Before I get to today’s post, I’d like to share a bit of news with you.
I’m incredibly honored and humbled to tell you that last week’s piece, Afterbirth, was chosen to be featured as the Postpartum Voice of the week at My Postpartum Voice. Please read it, and share it. You never know who might need it.
Now, on to today.
** This is a memoir piece for the online writers’ group Write On Edge. The prompt: This week we’d like you to write about a time you found yourself comparing yourself, unfavorably, with someone else. Focus on how the comparison affected you, negatively or positively. Word limit is 400 words.
Perched there, on the edge of the oversized sofa, they made a perfect row of skinny jeans and knee high leather boots. My martini and I sunk further into the club chair and eyed my jeans with disgust. My “fat” jeans. Now tight.
When I stood, my Spanx rolled down, all the way from under my bra-line to my hips.
I made a beeline for the bathroom, but a friend’s husband stopped me to say hello. All I could think was, “Don’t touch my back! Don’t touch my back!”
And then I sat in the powder room, sweaty with nerves and the effort of pulling my girdle back into place, thinking that this was much funnier when it happened to Bridget Jones.
It was the sharp smell of of that sweat that brought it back.
He wasn’t even my coach. What possessed him to tell me, after a grueling workout in the weight room (after an equally grueling workout on the volleyball court) that I would be so much better if I could just lose ten pounds?
I remember where we were standing, the feel of my sticky t-shirt as the air conditioning slowly turned it cold. I remember the smells of adolescent sweat and please-God-let-this-sport-help-me-get-into-college that clung to the very walls of the weight room and the gym complex.
And I remember, moments before, calves and quads burning as I did jump-squats, feeling like I owned my body, like I’d never been stronger, like I could climb the fucking world if I wanted to.
I walked out of that weight room a lion, relishing the feeling of my own skin. And he followed me into the hallway, and with one comment, turned me into a cowering kitten.
Not for the next few minutes.
For the next 18 years.
The irony is that when he made that comment, I’d never been stronger, thinner, or in better shape. Daily team workouts had me spending two hours after school working my ass off. Because I was competitive. I worked hard. My teammates teased me because when I dove for a ball, they had to stop the game to dry the sweat off the floor. It bothered me at first, but I learned to brush it off and say, “Hey, I work hard.” Because I did.
After our conversation, I found myself in the bathroom changing to go home. I peeled off my t-shirt and saw an image from a funhouse mirror.
I began to do that every day when I got dressed. My friends were no longer my friends, but measuring sticks to hold myself against. All because this coach, somebody everyone trusted, someone who ought to know, said I needed to lose ten pounds.
I’m guessing he doesn’t even remember. That he doesn’t even remember me. That he’ll never read this.
But I hope the people who do will think about what they say to young girls.
That sticks and stones thing? Bullshit.
Words hurt, and the bruises they leave can last a lifetime.
Such a powerful post, Angie. Oh, the power of that one thing that is said to us. It has so much weight (I had a coach tell me I needed to wear eyeliner. I promptly traded my running shoes for raccoon eyes). I appreciate your honest, spot on rendering.
We wield such power as adults, all of us who come into contact with children, without even realizing it. Its something of which we all need to be more cognizant.
Just last night, I put on a pair of skinny jeans to go out and was feeling insecure, and asked the babysitter if I looked ridiculous. She assured me I didn’t, and so out I went.
And this morning, my daughter asked me on the way to preschool, “Mommy, why did you ask the babysitter last night if you looked ridiculous?”
I was floored. I had no idea she’d been paying attention, much less that she’d picked up on my insecurities. And I really try to be sensitive to these things.
I cannot believe a coach told you to wear eyeliner. Though, thinking back on it, I remember quite clearly when doing a middle school play and putting on makeup a teacher telling me to use brown mascara, because “only hookers wear black mascara.”
Those offhand comments are the ones that stick with you forever.
Hi Angie, it is unfortunate that such words do scar us for a lifetime. I am still trying to not hear my father say, “You know you have a big but?” as I walk in front of him in the hall. I was 16, 5’8 and 135 lbs there wasn’t anything big about me except my height. I can still hear it.
Thank you for sharing this moment in your life. I do hope people see this and swallow whatever asinine thing they were going to say and find something positive to say instead.
Peace,
Morgan
Awesome post, Angie. I can identify. I wrote once about a gym teacher who told me I wasn’t athletic..and it stayed with me for a decade or more. I believed it. I let him plant a seed of self-doubt in me.
This was amazing. Thanks for sharing.
Words do hurt. Often their echos bounce around for decades…. After all you can not trap an echo in a jar and seal it tight with a lid.
Fabulous post! And I did btw…. I did tell the woman it was heroin. I offered her some 😉 she about fell out!
Very emotional provocative. I liked it. I don;t know what’s the better line; the first one or the last one.
Great job.
So so poignant. You are incredibly right to say you remember the words, but doubt he remembers you. Words spoken so off-the-cuff, they stick.
I hope you realize you are more than a number on the scale. You are. And you’re amazing.
Words hurt.
So much.
Once, this guy I was dating told me that I was the biggest girl he’d ever dated. I was a size 2 at the time but started seeing myself in a totally different way after that.
What a jerk. That’s the kind of thing where, five years later, you think of the perfect comeback line, “Well, you’re the smallest guy I’ve ever dated.”
But you know in your heart that making yourself mean wouldn’t have made you feel any better at all.
This makes me want to go hug your size 2 self.
Some people who should know better, sadly are some of the most clueless people. They spread nastiness, no matter how benign it seems, lie the plague. That whole sticks & stones thing, total BS. Words have a way of cutting deep & sticking forever.