Do me a favor...

Jake is hosting a "single mormon 20-something blogger contest." Three times a week (Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday) two new bloggers are pitted agianst eachother for anyone to vote on. The winner of each contest moves on to successive rounds a la March Madness bracket fashion. It is actually quite entertaining to read the bizarre entries because many revolve around dating as a single Mormon. Check it out for me and vote for your favorite one. Go here!

Here is a recent article that Jake wrote about modesty and how we have adapted over the last century. It opened my eyes. I hope you like it as well.

Hemlines up, up and away

I'm shifty.

Always have been, always will be. Ask anyone, young or old. I go up and down depending on the era, the time of day, your mood.

I wasn't always unpredictable. For centuries, I stayed in pretty much the same place: between the floor and a woman's ankle.

But then things changed. Fashion elites called me boring and prudish. Young people snubbed me. They thought I was old-fashioned -- something only their mother would wear. So I started changing.

My given name is Hemline.

I first stepped it up around 1913. I gave them what they wanted: more flesh. I revealed 2 or 3 inches above the ankle. Sure, some rejected me. But I still won over the crowd. And throughout the next decade the crowd would help me win the rest, eventually persuading everyone who first abandoned my progressive shift to lighten up, to get with the times.

My forward thinking only took my popularity so far, though. And if I hadn't made another move by the early 1920s, I would have risked my reputation for being up-to-date. I upped my game and made a woman's midcalf my home, showing the world good, clean, moral girls could still have fun. I call it my almost-era: I was almost to the knee, a place only seen by intimates up to that time.

I'll admit it: I was a tease. I was constantly taunting women's imaginations to accept more vogue possibilities -- and men's imaginations to ... just imagine more. Getting to my next stop, though, wasn't easy -- not on my own anyway. But I got there. I always do.

Image expert Judith Rasband, executive director of Conselle, said between 1925 and 1928 I rode the wave of loosening sexual mores, faster jazz music and Prohibition contempt all the way up to an inch or two past a woman's bare knee.

Sexy Hollywood women in movies like "Flapper," who were wearing me daringly high, transformed me from a radical craze to an established fashion. That's what they do best: normalize crazy things. After Hollywood accepts me, it matters very little if you or your daughters do, because, let's face it, you'll eventually come to my level. Because that's what you do best: fit in.

I had a slight setback after the sobering stock crash of 1929. I dropped to a couple inches below the knee. Economist George Taylor predicted this in 1926 with his "Hemline Index" theory, which says hemlines generally follow the rise and fall of the stock market.

I hovered around a woman's knee for the next three conservative decades: the '30s, '40s and '50s.By 1960, British feminist and fashion extraordinaire Mary Quant adopted me. She used me to jump-start the sexual revolution by popularizing an ultra-high version of me: the miniskirt. When New York Times Magazine asked the purpose of her barely there fashion, Quant frankly replied, "Sex."

At this time The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints published its first For the Strength of Youth pamphlet, which outlined ways to keep me at appropriate levels.

Quant also told a British daily newspaper at the time one of my dirty little secrets, my desensitizing strategy, how I can jump from modest to shamelessly sexual in just a couple years: "People call things vulgar when they are new to them," she said. Then "they become good taste."
However, Dallin H. Oaks, then president of Brigham Young University, wasn't fooled by the assertion of "good taste" for the new "mini" me. In 1971 he accused me of contributing to the "immorality of this age." And Elder Spencer W. Kimball blamed me for the same thing 20 years earlier. Spoilsports!

Elder Oaks, now a Mormon apostle, said that although my appropriate level on a woman's body is difficult to define, "there is a point" where my wearer is "calling attention to herself," "exposing too much," "sending signals" and "inviting responses." Fun-hater!

I settled down in the '70s, though -- way down. The hippie movement's protest against mainstream pop fashion landed me back at their ankles. My lowly position on those loose, paisley-printed maxi-skirts didn't last long, though. It never does.

I jumped right back up during the shoulder-pad, big-belt '80s era. Although divas and trendy elites returned me to my former miniskirt status at the time, most women wore me knee-length.

Then something happened: the '90s. I became a free-for-all. Girls regularly sported me as high as their derriere. I was consistently higher than the bottom of their pockets; loose change would dangle below my frayed denim self. It was an everything-goes era, a time of "dress-down casualization," according to Rasband.

Today, I'm as hip-high as ever. Last month, Elle, the world's largest fashion magazine, reported that underwear-high hemlines are this season's new trend: "Designers are raising the stakes this spring with hemlines so high you might find yourself mistaken for a call girl."

Sure, that's "vulgar" now. But 'member how Mama Quant trained me: I'll have your daughters believing it's "good taste" in no time.

By Jacob Hancock, Deseret News
E-mail: jhancock@desnews.com

Running

I have started training for a half marathon that I am going to run in August. This is not something that comes naturally for me. When I was growing up, I never understood why people would just run for fun. I loved to play basketball so if you put a ball in my hand I would run up and down a court and not think twice about it. But run for fun? Why? You leave your house to run a big circle and end up right back where you started. Or, worse, you jump on a treadmill to run a belt and make absolutely no progress at all. Around and around, step after step, all in the same exact spot. What is the point? Oh right- being healthy, exercising, taking care of your body. I finally figured this out after many long hours of staring in the mirror and wondering why my strict regime of eating whatever crap I wanted and running after ice cream trucks was not working with my scale. Strange, I know, but no matter how many ice creams trucks I ran after or how far I had to run to catch them, my scale was only headed in one direction. And it was not down. So, point taken. Exercise it is. My sisters and I decided in January that we would go for a half marathon so I started training right away. Tread mill bought. Ipod prepared. Daring trip to purchase running shoes. Talk to all my friends that run. Attempt to become pro at something that has been total stupidity to me before now. I have wanted to write about all of this before now but I think I was too prideful. I was afraid of failing and then everyone in blogland would see me as weak and a quitter. But then it hit me, if I do fail, I am weak and a quitter. So here it is. I am running on a regular basis now and completed my first 5k today. My goal was to run the whole time and not throw up on the side of the road. Success! I ran the whole time, I didn't come in last, and I beat the time that I had expected for myself. I loved crossing the finish line and having my family there to support me. Thank you Brittney for running with me. I had a blast. There will be many more runs in the future. Many more finish lines to cross and many more goals to accomplish. I can't wait.

Carefully styled hair with not a wisp out of place. My favorite shirt that has a way of making me feel skinnier than I am. Cute little jeans with gemstones glittering on the pockets. Freshly shaved legs, not just to the knee, are lotioned and smooth. Adorable flats that go great with my outfit but also make me feel comfortable and at ease. Sounds like I am ready to head out on a great date or maybe an important real estate meeting, right? As much as I wish that either of those were true, that was not the case a few days ago. I was headed to the OB, the gyno, the "woman doctor". Please do not misunderstand. It is not like I think my OB rivals Brad Pitt. I do not do all of this to impress him. Honestly, I am not really sure why I do this. This man has seen me at my very worst. We all know that no matter how beautiful that little baby is that you have, pushing him out is not beautiful at all. My doctor has seen my mascara stained face, my stretch marked stomach, my matted down hair. Maybe I do it because I want to prove to him that I can clean up nice when I am not trying to push out a bowling ball. Maybe I am so insecure about what he has to do in my yearly appointments that I try to make myself feel as great as possible to soften the blow. I am not really sure what it is but, none the less, I go through the same routine every time. I respect OBs. I am sure that it is awesome to be able to deliver all those babies but the rest of the job can not be that glamorous. They are always really gentle and kind. They have a way of never raising their voice above a hush and they always seem so calm. They speak as though they are watching tulips bloom before their eyes when in reality they are up to their elbows try to unwedge a breach baby with a first time mom. I think that they know how uncomfortable they make us and that is why they are so nice. I can't help but laugh at myself though that I dress up more for him than I do to go on a job interview (that is when I only shave to my knee!). I guess if he is willing to do that kind of job though, it is the least I can do. After all, he is responsible for getting my children here and making sure that I don't feel a thing. God bless OBs!

The Perfect Storm

The perfect storm. Imagine the first sunny Saturday after a really long winter. A kids safety fair with free admission. The invention of mini vans with the capability of holding up to seven children. And Utah- the place the has the highest ratio in the nation of children per household. All of this adds up to one bad idea. It is just to bad that I didn't figure that out until I was sitting on state street surrounded by all of these mini vans waiting to turn into one parking lot. A further clue would have been when it took me over 20 minutes to park. But no- around and around I go- isle after isle, spot after spot. Anxiously looking for the glow of reverse lights so I can jump in and take their spot. Each time I thought I had a chance I was shot blocked by another stupid mini van sitting in the dead middle of the isle, waiting for their own spot, and I could not get through to race to my own little piece of parking lot real estate. After cussing out one final mini van that got in my way, I swore that if I came upon one more van with break lights glowing, I was going to ram that stupid "honor student" bumper sticker so hard that the police will be trying to figure out why that mom was wearing a bumper sticker on her forehead. I should have just threw my hands in air and gone to the mall but the draw of painted faces and animal balloons was just too great for Tylie so I made a few more rounds and finally found a spot to park. As I was walking into the convention center, I started to feel like a herd of cattle all making their way to the feeding ground. We all had one purpose in mind and our children were prodding with their sticks to get us to go faster. Once I got inside I found myself wishing that I was in a corral with a bunch of cattle. I am sure that it would be more comfortable and much more roomy. Every Utahn that has ever had a child was there and they were swarming around like a bunch of ants on a hill. I couldn't push my stroller down the aisle, I couldn't look at any of the booths, I couldn't turn back because I had some eight year old butt rushing my every move. I wanted to throw my hands in the air and scream. I wanted to find the convention committee and inform them that if they were going to plan a kids fair with free admission in Utah they needed to put a cap on how many people were allowed in the building because I was sure that they were beyond capacity and if a fire were to break out, we would all be crispy bacon. I stood in line for 15 minutes to get some dumb backpack they were handing out, I stood for 20 minutes to get a sword balloon, and I finished it out with grabbing a fruit smoothie from my mom who was helping a friend run some concessions. I was complaining to her about the chaos when a cute mom with a double stroller and seven kids waltzed up to my mom's cart. She had fliers, balloons, and candy wrappers protruding from every crevice of that stroller and she looked exhausted. She ordered one fruit smoothie and I thought "I don't blame ya, lady. Get yourself a treat. You deserve it!" It was what came next that had me busting a gut. She then asked my mom for seven, yes- seven, straws. One for each kid. One smoothie- seven kids- free admission. Hilarious! Shoot- if you have seven kids all living under one roof, I am sure that they have shared a lot worse things than a little saliva. Why go for the separate straws? Just stick with one. You know that those straws are just going to become swords on the way home and the mini van is going to turn into an old world battle until some one gets their eye poked out. It is times like this that I think that two kids is enough. I think I need to go on a cruise, without the kids, so I can miss them. I will lay in the sun sipping a pina colada and talk about all the cute things that they do every day. Yup, I guess I need to talk to Jake. If he wants any more kids his only option is taking me on a get away vacation!