

Why is it that so many 30somethings (and beyond... 40s, 50s, etc) look back at their 20s and feel regretful, or at least shake their heads about the ignorance of youth?  Why are people waking up in their 30s to feel they spent a decade (their 20s and possibly younger) being a jackass and are ashamed of what they did? Why are some deciding once you become a 30something you hand over your "life-can-be-fun" card?

This is exactly the reason I started this blog. I'm just so confused as to what it means to be a 20something and what it will mean for me once they are over.

I haven't spent my 20s doing things I regret.
I haven't spent my 20s sitting at home under a rock.
I haven't spent my 20s in a drunk stupor swinging from the rafters either.
I don't plan to look at my 30s as the end of life.

I turn 28 in only a few weeks. My 20s are going to be over before I know it. I hope that once they are I can look back at them as a time of learning, a time of joy and sorrow, a time when I came into who I am. But equally I'm going to look forward to my 30s as a time of further growth. As a time of wisdom and another decade for more laughs, more nights out with the girls, more time to snuggle with the man I love.

I may not know what it means to be a 20something but I'm not going to regret trying to figure it all out.

One Night Stands and $3 Pitchers

A friend, and fellow blogger, recently asked for friends to email their blogs to him so he could develop and build his own blog following. That got me to start just scanning through other blogs/websites. I found some of beautiful photography, creating and changing the art world, and even discovering that a friend's blog (that I have obviously neglected for some time) has changed url addresses. 

There were also some unfortunate missteps....

Including a well disguised one called "25 things to do before you turn 25". 

Now at first when I saw the title I thought, "well I'm over 25 so let's see how well I did"

I started to read... 

"Your college experience flies by so fast that you’re often stuck standing in line for graduation wondering where the past four years went...." 

Very true; and now five-six years after I graduated college I still wonder where the years flew away to...then sentence two and three came along.... 

"You vaguely remember meeting your best friend when she held your hair back after your first frat party and you kinda remember that all-nighter you pulled to get 3 term papers done in one night. But the rest is a blur of theme parties, walks of shame, and begging your older sister for her fake ID."

Now there's nothing wrong if you met your best friend over a toilet, asked your sister/brother for their fake ID and who of us didn't have a night or two of cramming as many papers and studying in as we could. 

But I worried. 

Was this website going to do nothing but encourage the image that the purpose of "going to college" is to be as obnoxious, self-indulgent and vapid as you can before "growing up" and becoming a real adult...

"Before you know it, you’re out in the real world, working a real job alongside real people, wondering what happened to no-class Friday and $3 pitchers. And trust me, it ain’t fun.... I’ve put together the ultimate list of everything we, as fun-loving and fearless women, need to accomplish before we turn 25."

I consider myself a fairly "fun-loving and fearless" woman, and while there were a few on this list (which by the way was written by a STAFF of people) that I thought made sense (#5 Confront a fear, #16 Go 24 hours media free...) they weren't all necessarily as enlightened or something I feel 20-Something women should inspire to do.

#1 "Have a really good one night stand"...not just in general but "with a gorgeous guy". They proceed to inform you don't need to worry about any kind of connection other than physical, that you can just take the morning after pill, you won't ever need to contact him again, etc. OMG!! In a world still battling HIV/AIDS (not to mention other STDs and STIs) how can a website promote anonymous, unsafe sex?

#7 "Splurge on an awesome pair of jeans" How is this something to make sure you accomplish before turning 25 years old? I'm sorry you will never see me buying a $100plus pair of jeans. I don't care if they are magical and fit all different sized bffs.

#13 "Try an exotic food you can't pronounce" Now some folks may say I'm just starting to nit-pick now. After all the website is encouraging people to try new food/things right? Well how about learning how to pronounce the food? Or while you're out living in another country (#3) you..oh I don't know...learn the language so you can pronounce that "exotic" food. 

#17 "Skinny dip"...that's it, no explanation or reason, just "skinny dip".... Now my objection to the term SKINNY dip aside (I prefer nude swimming) couldn't they have said 'Go skinny dipping because it will help feel more comfortable with your body. Allow yourself to be happy with who you are.' No. Because after all that would be helpful.

Some just didn't make sense as to why they should be done BEFORE turning 25.... "Take your parents out to a nice dinner: because they deserve it", "Donate blood", "Learn to drive a manual", "Road trip with your friends", "See a Broadway Show", "Get a job working with food or clothes", "Be bold and have sex with the lights on"...

I don't object to all of these things. 

What I object to is applauding a superficial life of irresponsibility. 

With a media-world full of news articles like "What Is It About 20-Somethings?" spouting off that we don't want to accept responsibility and are on a perpetual Peter-Pan syndrome ride of living in Mom's basement and not wanting to grow up; and with tv shows like Jersey Shore, Real Housewives and Keeping Up with the Kardashians encouraging and promoting materialistic non-consequential lives....we 20-something need to realize that real-life is not a reality show and these 25 things to do in life aren't all there is out there. 

How about adding life goals like learning a language not because you have to but because you love the way the words sound...create weekly/monthly dinner parties to share in life's joys with friends/family...start a new hobby...find a job that you look forward to going to every day...rescue a dog/cat from a shelter...fall in love...fall in love again...

These are the things I want to accomplish in my life.