Introducing Viola Sharp.

So long abouts a year ago, I took a Burlesque class at the fitness/dance studio that I do all sorts of design for. As a part of that class, we were asked to create an alter ego -- our Burly stage presence -- and since I get hung up on names anyway, finding something to call myself other than my actual name was really hard.

I didn't end up getting to finish the class because I twisted my ankle (shocker there) but I had found what felt like the perfect name for the character I imagined I'd be on stage -- Viola Sharp.

If you do your research, you'll find it's a slight deviation from the name of the nanny for the Lindbergh baby when he was kidnapped, and who was, for a while, the main suspect in the baby's disappearance and eventual death. The stress and shame of the situation broke her and she took her own life rather than face the public scrutiny and hatred.

Heh. I kind of just liked the way it sounded, how it incorporated purple, but back stories are fun sometimes?

Anyway.

Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago, when the same studio was putting on a small pin-up contest at a car show. In a moment of irregular brazen confidence, I registered in the competition, mostly because my bathing suit this year was perfect and I'd already gotten incredible positive feedback from the one time I wore it to the pool:

And then I promptly spent the two weeks in between freaking out about being able to actually do the contest, mostly about pulling a retro pin-up look off with minimal resources and minimal hair.

It was mostly about the hair.

After approximately 3874923878329738 hours of Googling/YouTubing/Pinteresting variations of tutorials for pin-up hair for pixie cuts and finding practically nada and staying up entirely too late one night, I managed to beat my poor pixie cut into the tiniest of little victory rolls:

And then prayed that a new dye job wouldn't fry it beyond workability, because that pastel-faded thing I was trying to work out of fairly much sheer laziness wasn't going to cut it for my self-confidence in a pin-up competition, nope.

The morning of it took me, no joke, two hours to plaster all of my little split ends and fresh, still bleeding color into a smooth and purposeful style:

And I was SUPER NERVOUS about it staying in place and lasting through the heat and the wind and the sun and this contest.

Spoiler: it was fine. So fine that it stayed put after I took the pins out that night and was still pretty much in tact when I woke up the next morning. So, now I know.

There ended up being a miscommunication about when and how and where I was supposed to be and at what level of ready I should have been that resulted in me doing my make-up at the event while the workshop was being taught but I was prepared for chaos, so I ended up looking decent, I think:

Especially considering that I took this photo after the competition, back at home. I love products that last.

Back at the car show, my nerves flip-flopped between totally cool stage-trained actress to OMFG WHAT THE WHAT AM I DOING HERE (compounded slightly by Kyle informing me at the show that one of his students was in attendance, which, GREAT. AWESOME. SOMEONE STAB ME.) but that is what oversized sunglasses are for -- masking the crazed panicked look on your face without squishing your fake eyelashes.

Amirite?

And, thanks to a friend there, I have a full-length shot of me in all my pasty pale whiteness:

Part of the contest was being able to take photos with some of the old vintage cars at the show, and I should get a professional photo of me with a purple car that was moved in to be photographed with me specifically. Because obviously. I'll post it when I get it. GOT IT (thanks Keely!):

In the meantime, Kyle took this one after showing up to the car show and finding me on the hood of the purple car and his response being to yell at me not to dent the hood. WITH MY ASS. 

JERK.

The heart with the number there on my hip was my number for the contest. In case you had a burning desire to know.

After taking photos and then doing a little prance about the stage they'd set up, three judges tallied up our points and prizes were awarded to the top three contestants.

I won second place. 

I even have a trophy to prove it:

IT'S MADE OF CAR PARTS. HA. That's a lady holding a parasol, if you couldn't tell. 

I guess I'm okay with not winning first place as she was crowned "Mz White Trash & White Walls" (the name of the show) and I could probably live without that being something to put on my résumé. 

But it was quite the experience. I thought about it a lot from a feminist perspective, about signing up to be objectified, really, and decided that it wasn't about being seen by a bunch of strangers in my bathing suit. It was about me doing something I never dreamed I could even a year ago without having a panic attack and festering three months' worth of new self-loathing. I wasn't there for them -- I was there for me, which means objectification kind of fails when you refuse to participate in it, even when a gentleman with less teeth than I have on a single hand told me he wanted to stretch me over the top of his car and I just refused to acknowledge the comment, saying loudly enough to a fellow participant that my husband was due to show up any second and here's what he looks like so if you see him looking lost could you point him in my direction thanks so much.

I won't tell you what Kyle said he heard two guys behind him saying about me during the competition, but it was enough to make *me* gasp and go bug-eyed, so you know it was profane.

One thing I kept hearing from other women was that I was brave to be there in nothing but a bathing suit, but  for possibly the first time in my life I just couldn't get my brain to process that fear of being seen in so little. In the past couple of years I've become so proud of my body and what it's capable of that the fact that it's less than perfect doesn't bother me. I've been graced with a few culturally-desirable features and act ashamed due to a perceived failure in the pursuit of the impossible feat of perfection finally has hit me as nothing short of ridiculous. I don't expect really anyone to like the way I look -- but as long as I'm happy with what I see in the mirror and Kyle seems to minorly approve, then I'm good.

I think that's better for my kids to grow up around anyway than a mom that fits a very narrow (and frankly misogynistic) ideal of attractiveness and to watch her struggle to always maintain it.

I work out because it makes me feel good and I want to be healthy so I can enjoy my family for as long as possible. I like clothes and hair and make-up because it's another way to express my creativity and to play with public perception and challenge norms of femininity and beauty. And doing things that scare me, or appear scary, and being okay no matter what the outcome, I think that's an incredible lesson to teach them about confidence and self-worth and having fun and doing stuff that makes you happy no matter what anyone else thinks. Trying and failing is better than never trying at all. 

And the great part is that sometimes, you won't fail at all.

The First 5K.

I woke up approximately every fifteen minutes the night before, afraid I would miss my alarm.

My bedroom is completely black save for the small frosted window above my bathtub, so if it's light out at all it's hard to tell the approximate hour. My phone was on it's charger in the living room, in preparation to keep me company on the run, holding a brand-new playlist I'd made for the occasion, my first time trying to sync myself to the songs that would maintain my pace and my mood. Our small analog clock sits across the room, too far for me to see without my glasses, so telling the time of day or night is pretty hard no matter if you're anxiously anticipating an event or not.

In the morning Kyle prepped himself and the kids while I pulled things together, trying to decide what I'd need and what would only be in the way. We hit the road and met up with my uncle, aunt, and two of my three cousins from that branch, my kids playing shy amidst the large crowds and the several dogs in attendance.

I expressed my concern that he would miss me crossing the finish line if he let the kids wander too much -- I had no idea how long it would take me, but I didn't want him to overestimate my lack of training and miss this moment I'd been working towards for the better part of two months.

I started with my cousins, but quickly found myself pulling ahead of them (my youngest cousin, a cross country runner, stayed with my oldest cousin, with her healing hip) and weaving between runners and their accompanying dogs as I usually would weave through pedestrian traffic in a larger city than the one I live in.  I soon found my pace between a larger gentleman in a neon shirt, a couple in matching (gag) outfits, and a young girl with the child-sized version of the same running shoes I wore.

I made it about a mile and a half before my side began to cramp up, triggering my shingles pain to spear through my right lung and ribcage, forcing me to walk.

I knew I wouldn't be able to run the whole thing -- I was only six weeks into my eight week training program thanks to those shingles -- but I wanted to run as much as possible. I spent the last mile and a half running when I could, walking when the pain was too much, realizing that my walking speed is actually faster than some people's running pace. Having ridiculously long legs can be a benefit.

As we exited the neighborhood the course was in, I ran along a road that flanked my childhood neighborhood, albeit far less developed back then. The significance of being so close to most familiar places of my youth while accomplishing a goal of my adulthood was not lost on me.

I ran most of this leg, along that road, and pushed through the shingles pain to round the last corner into the parking lot where the finish line sat, the vision of it catching my breath and withdrawing a sob before I could stop it, refusing to become a blubbering mess a tenth of a mile from being able to say I did it.

I crossed at 34:52 according to the clock; 34:48 according to RunKeeper -- my younger cousin later said he thought the clock was about 20 seconds off, cutting my time to approximately 34:30. Official times haven't been released (that I know of) yet. [UPDATE: Race results are here. I was 114th across the line and 20th in my age bracket. I think that's decent.]

That's about ten minutes faster than I thought I'd do, based on my training times.

Kyle and the kids were at the finish line, though it took me a while to see them. Both kids gave me a huge hug, and as I switched from my running shoes to my flip flops to give my feet (and the slightly infected blister on my right pinky toe) some air, I listened as my kids cheered and clapped for the runners, both of them yelling yay, good job, you made it and my heart exploded with grace and pride. Kyle said they cheered almost the whole time, making several runners smile at their enthusiasm and glee.

We hung out for a moment longer, snacking on the fruit and water set out for the runners before getting smoothies in celebration.

And I'm ready for the next one.

Checking In.

So on top of shingles, those last couple of weeks were crazy.

I have a lot of stories to tell and pictures to share and life doesn't seem to be slowing down for one millisecond, but I think the two most important things you should know are:

(A) My race is this weekend. My family and I decided to do a different race than we first talked about -- this one is actually in support of the animal shelter I worked at while I was pregnant with Tova. I'm behind on my training schedule like whoa but I've talked with my cousin and we have plans to run-walk it together. So, hopefully I can get my butt in gear for the BlogHer 5K (if they're doing it this year) and be able to run that whole thing ... and possibly start training in July for a half marathon with this lady. Kind of from afar, but that's the magic of the internet. So if you're in the area and have nothing better to do at 9AM this upcoming Saturday morning (ha!) come on out and cheer everyone along. And then eat all the foods with me afterwards.

(B) After much internal drama and strife and effort and meetings and shenaniganry that comes along with entangling yourself with government programs and whatnot, we had our final preschool placement meeting with the school district for Tova. She does not qualify for services as a special needs child, which 99% of the time means she couldn't start school in the fall. BUT, because Kyle is, well, him (he's very involved in the administrative side of things for the whole district) they're going to let her in as a typical child at three years old, which is fairly unheard of. SO, come mid-August, aside from having to transport her myself to and fro since only IEP kids get transportation, I will have roughly two hours a morning COMPLETELY BY MYSELF four days a week. I can barely fathom what that will be like. Plus, bonus for my kids getting educations and all of that. That is A LOT of stress off of my shoulders.

Kyle's first day of break was yesterday, so we're full-out on summer vacation in these parts. We have a lot going on already this month and it's only the 5th, but I'll try to check in more often. For those of you who are curious, I'm 95% over the shingles (though I'm definitely going to scar) and that was a hellacious experience if ever I've had one. I wouldn't wish shingles on my worst enemy.

That's really about it for now. I'm alive. We're all relatively well. It's summer. Hooray!

{UPDATE} Also there was pretty awesome news on the house blog front. You should probably check that out.