The Mystery of Happiness

"How lucky we are, when we're spared what we think we want!"  - Lionel Shriver

I read that quote in Shriver's brilliant novel We Need to Talk About Kevin (the film is great as well, but the book is filled with gems), and it resonated with me so much that I wrote it down everywhere-- on notebooks, bathroom stalls, other people's phones, soles of shoes, and all social media platforms.

It put into words a powerful realization I had made about myself and my life but didn't know how to describe. I seem to have less and less certainty of what makes me happy, and I think that's a very good thing to come to terms with.

There were many things I thought would make me happy. 

I thought being thin would make me happy. I thought having small, perkier breasts would make me happy. I thought expensive bags would make me happy. I thought being a movie star would make me happy. I thought having a tall handsome boyfriend who would one day become my husband would make me happy. I thought being financially independent would make me happy. I thought having clear skin would make me happy. I thought not having stretch-marks or cellulite would make me happy. I thought being blonde would make me happy.

As I look at that list now, I see all those things I thought would make me happy were just that: ideas. Moreover, they were not tied to any real understanding of happiness, but rather to a deep need to belong. I would look around, see what made other people fit in and be cool, and label it as a recipe for happiness. If I have that, if I look like that, if I do that, if I own that, then I'll be happy.

I did get a lot of the things on that list. Others I gave up on. Either way, happiness didn't come automatically with the package. Yes, there was a great deal of satisfaction in losing weight and in being seen next to tall handsome boyfriends, but I wasn't happy. I placed my happiness outside of myself, not only in these external "achievements," but in other people seeing me as good enough to have them.

It's comfortable to do what is believed to make us happy. Everyone is relieved when I'm thin, clear-skinned, financially independent, and next to a tall handsome man. Those are the things I'm supposed to want and, for long enough, they were exactly what I wanted. But it takes effort to maintain the illusion. One day you eat a cupcake, you get a pimple, you lose your job, your boyfriend bores you, and you wonder if it's possible that happiness lives in things that are inherently transitory.

In realizing this, I have felt both confused and clear. I look at myself, my life, my goals, and my dreams with new eyes. Is this really what I want, or is it what I think I want? Do I ever know what I want, or do I only ever get to know for certain what I don't want after I've had it? 
 
I always had clear pictures of my ideal future: married (to a tall handsome man), with children of my own, and traveling the world starring in movies and acting in plays. Now, those pictures are blurry. I don't want these things "in general" anymore. I still want them, but only if it feels like it's right for me when it happens, and not because they fit into this pretty picture that makes me, and everyone else, more comfortable.

Maybe I'll fall in love with a short chubby hairy man. Maybe I'll be a teacher and act in plays for free for a long time and it'll be okay. Maybe I'll live in a suburb. Maybe I'll have straw handbags. Maybe my boobs will sag and it won't be so bad. Maybe I'll gain five pounds instead of losing the always-goal ten. Maybe I'll stop getting pimples and start getting wrinkles and I'll miss my pimples. Maybe I'll adopt four Vietnamese girls and fall desperately in love with them. Maybe I'll be a single mom. Maybe I'll have three marriages. Maybe I'll make a big movie and miss acting in little plays. Maybe I'll shave my head. Maybe I'll be single for years. Who knows.

Whatever it is that I don't know I want, I am now open to it more than ever before, and I am so excited to live.

Image from here.

Have you been spared what you thought you wanted and now see how lucky you were?

The 11th Anniversary of My Plastic Surgeries

Please God make me pretty.

But God is for the poor. The rich can go to sleep and wake up pretty.

Rip
Cut
Suck
Tuck
Nip
Perk
Sew
Scar

And into little jars went the woman I was meant to be. 

Twenty-six thousand dollars worth of self-esteem plastered onto me forever, and no more t-shirts at the beach. No more hiding in the bathroom during pictures. No more getting asked out as a joke.

Drip
Drop
Splash
Shh


Eleven years later, I still taste like plastic.

The Smart Girl Act

I know a lot of big fancy words. I'm articulate and I have a knack for language. I am educated and full of degrees. I know how to be The Smart Girl. It's easy, comfortable, and keeps people at just enough of a distance while maintaining their admiration. Also, I love the sound of my voice saying smart things. I picked up the act and perfected it as soon as I figured out I wouldn't succeed at The Hot Girl Act.

In high-school, I wished that I could be hot and popular. But I'm not a disciplined person, contrary to popular belief, and unless blessed with the thin-no-matter-what genes, hotness takes work. I don't know how to control my cravings and I don't like exercising. I like to eat, and I like to eat bad food, and I'd sooner get liposuction than spend 45 minutes a day doing crunches. It's not that I'm not hot (I wasn't in high-school, but I grew into some degrees of it later), it's that I don't know how to carry myself with ease as a Hot Girl. I am too awkward, too insecure, and too self-aware. When someone thinks I'm hot, I smile cutely and try to hide that I'm waiting for them to discover that I'm really not.

Now, read a book, write an essay, and discuss a topic-- those are things I can do. To the point of bordering (frequently) on arrogance, I love knowing what I'm talking about and impressing people with how well I can phrase it.

As my title suggests, however, it is an act. The Smart Girl Act is a pose, a performance, and a deflection of who I really am. I know it is, because I can see it when it comes out. My voice kind of changes, I have these strange gestures that make me feel more like an intellectual, and I interrupt people frequently because what I have to say is certainly smarter. I often sound like a pompous ass, and I can hear it. But I can't stop it; as soon as the desire to be liked comes up for me (and it comes up all the time), I bring out The Smart Girl. It's my safety net: if nothing else, they'll admire me for being smart.

I am not that arrogant on the inside. Within, I am simply begging people to like me. I am waiting for someone to love me enough to see through the wordy exterior. And though I can say a lot of things and sound really good saying them, I hardly care to be the smartest person in a room. I do plenty of stupid things, so why bother to present such a polished mind? I just don't know what else to do.

I am learning, at least, to observe it in action. Oh look at me now, showing off that I read that really long book full of big hard words... And, sometimes, I remember to take a breath and stop talking. Just be, and be myself, without forcing upon others my idea about who I am. It's hard, and I'm not fully succeeding yet, but a habit takes time to break. Little by little, I hope to shed the inauthentic Smart Girl Act and trust that I can be liked without it.

Tough stuff...

Anyone else got an act?

Tell Me I'm Beautiful

It takes a lot of strength to be the one to tell myself I am beautiful. It is one of the hardest parts of being single. When there's someone else telling me I'm gorgeous, then I don't have to, and it doesn't take any effort to boost my self-esteem. But when there's no one there saying out loud, You're beautiful, I don't get to hear it, and when I don't hear something for long enough, it becomes more difficult to maintain it as a truth. If I'm the only one telling myself I'm pretty, then is it still true? 

I do my hearts meditation, I go to my sexy feminine fitness class, I give myself goddess-like treats, I dress up and make it a point to fall in love with the reflection in the mirror. I do all that. I am skilled at observing my mind's patterns and cultivating positivity. But I can't be another person, I can't fabricate eyes that look at me and see my beauty, I can't bring to life a being that tells me what they see. Loving myself, while being of utmost importance, is not like being loved by another.

Will it ever be enough to just hear it from myself? I don't know. I sometimes wonder if I am strong enough to go on for much longer without meeting a fella who can tell me, You're the prettiest girl in the room. It sounds so silly and small, but it's so not. Not for me. I come to life when I am loved and wanted. I am strengthened by love. My inner glow multiplies when someone else sees me as truly beautiful. And I suspect I am not alone in this.

I am talking about love and inner beauty, yes, but I am also talking about plain superficial beauty too. The first look and the glimmer in the eyes that goes with it. Ah, how I miss that. The right guy will see it, my friends say. He'll know how lucky he is. I have good friends, and it's not that I doubt my looks or that I am attractive to men, but you know- I'd like to have someone around to tell me so.

I don't want people to know this about me. I rather be seen as confident and self-assured, a woman who doesn't need to be told by a man that she is good-looking. But I cannot be that strong all the time. I am human, after all, and I am seeking to be loved. For now, I am the one cheering my ego on. But when I haven't got anything left to say to myself and I am sitting in silence, I can hear it, deep inside me: the need. Tell me I'm beautiful.

The Importance of "Me Time"

Between four jobs and two plays, I have discovered the importance of doing things, every day, that are just for me. Something that gives me pleasure, that makes me smile, that warms my heart, and that improves my quality of life. I share some here with you, and encourage you to find your own and share them, for they have a very powerful effect on the people around you too.


- Having a chocolate chip cookie from pret a manger. 
Maybe not something to do every day (unless it's an especially hectic week), but every once in a while, it is necessary to indulge. Their cookies are perfect. In 30 seconds, they improve my day and spirits by 100%. Try them. I am sharing with you one of my best-kept secrets, friends. Do not take it for granted. Go to pret a manger. Get a chocolate chip cookie. It will change your life too.

- Listening to fun music. 
It has taken me a long, long time to find this. The thing is, I love folk music, so I have always assumed that it made me happy. But actually, silly and fun music makes me happiest, fastest. As it turns out, I don't always need meaningful lyrics and sad guitar strings. Sometimes I need... Lady Gaga and Lily Allen, over and over again.

Tiramisu I made last week. 

- Cooking or baking something complicated.
If you're my facebook friend, you've seen the pictures. Cooking and baking gives me a ridiculous amount of pleasure, and even though I often do it for others, the act itself is just for me. If a recipe takes 5 hours, I'm all about it. If it takes 3 days, even better. Orange marmalade, braised lamb shanks, chocolate mousse, or an entire Thanksgiving meal from scratch-- it all makes me incredibly happy. And I'm notorious for not wanting anyone in the kitchen with me. It's my me time, and I share it only with my sharp chef knife and my extra extra virgin Italian olive oil.

- Reading a self-help book.
I love self-help books. Curling up in a corner and reading them with a pad of paper next to me so I can write out all of the blazing insights I'm having about myself makes me so happy. Currently reading: "The 5 Love Languages," by Gary Chapman. Highly recommend it!


- Watching The Food Network. 
I can't watch anything for as long as I can watch The Food Network. It drives anyone who lives with me crazy, but I am an addict. I'm a foodie. It makes me happy to learn about food.

- Walking.
I often get off the subway one or two stops before my destination so I get a little walking time. It's just so important to me. I can think, clear my head, observe, listen to some music, feel the world around me, and decompress. Even 10 minutes of walking makes a difference in my quality of life.

- Writing. 
I always feel so happy after I blog. And I have four journals: my one sentence a day for five years journal, my dream journal, my morning pages pad, and my journal journal. Things are on my mind, on to the paper or screen they go. Toxic thoughts especially need to get out, but insights, gratitude lists, prayers, and hopes also need to be written down. And I like to be alone when I write. It's my me time. It's important. It makes me happy.

Vanity and I

Ours is a love story, like so many before it, rooted in an external search for acceptance, completion, and happiness. Abusive at times, melodramatic at others, and full of resentment and bitterness, Vanity and I have had a turbulent relationship.

At 16.

I did everything I was supposed to do. I was always manicured, pedicured, waxed, exfoliated, cleansed, starved, tucked, lifted, firmed, smoothed, and glossed. My hair was always long, my clothes were always form-fitting and feminine, and my perfume was whatever the magazine told me was a man's favorite scent on a woman. If my hands were dry or my lips chapped, I'd be embarrassed, and I'd never dare take my shoes off if I was overdue for a pedicure.

Vanity was with me every single day. And for as long as there was enough money, there were solutions to everything. Needles could smooth out stretchmarks, electric shocks could stop hair from growing where it shouldn't, surgeries could lift, tuck, and sew in anything that wasn't in place. Pills could make me stop eating. She had an answer for everything.

I did not think she would ever leave me, and I certainly did not think I would ever leave her. 

When a teacher quite forcefully told me that if I wanted to be an actor I had to get messy, dirty, ugly, and, above all, let go of my vanity and ego, I was baffled. Like a slave born into a life of unquestionable servitude, blind to the absurdity of her circumstances, I was suddenly made aware of my binding chains.

At 22.

I cut off my hair. I stopped getting my nails done. I bought a dozen yoga pants. I set my make up, stomach-gripping jeans, and heels to the back of my closet. And I started eating french fries.

In order to set myself truly free, I had to let go of Vanity completely. I had to break up with her, and I was very, very angry. I was ready to break mirrors and burn bras, such was the depth of my pain. You trapped me, chained me, butchered me, controlled me, and erased me. I want nothing to do with you, ever again.

She complied. She left me alone. And I was so happy to find the freedom within stretchy pants, flats, messy short hair, and unpainted uneven nails, that I did not miss her at all. It was a blissful time, and I did grow tremendously as an actor. Vanity murders creativity. For the next couple of years, I was unstoppable.

But I was not done growing. We never are. 

It was a group of actor friends that next freed me when they proposed, gently, that I indulge in my vanity, flaunt my femininity and sexiness, and invite a little ego back. Again, I felt a light turn on in a dark room within me. In my complete negation of Vanity, I did not realize she was still controlling me. I feared her so fiercely, I never considered that we could have a healthy, balanced relationship.

As I had done years earlier when I dispelled Vanity completely, I was ready to take on the challenge of welcoming her back for the sake of my growth as an actor. 

I have been taking slow, cautious steps every day towards discovering what feels good to me, what I like indulging in, and what daily doses of Vanity I can take. I felt my hair touch my shoulder the other day and was surprised by how much I liked the feeling of it. I dug up my eyeliner from its grave and played with different ways to bring attention to my eyes. I looked at each part of my body and asked myself, How do I celebrate this body part's beauty? 

It is no coincidence that The Body Stories emerged at the same time. I am telling stories that I hope inspire others to find a peaceful relationship with their bodies. It was time I worked on mine. 

I know Vanity is not a real person who forced me to do things I didn't want to. I know that when I talk of Vanity I am talking about a relationship I had with myself in pursuit of an ideal. But sometimes it's too hard to look at myself, to touch the parts of my body I have butchered, and not want to blame it on an external source.

Here we are, Vanity and I, with our loaded past, working on our relationship. And it does take work. I'd be lying if I said she were no longer a threat, and that our relationship is always healthy and balanced. I am still mostly afraid of her. When I spend 45 minutes on my hair, I have to make sure, every other minute, that I am doing this because I want to. And, when I wear yoga pants for five days in a row, I have to check that I am not avoiding her. But, step by step, we are figuring each other out, and I am a little bit closer to true freedom.

At 26.

The Body Stories: Trailer and Website!

I am so excited to share this! It is my heart's work, my baby, my medicine, and my gift to humanity.

My project, created from scratch alongside Jeanne Joe Perrone, with Victoria Bennet, Melinda Graham, and Breanna Noel, has a beautiful trailer and website now!

Watch, learn, share, like, comment, and be inspired!

website: http://thebodystories.weebly.com

trailer: 

Thank you to Yvonne Yu, our videographer, and John Wyffles, our designer.

Thank you to all who have supported us! Come on out on January 22nd to see our first rendition of The Body Stories!

The Body Stories

Alongside Jeanne Joe Perrone, a fellow Actors Studio Drama School MFA graduate and boundlessly inventive artist, I have created my upcoming theater production, The Body Stories. A year in the making, and a lifetime in my heart, we are now producing this physical theater meets live art show that lets our bodies tell their stories. After all, we believe our bodies know more than we do. We are scheduled to perform on January 22nd, 2012, in Manhattan, and we are thrilled to share this rendition of our work with you! 

I struggled from an early age with body image issues. As a teenager in Brazil, the pressure from the media, the society I lived in, and the people around me skewed my perception of myself, to the point where I had three plastic surgeries by the age of 15, battled eating disorders, and underwent countless dangerous, expensive, and painful procedures in order to attain what I perceived as real beauty. Having survived my turbulent adolescent angst and violent insecurities, I arrived at adulthood with a new task: understanding my past and finding compassion for how I treated myself over those years. The arduous road ended at the expected destination: self-love and self-acceptance.

That I lived to tell this story is not something I take for granted. I know that body image issues are present in the lives of most teenagers and adults, especially women, and I feel in my heart that I have a responsibility to tell my story. I have found an artistic expression to my innermost scars with The Body Stories, and it is the most important piece of theater I have worked on to date. It is a message I am carrying because I have to; this story lives inside me, and it always will.

Jeanne Joe and I are driven by our love of theater and our need to tell these stories; that is our compensation. But, as you surely know, our production cannot go up on love alone. We are committed to creating this show with the lowest possible budget, with a goal of raising $1500 by November 1st, 2011. We are now requesting the contribution of our friends and families in making this project possible. Donations start at $10, and every penny helps us!

Your contribution is the lifeline of this production, and we are grateful for all donations of any monetary amount. Please visit our indigogo fundraiser website to make a donation and learn more about The Body Stories.

http://www.indiegogo.com/The-Body-Stories


Our gratitude for any and all donations is infinite. We cannot do what we do without your generous support. Please share our fundraiser campaign on your social media sites and help us promote this project.

To learn more about The Body Stories and find out ways to be involved, please feel free to contact us. If your body, too, has a story to tell, do not hesitate in reaching out to us. We are here to serve the material that already lives within us, and there are no limits to how much this project can grow.

Being Gentle With Myself

Being gentle with myself is hard work. I am much more prone to thoughts like, "Ugh, I'm so fat," or "My neck is such a mess," or "Why doesn't my hair just do one thing at a time," or "I wish I hadn't done that, I'm so stupid," or "Did I really say that, how dumb," and so forth. Switching to, "I look great, I feel great, I am talented and beautiful and smart and bound for success," takes some effort. And some suspension of disbelief.

The thing is, though, that even in my moments of self-loathing and self-pitying, I am still present to a sense that I am better than my own negative thoughts and that I am worthy of love, happiness, and success. The thoughts happen, but they don't shake my core. The Ideal Me sits comfortably in my innermost being, no matter what hurricane of self-destruction my brain and actions put me through.

Since it's easy to get caught up in daily life rubble, I try and give myself some reminders. I have my phone send me alerts that say, "Be gentle with yourself," "Notice your heart," and "Get present to who you really are." I write in my journal a couple of times a day and let my negative thoughts shift to reality, and then to positive thoughts. For example, the thought, "I'm so fat," with turn into, "I have a body that is made of bones, muscle, blood, fat, water, skin, hair, etc.," and then into, "I am beautiful." It doesn't mean I always believe it, but I do it anyway and, very often, it does shift my perception.

On my worst days, when I can't even fathom having a positive thought, I picture Little Larissa, my inner child, and I imagine myself saying these things to her. Immediately, my negativity pulls back by 100%. I may not always be able to treat my adult-self with love and gentleness, but I would kill anyone who spoke to my inner child in a destructive way. I would not stand for it, and so I am reminded that I must not stand for the treatment I give myself as an adult either. If I can protect my inner child, I can protect myself.

So, if I may inspire anyone today: Be gentle with yourself. Treat yourself with love, care, and compassion. We often seek this treatment from others, but it is of uttermost importance that we offer it to ourselves.

Femininity and Feminism Meet for Coffee

In my head, Femininity and Feminism meet at a cafe to talk every once in a while. They need to clarify some stuff. Here's how it usually goes down...

Feminism: Hello, Femininity.

Femininity: Hello, Feminism. I admit I'm scared to have this chat.

Feminism: Really? Why?

Femininity: I'm scared you hate me.

Feminism: Why would you think a thing like that?

Femininity: Because I shave my legs and blow-dry my hair straight and pluck my eyebrows and wear make-up and high-heels.

Feminism: And you think I disapprove of such behavior?

Femininity: Well, yeah... I mean, at the very least, you disapprove that I do it to fit in to social standards of female beauty.

Feminism: Is that what you do?

Femininity: Not always, but often. Like, sometimes, I wear a skirt, and it's just because I want men to look at my legs. I do want to look good for my sake, of course, but I also care about what other people think, and I care about being attractive to men. And not scaring people.

Feminism: So you think I don't care what people think, or about being attractive to men, or about scaring people?

Femininity: Yeah. Isn't that the case?

Feminism: Not always. I wear skirts too. And I like to be admired. And I worry about scaring people.

Femininity: You do?

Feminism: No one likes being compared to nazis or being asked if they've burnt their bra yet. As far as I'm concerned, all females are feminine, and all females are feminists, whether they know it or not. A woman with short hair who wears flats and doesn't pluck her eyebrows can still be feminine. A woman with long, blow-dried hair who gets a manicure every week and wears heels can still be a feminist.

Femininity: But there are stereotypes...

Feminism: Sure, they make it easier for us to talk about each other.

Femininity: But you don't wear things in order to fit into social standards of beauty, do you?

Feminism: Sometimes, I do, yes. Just because not shaving one's armpits works for some women, doesn't mean it works for all women. On the same token, just because wearing a dress works for some women, doesn't mean it works for all women. Once upon a time, women didn't get to decide what worked for them or what didn't. What we fight for is a world where no one feels obligated to look a certain way.

Femininity: How do you know if you feel obligated or not?

Feminism: You are conscious of the choices you make regarding your appearance, aren't you?

Femininity: Yes.

Feminism: And you're conscious of when you do things because you feel you have to, or in order to get a certain result or reaction?

Femininity: Yes.

Feminism: Then there's no reason for me to hate you. With consciousness, we have a choice. Without it, we are robots. As long as you're not a robot, we're not rivals.

Femininity: So you don't think it's bad that I spend an hour and a half on my hair every morning and hundreds of dollars on beauty products every month?

Feminism: I think it's bad if you think it's bad. If it bothers you, then it bothers me.

Femininity: I'm not sure yet if it bothers me or not.

Feminism: Then I'd say it's your responsibility to find out.

Femininity: Okay. So we're cool?

Feminism: Yeah, we're cool.

They smile at each other, sip their lattes, and live happily ever after.

Image from here.

The Big Bikini: A Lesson in Being Larissa

Last week, I updated my facebook status with the following post:

"For the first time in 15 years, I wore a bikini at a Brazilian beach and, not only did I not feel fat, I actually felt GOOD about my body. Thanks to Alexandra for introducing me to affordable yoga at Laughing Lotus, Sarah for introducing me to Shaklee, and my brother for teaching me his work-out as well as living with me and buying me yogurt and soy milk. =)"

The post got a bunch of comments, likes, and private messages. A lot of so happy for you's and tell me more's. It was a true statement. I did feel good about my body, and it registered as a completely new feeling. I attributed it to the things I mentioned, but there was also a smaller factor that played a part in how I felt. It seemed like a little thing, but it was actually tied to something so big I decided it had to be a blog post rather than a facebook status update.

This small thing that made a difference in how I felt about my body was a big bikini.

When I planned this trip, it involved going to the beach with my then-boyfriend. As I thought about going to a beach in Brazil with him, I felt my stomach sink. Going to a beach in Brazil has always been a really intimidating experience. I was faced with not only my own insecurities about my body, but also the comparison to hundreds of near-perfect beautiful female bodies in tiny bikinis all around me. I hadn't gone to the beach here with a boyfriend in many many years, and now my insecurities tripled at the thought of it. So, when I was here in December, I went shopping for a bikini that might hide some of my cellulite and help mask my love handles. I always wore pretty small bikinis here (never thongs! just small), because that's what girls my age wore, and because I knew that most men thought smaller tan lines were sexier. Those small bikinis, however, tended to leave my cellulite exposed and cut at my waist-line, accentuating my love-handles rather than minimizing them. I figured that if I starved myself until March and had a bikini that helped me hide my "flaws," I wouldn't spend my whole time at the beach wondering if I looked like a whale next to all those model-like bodies, and fearing that my boyfriend would be turned off by my body. I was furious at myself for having these thoughts and insecurities, but I couldn't help it. They were bigger than me. It was actually easier and took less energy to try and "fix" them than to tell myself how absurd and unreal they were. I started losing weight and I bought a new bikini.

I never thought I'd actually feel good about my body. Feeling good about my body seemed like a far-off fantasy. A land I'd never ever reach. While I strove to reach my "ideal body," I always believed it would never be possible. I would never be thin enough. I would never feel good in a bikini. I only ever thought I'd feel less bad.

But I did lose weight. After my break-up, I lost my appetite, so it was easier. I dove into yoga, started a nutrition program, and focused on my body. It did feel good. When I got to Brazil a week and a half ago, I felt better about my body than I had in a long, long time. But if I had worn one of my tiny bikinis, I would still have felt uncomfortable. The realization dawned on me as I took my dress off at the beach. For the first time in my life, I didn't immediately start adjusting my bikini as soon as I was exposed. I didn't fuss with the top to make sure it covered my breasts in a way that didn't leave any fat hanging from the sides- this bikini was big enough to hold everything in. I didn't keep pulling the back of my bottom piece out in a futile attempt to cover up more of my butt- this bikini was already in place. And I didn't pull at the strings on the side to make sure they were as loose as possible so as not to cut into my sides- this bikini didn't have strings, and it didn't divide my mid-section into top blubber and bottom blubber. I was actually comfortable in this bikini. And I realized, This bikini is so me! All those other tiny bikinis weren't me! They were me trying to be someone I'm not, someone who's comfortable in small bikinis and exposing a lot of skin. I'm not comfortable with that! It's so simple! I just have to wear a bigger bikini! How amazing!!!

It was an amazing feeling, and it lingered for days. It seems like a small feat but it's actually tied to a much larger triumph. It was the first time I actually understood the overstated phrase, "Be yourself." Instead of wearing what I thought I should wear, I wore what I wanted to wear. I gave up caring if people would think I was conservative or had chosen a bikini that was more appropriate for older women. I gave up trying to get tiny tan lines that other people thought were sexy. In wearing this bikini that I was so comfortable in, I was being Larissa. I discovered that being Larissa meant wearing a bigger bikini, one that allowed me to move freely and enjoy the beach without the usual body-paranoia. I felt a huge relief.

What propelled me to buy the bikini was a desire to look a certain way for someone else. He never got to see me in my new bikini or new-found comfort and ease, though. And I never got to imagine that he thought I was attractive and hot anyway, even in comparison to other beautiful women at the beach. Instead, I discovered something about myself that was really important. It has inspired me to look at all of my actions and identify whether I'm Being Larissa or Being Who I'd Like To Be.

I've always been a person of particular and consistent tastes. My favorite color has always been purple. My favorite animal has always been the koala. I've always preferred solid prints. I've always liked the same music (folk and country), try as I have to adapt to modern tastes. I've never liked sports. I've always liked sad movies. I always loved sleeping in nightgowns. Still, with all this knowledge about what I most definitely like and don't like, I still tried to be someone other than myself, a lot of the time. I thought that holding on to what I know I like meant I wasn't open to new things. I thought it would make me grow as a person to live outside my comfort zone. Now I realize I actually grow the most when I'm true to myself. As soon as I found this bikini that made me feel so much more like myself, I was able to be present. Much like when I'm in a theatre, a setting where I feel instantly at home, I didn't have to worry about looking like I was comfortable and belonged. I simply was. The experience was exhilarating.

It's ridiculous that I was trying to hide my "flaws" from the person I was romantically involved with, and that I was trying to influence how he thought about me. People will think whatever they want to think, and there's very little I can do about it. I see that now, more than ever.

It isn't easy not to care about what other people think. It takes a lot of conscious effort to "be myself," and a lot of confidence to trust that that's what someone will fall in love with. The bikini was a big step for me and, even so, I discovered it because I was trying to project an image of myself that I thought would be appealing to someone else. I didn't really do it for myself, but it served me nonetheless. I learned something about myself, and now I can honor it.

Wear a bigger bikini. Be comfortable. Be Larissa.

Lesson learned.