How a Psoriasis Taught Me that I am Beautiful.

The subsequent ramblings that you are about to read are the outcome of my realization that I am technically lumped into the group of traditionally 'ugly people' on the account that I have a skin disease.

I was surprised by this discovery when I read a critique of some viral video on facebook by some internet stranger. Her opinion was that the video was not diverse enough, mostly caucasian, english speaking individuals-- also, they were all beautiful. The producers 'should have included people who aren't beautiful, like someone with a skin disease'.

This was strangely impactful.

But...

...I have a skin disease.

Therefore, I shan't be one of the beautiful, but one of the ugly (who are of course included in films to ensure the diversity quota is met). The mere fact that I was surprised to discover I was ugly, is a reason to celebrate in itself. Because it implied that I didn't believe it to be true. Which is a big deal for me, let me explain:

I first developed psoriasis when I was 13, which is probably the worst time ever (not that there is really a great time to get it). Puberty is hard enough, weird drifting fat deposits, realizing that you kind of stink, not being able to keep track of the whereabouts of your joints (has this doorframe always been here?), not to mention the routine outpour of blood that you are told to just 'get use to' (as if it were no cause of alarm!). It's not a girl's favourite time, to say the least. Add to all that trauma, patches of discoloured skin all over your body that periodically tear off. Then go to a brand new middle school and try to make friends.

(I made friends.)

People are always losing skin. You are losing skin right now. It takes your body about a month for your skin to go through its growth cycle: it grows, then dies, and then typically falls on the floor. What your body need about 30 days to complete, mine can do in 3. Tops. I basically have SUPER HUMAN skin growing capability. Which would be super handy if I was short on skin, but, as it turns out-- I never am. (This is a VERY simplistic description of psoriasis, if you want to know more I have provided a link to everyone's favourite internet guru Wikipedia or if you want to understand what you are reading, just look at this GREAT COMIC.)

Psorasis isn't just a fun cycle of growing and molting like the common snake, it can be quite painful, it comes with its own special forms of other diseases (like arthritis! Yipee!); there is no one cause, and no one cure for it!


Worse than those however, is that psoriasis leaves us feeling humiliated and ugly. Today, I googled around regarding psoriasis... Psoriasis has been dubbed "The enemy of your beauty", articles online discuss the 'heartbreak of psoriasis'. I would argue, that the fight to get rid of this 'ugly stain' is far worse than the symptoms themselves-- negatively impacting not only our physical bodies, but our mental & emotional health as well.


I definitely struggled with this. I got bullied a fair amount, insulted about being scruffy or dirty, or being reptilian. I tried pretty much everything a doctor could suggest to get rid of it, I spent my mornings at the hospital getting ultra-violet radiation therapy all through high school. It didn't clear up my spots, but it did give me burns on the rest of my body. I used so much topical steroids that it shut down my hormone production (as it turns out, you need those). So there I was, a scaly, burnt, hormone deficient, young woman dressed from head to toe in the middle of summer, struggling to hide her skin. People would always give me advice about how they figured it could be fixed, or people would offer to pray for healing for me. These were all kind, innocent gestures, but to me they screamed the lie that I already held in my heart, that my skin was ugly and needed to be fixed.

I remember the day that I decided I didn't care anymore. I was at university, and I literally just woke one day and didn't want to hide my skin anymore.  I was tired of being too warm, too itchy, too paranoid. I figured that I had a lot more to offer the world than just my blemished spotty skin.

Maybe, there is more to beauty than perfect skin. (we all know this, but i wonder how many actually believe it)

That inner beauty that everyone talks about: I am intelligent, well-spoken, honest, caring, and pretty darn hilarious. However, my 'ugly mindset' didn't let go quite that easily. While I was able to accept that it was likely that I was beautiful on the inside, I wasn't able to let go of the notion that I was pretty ugly on the outside. "But hey, your wit and charm will surely outshine your spots!" it told me. And I believed it.

I believed this misconstrued version of truth and the false confidence it gave me, for 5 years. Until I had an overwhelming sense of relief after a breakup, because I felt I no longer had to try to 'trick' or prove to my boyfriend that I was pretty. "Wait. What? This means I believe that I am ugly". This was a devastating discovery.

It was then I realized the difference between 'being beautiful despite psoriasis' and 'being beautiful with psoriasis".

check out those spots! 

Psoriasis is something that will likely follow me my whole life. Seeing as I can't change my skin, the only thing I can really do about it is change my perspective. I needed to redefine beauty for myself.

Of course, it has liberated me from some of my obsession and self-loathing, but its definitely something I have to remind myself of daily, thought patterns I have to intentionally interrupt, advertisements that I have to acknowledge as lies. This new habit, has extended past my skin, also impacting the other parts of my appearance that I haven't considered to be beautiful. 

I still have bad days, where I pull at my sleeves to cover it from strangers or days I want to scrape my skin with a fork and cover it in concealer. But those days are less and less, as I become comfortable in my own skin, literally. Some days I look down at the intricate pattern that is laid out on my arms and legs, tracing my figure through the unaffected areas like a maze. Some days I forget its there. Sometimes I imagine the spots are a delicate ivory map of some undiscovered land (maybe middle earth!).

Some people spend their entire lives chasing beauty-- your desire for shiny hair, clear & ageless skin, thigh gaps, or straight teeth is the exact same as my obsession with my psoriasis. Beauty has become some weird fathom that is constantly slipping through our grasp, one that distracts us from the beauty that is actually in us and all around us. We believe the same lie, that you aren't beautiful-- but that you could be. (and you can buy it!) 

Psoriasis put its stubborn flakey self in my face and refused to budge (and I can't buy a solution)-- and it taught me that the reality is that I am different in this way, and maybe, just maybe, that doesn't make me ugly. The reality is you are different in some way. But different is actually really beautiful. People always say that, but now I am actually starting to feel it.

So stop chasing the fathom and take a good hard look at yourself. Breaking your habit of picking yourself apart and comparing yourself to others is going to be very tricky, after all, we were raised to think this way (for generations!). But stick to it and you will be surprised to discover that you are pretty damn gorgeous. You will also begin to see beauty everywhere you look, and in everyone you meet.

Beauty... is just beauty. Diversity is beautiful. People are simply beautiful. The world is so beautiful.
It's time we open our eyes and take it all in.

The Battle for Basement Cake

Since it was my first time at a new church, I slouched against the wall in the foyer with my arms crossed, glaring at everyone that passed by me without saying 'hi' through the tiny slits that remained of my eyes. The rest of my face had been taken over by a full-fledged scowl, what is likely the ugliest version of of me.

The following is the conversation I had (with myself) in my head:

It was then that I decided that since I was looking for a church, I was going to push myself to intentionally engage with the church goers, radical concept eh?

 (those of you who know me, know that I am quite outgoing and boisterous... I am now at least. But when I first meet people, especially groups of people-- I become very skitterish and nervous. If I know only one person, I will cower behind them and hope they introduce me to someone... or I make inappropriate jokes)

 I put this *new practice* into action the following Sunday, picking an old, small little church down the street from my house. (Their sign always had funny statements on it, and their website looked a little dated-- which I typically take as a good sign that they are busy doing more awesome things than updating their logo.)   The service was small, about 50 or so attendants of a variety of ages, and a modest band.

 I arrived 10 minutes late, as to miss the awkward and unavoidable pacing around the foyer, trying to disguise the fact that I knew absolutely no one, and I am scared poopless. I snuck in after the first couple of songs and slinked into one of the pews at the back. After the sermon, I was feeling kind of stupid because I hadn't been 'successful' in engaging (hadn't even tried); luckily the pastor proclaimed that there would be coffee, tea, and cake in the basement after the service!

Basement Cake?!
 My favorite.

Actually, I don't like cake, and I am not particularly a fan of basements

Nevertheless I decided that this was the PERFECT opportunity to be approachable, friendly, and engaging. So, I stood up-- with every intention of going downstairs for some basement cake. However, once my legs started walking, they walked me right out of the church. I stood on a small patch of lawn, eyes adjusting to the dramatic lighting change, and wondered "how am I here?"

I turned around and faced the church again.

  This will not be another one of those stories 

where I claim this church isn't good for me, but I didn't actually try it. 

So I marched myself back in there. I made it halfway down the stairs before I stopped (again).

 Boy its warm in here... I must have a fever, I should leave. 

 Luckily there were two elderly men coming down the stairs behind me, so when I turned around to escape they were blocking my path.

 "Coming down for some cake?" they inquired.

I opened my mouth really wide in attempt to smile, then hoisted my checks and eyebrows up as high as they would go-- I figured this looked approachable. I couldn't figure out how to speak, so I just nodded and giggled. My legs moved very fast then, down the stairs away from the people who talked to me. (very poor technique for making friends).

 Hey they spoke to you! You must have mastered 'approachable'! 

Success! Try that same technique on the people in the basement cake line!

 I joined the line, and scanned the room. There were a couple of women serving the cake and coffee at the front of the line. Some senior men in the corner eating cake by an equally old piano, some senior women talking about quilting at the table in the center. All the young(ish) people were in the line, engaged in small group conversations. I stood there looking stupid, not sure where I fit. I contemplated why so many basements used flourescent lights when they make everyone look a little green. I reach the front of the line and received my basement cake, which was mostly icing, and a serving of coffee in a styrofoam cup. I scanned the room again, sweaty and smiling, shifting from foot to foot. 

 I don't know where to go. Don't want to sit by myself... 

eating alone reminds me of middle school. 

 Then my legs took over again. They skittered me right out of that room.' Rational thought' caught me at the base of the stairs.

 I can't go up there! That is defeat! and I've come so far! 

 I wish I could tell you that I turned around, walked confidently back into that room and started a conversation with a group of young(ish) people. We laughed about weird' christian-isms', like always having fake trees covered in twinkly lights, and then they invited me out to lunch!

But, I didn't.

 I opted to hide under the stairs and eat my cake. 

And I didn't enjoy it. 

 This is the most pathetic I think you have ever been. 

Sure, you managed to eat the basement cake-- 

but the point of coming down here isn't to eat basement cake, 

its to meet the basement people. 

Get up, act like yourself, and go into that room!

 So I did.

 I stood up, slammed back the rest of my coffee, and decided that I needed another cup (a reason to go back in!). I marched myself up to the counter and got a refill. Then I slid over to the group of senior men, because they were the closest. I stood in their semi-circle until their conversation stopped and they looked at me inquisitively.( I ran a couple of introductory statements through my head, but they were all jibberish and nonsensical.) I smiled, slightly less manic than the time on the stairs, and gracefully exited.

 I still wasn't brave enough to talk to the young(ish) people.

 So I plopped myself down between two elderly women.

 They were as surprised as I was that I joined them. Exhausted from the emotional stress I had put myself through the past 15 minutes, I bleated:

 "Hello! My name is Jordan. This is my first time at this church and I am absolutely terrified of all of you".

Between fits of laughter, one lady draped her arm over my shoulder and gave me some more basement cake, the other went and fetched their pastor. The pastor came over, introduced himself and asked me some questions. After we chatted a while he introduced me to some of the young(ish) people, whom I continued talking to for about 45 minutes. They did end up inviting me out to lunch that day, but I declined, because my clothes were saturated in sweat and I was on the brink of a diabetic coma from all the basement cake I had eaten.

My search for a 'home church' didn't end there, but I definitely became a little braver that day, a little more willing to put myself in uncomfortable or foreign situations. I still get nervous walking into a new church (in fact a couple weeks ago I read the church bulletin in a bathroom stall, cause I felt awkward standing by myself), but in the doorway I always think "well, it couldn't possibly be any worse" than that time. And when I see new people at church, I often think "I wonder if they would be more comfortable hiding under the stairs or reading that on the toilet" then I go and make sure that they are confident that the sanctuary is a better option, even with the florescent lights...

My Eggs are Dying, I have Scabies, and Other Laments of a Single Twenty-Something

It was a beautiful day in a quiet country garden, and a young, optimistic Jordan was enjoying the happiness that is typically included in wedding receptions. Sun gently warming her skin, the faint smell of expensive appetizing snacks wafting past her delicate nose, and all the other imagery that would lead you to believe that this was a beautiful moment.

It was. Until a wedding troll crept up behind her and snarled:

“Are you married?”

Slightly taken aback, she responded “Oh hello there! No, I am not.”

“How old ARE you?!”he sneered.

“I just turned twenty-four...”

“Wow, that’s spinster age!”

Luckily, she was snarky, sarcastic, and quick on the draw; she responded in mock horror “I know! My eggs are dying!”

As a young Christian woman in her early twenties, I have become increasingly aware of the pressure for a young Christian woman to marry, and to marry quickly (for heaven's sake) ; although the moment I just described, was probably the pinnacle.

After the pleasantries of “what is your name?” and “have you graduated from high school yet?” a typical conversation will veer into the marital status category. After confirming that I am not married, nor seeing anyone—I have noticed a theme in my interviewer’s reaction.

Those simple facts have rendered the individual’s face completely conquered by a myriad of emotion: surprise! sympathy?, DISGUST, a bladder infection? ... Usually followed up with a willful attempt at an encouraging smile. Sometimes their hands do a strange twitching dance at their sides, and for a moment I wonder if I should call the Mental Health Emergency Team.

“Oh, well... you are very beautiful. Keep leaning into God and he will bring the perfect man for you”

They speak as if I just told them I have chronic scabies.

If I haven’t a man by now, maybe I do have scabies,

Lying dormant somewhere in this barren shell of a woman.

And we all know, Scabies is not “the new sexy”.

These questions, while innocent and typically just inquisitive in nature, imply that the most important thing, the best way to get a glimpse of my character, is to inquire on whether I was successful in the art of man-wooing.

Once, I Google'd something about single Christians... and an article about sex-addicts was what came up.

“If it’s not my scabies that drives men into an itchy retreat,

 I must be single because I have chosen to be,

Because I am a sex-addict.”

Now you won't hear a sermon (at least I hope not) that teaches that if you are not married you are obviously defective and should be held in a separate room (or perhaps attend a separate service specifically for young adults, or better yet-- attend a bridal bible college!), but young single twenty-somethings are constantly being bombarded with questions about why they are single, or how long they plan on staying single, or whether they want to marry at all—by friends, family, people in the church parking lot, or by complete strangers.

 The message is clear... 

you should probably be married by now.

What’s worse is the message we are sending young women: your purpose is marriage.

 If you are not married, you are doing it wrong

and possibly not a godly woman

probably infected with scabies

at the very lease, a sex addict

What a frenzy this creates!

Are you a twenty-something? 

Has singleness plagued your existence?  

HURRY! Get a husband! 

ANY HUSBAND WILL DO!

I admit I have fallen to that trap myself-- The Man Hunt. There is a particular church in my community that caters to young adults, someone once suggested that I go there, to increase my chances of securing a spouse (not to enhance my spiritual growth).

"Let's go to the Meat Market, err Church... and find a husband-- 
I mean, Jesus"

 (I didn't end up going, because a) it felt creepy, and b) I am a strong supporter of the 'do not objectify women' cause and therefore the objectification of men seemed hypocritical).

And THAT is my issue. I have no issue with marriage. I have no issue with people getting married in their twenties (many of my friends have, and they are great spouses and awesome Christians). Nor do I think its a bad idea to find a husband at church (sometimes, there are Christians there!). What I am frustrated about is that fact that being in a romantic relationship seems to have taken the forefront of our minds-- a place that was created to be occupied by Christ alone.

I would love to one day be married. However, I believe that my purpose on this earth is to be fully loved, and fully in love with Christ. And that is where I would love my christian community to support me. I don't want to hear the preacher proclaim that seeking God is the most fulfilling and valuable aspect of my existence, only to step into the lobby and be informed that I will be complete once I have a husband.

Let's raise little girls who know that having a husband is a gift and a blessing, but that knowing and being with God is our ultimate purpose. Let's celebrate and encourage this time of singleness, a time in which we can devote ourselves completely to discovering the richness of God's presence in our lives; so that if the time comes, we can share that joy and wisdom with our husbands and our children.

(That seems like a better alternative to the frantic scabied sex-addicts romping through our churches, snatching all our people up. ) 

Irrational Fear

Although I like to think of myself as a strong, independent, fearless young woman-- I have recently been hit in the face with an unmanageable fear.

Despite overwhelming waves of nausea and profuse sweating, I will deliver a speech to funders.

Without the knowledge of the rules of engagement or fluency in the native language, I will drive a 15 passenger van through downtown Tijuana, Mexico.

At work, I have stood up to an un-medicated, paranoid schizophrenic with a knife in his sock and no impulse control, without even blinking.

I am all that is Woman!

Nope.

What is this debilitating fear, you ask?

BEES!

I understand that this is a wasp, and I am aware of the differences between the two, but my phobia does not discriminate. 

Here is how the story of how I learned just how scared I am of bees:

Its Monday morning, 6:25am-- I wake up (5 minutes before my alarm!), rejoicing in the fact that I am awake and ready to start my day. That's when I hear it

 buuuzzzzzzzzzzz. 

Being the optimist that I am, I assume it is a fly, but just to be sure I look up, just in time to see the biggest bee I have ever seen, fall into my open dresser drawer. Instantaneously I am covered in sweat as I dive under my covers. 

"There is Bee.

There is a Bee here.

It's in my room"

I peer out from under my blankets, and I see the bee flying around my light, smashing its little skull into the light fixture, into the door, against the window. 

I am usually composed around honey bees-- because I know they would rather get honey than sting people (since stinging = death) unless they are extremely agitated or angry... the bee has been trapped in my room all night. 

I conclude that it is going to sting me. 

So I run to the bathroom (with my blanket over my head) and lock myself in-- cause bees can't open locked doors. 

Sitting in the edge of the tub, struggling to catch my breath and slow down my heart rate, I realize that my clean cloths are in my room with the bee, therefore I can't go to work. I need to call my boss... but my phone is in the room as well. 

hello, you kill my friend. prepare to die.

Then, I remember something I heard: when bees die, they emit a chemical that tells all their bee buddies that they have died-- and then all the bees come to avenge them (this is sort of true).  

Then it hits me:

I have to get the bee out before it dies! 

Thank goodness I am a natural born slob and an erratic dresser, as I often leave a trail of clothing from my bedroom to the bathroom (to the laundry room, to the living room, to the front door). To build a barrier between me and the bee's stinger-- I put on all the cloths I can find, until I am so bulky I can't really bend at the elbows.  I then throw the blanket back on my head just for good measure. 

I RUN into the room, throw open the door and run back to the bathroom. 

When I have locked myself back in-- I realize...

"I didn't see the bee while I was there.

What if the bee ALREADY DIED?   

And I just...

I just...

I JUST OPENED THE DOOR FOR ALL THE BEE AVENGERS!

Is there another type of chemical bees release if its a natural bee death? Albeit starvation or extreme stress... but I tried to save the bee!    

I recalled the scene in 'The Hunger Games' in which the beautiful blonde girl dies via bee stings (watch this disturbing scene here:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A5hz3gGNgWM), her bloated, blistered corpse, so swollen that her hands have to be broken to retrieve what she is holding...

I wish I was exaggerating when I say this...

This thought of my room swarming with vengeful bees

the thought of ME COVERED IN BEES

Kept me locked in the bathroom for 45 mintues.

and THAT is why I will never be a grown up.   

Confessions of An Awkward Earls Girl

As I gracefully exit the restaurant industry, I found myself reflecting on some of my not so graceful moments as both a server and a bartender. I have forgotten entire sections of tables (very angry eyes!), sent out margaritas while forgetting to add tequila, and have smashed 40s of expensive Gin with only an ounce missing from the bottle. I have fallen on my butt while carrying buckets of ice in the middle of the restaurant (many ice shaped bruises all over my rump... very painful!) and sold the rude vegetarian a pasta dish that i knew very well is made with chicken stock (from REAL chickens... which we beat to death with soup spoons and cooked alive!) and have even told a table to go to Joey's where they have prettier girls and yam fries. A feast for both your eyes and your belly. 

GO TO JOEY'S

They have BIGGER clumpier eyelashes than us.

And Yam Fries Too.

Here are two of my favorite serving and bartending moments for those of you who did not get the opportunity to be blessed by my awkward personality.

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Jordan Loses Her Personality

It was a particularly busy friday night in the lounge, I believe some servers had just been sent home just before a massive rush crowded the entry way, and the hostesses began phase one vengeance on the remaining servers by placing several tables in our sections at the same time. A particular lady ordered a steak blue, which aside from being sort of disgusting-- its pretty easy and quick to make. Her steak arrived promptly along with her hubby's sandwich-- everyone was happy-- server win!

however, just as jordan was speeding past the table carrying several burning plates that seared her hands and forearms, a bony little hand jutted out from the table and grabbed her arm

"my steak is overdone!" she squawked.

Jordan looked at it. It was practically bleeding all over the dish-- a blue steak made in heaven. She patiently replied that she would just drop off the plates of searing death, and then would be right back.

She took the steak to the back and showed it to the unimpressed kitchen (unimpressed with the lady, because, as I said-- this was the perfect steak), who agreed to make her a less cooked one.

This isn't Blue, but it is a good looking piece o' meat

Things would have been all fine and dandy, except when Jordan walked past this table again, the lady waved her down.
"Do you even know what blue means?" she sneered.
"yes, yes I do. We are making you a blue steak as we speak-- and I spoke with the manager and we will take care of it for you" Jordan replied with a forced smile.
"Blue means its seared on the outside"
I wish I could sear your outsides "I understand" smile. smile.
"Well, you made it wrong!"

That's what something precious snapped inside of Jordan's brain. She knelt down beside the table and looked the ungrateful wench unsatisfied customer in the eyes and replied

"and when, sweetheart, do you think I had the time to make your steak?"
got up and left.

the tip was surprisingly good. The hubby paid,  he must have been a little passive aggressive and a little amused.
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Jordan's Panic Attack Behind the Bar

The only bad thing about bartending, is that awful people sit at the bar as well, the only difference is that with serving-- you can get away from them. Behind the bar, there really is no where to go, you are stuck... staring them down, or worse-- them staring you down.

I've had my fair share of strange men say stupid things like "we don't need to look at a menu, we're just gonna look at you" or "are you on the menu tonight?"-- most of which you just kind of laugh at them and go pretend to pour a guiness (these take a long time to pour, so its a perfect getaway and reason to stare at the floor). However, I was completely caught off guard by one gentleman who sat at the bar.

After he ordered something that is not of consequence, I brought him his cutlery (first mistake) and napkins. I noticed that the knife was a little warped-- instead of laying flat the blade bent up off the counter a bit. I considered getting him another one-- but I was feeling particularly apathetic and the knife would still cut... so I didn't (second mistake). 

Then he waved me over.

"look at this here knife"
I looked at it and pretended to be surprised and perplexed at its strange shape.
"Its warped!" he exclaimed "do you see that?"

not happening

"yes!" I replied "Let me get you a better one"
"oh no, no" he said and pulled the knife closer to him.
"are you sure?"
then he leaned on one of his arms, pulling himself up the counter so he was MUCH closer to my face and said

"I think its just had..." dramatic pause in which he tilted his head and raised his eyebrows "too much viagra" he smirked.

and i puked inside my mouth. 
and promptly ran away.  

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I have done some good things for the restaurant too... many patrons have left Earls with smiles on their faces, or have thanked me for my wine suggestions. I only ever got a customer compliment emailed in once-- and I believe it was because I served a woman what should be an illegal amount of caffeinated martinis (she was talking REALLY fast by the end of the night). I was even a good team player-- I have respectfully informed servers that it is impossible to pour beer back into the tap, and that limes and lemons are in fact-- different fruits! they even grow on different trees. Once I even advised a hostess that if she is going to wear a short skirt then she should probably (definitely) wear underwear as well.

So long Earls, I have served my time. Miss me, you shall.
"People Grow at Earls. Life is Better at Earls"
I am sorry for all the lime pulp in the bar well. 
And for exclaiming that I have advanced social justice every time I smash something, 'by accident'.

Viva la Resistance!