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.