No I’m Not, I Just Look It

How is it that despite our enlightenment, modern women can still be slayed by one insensitive, ill-thought comment? 

I was at my children’s school the other evening, for the annual Family Fair event.   Games, penny sales, cake raffles, lots of children running around, teachers, parents, grandparents and friends connecting and reconnecting.    A dear friend and I sat and talked for an hour, having a wonderful time catching up and giving each other moral support in our quest to be mothers in the modern world.  Our sons are best friends, and the unique bond she and I share is deep and meaningful.  She is a woman I think of when I look for inspiration and determination.   I treasure the conversation we had, she’s a very special woman, and we parted with the promise of going out for a girls-only coffee date.  

Sitting at one of the long tables in the gymnasium, watching the hustle and bustle going on around me, I concentrated on being quiet inside and reflected on the good things that have happened lately, in spite of  the adjustments that continue to need attention as my husband and I forge our couple-ness and try to blend into a family without making too much of a mess.   With echoes of my sweetheart’s tender words from our afternoon lingering in my heart, the evening wore on, and the time came for me to search out my kids and head home.    Mrs. Dana, a teacher who had taught my daughter in kindergarten, was clearing off the tables.  She & I have known each other for as long as my children have attended school, and although we don’t socialize, we’ve developed a friendship and have been each other’s champion in the face of our triumphs and struggles through the years.    We made small talk as she threw plates and pop cans into a garbage bag; I rose to leave, gathering up the kids’ backpacks & lunch boxes.  Mrs. Dana frowned and looked at me with a mild look of alarm.

“Are you pregnant?” she said, her nose wrinkling up as she said the word “pregnant”.   

I’m not very swift at coming up with witty replies when things like this happen to me, and I’m too self-conscious to be able to think of something equally stinging to retort with.  All I managed was a very fast, barely noticeable headshake and a quiet “No” with a smile, hoping no one else overheard her asking me such an embarrassing question.  I walked away and kept on walking as I heard her stammer a feeble “Sorry, but your coat…the way your coat….”  Too late, I thought to myself, the damage is done.  Not only have I been feeling  like a blimp lately, but now it’s been publicly pointed out.   Her comment was like a hammer to my heart.

No, I am not pregnant.   But the fact that my body looks like I’m pregnant does not make me feel very good.  Not because I WANT to be pregnant, oh no, my childbearing years are over.  It doesn’t make me feel very good to know I look pregnant when I’m not because that means I MUST REALLY LOOK FAT!  I held my tears until I got home (the kids’ excitement at having had so much fun at the fair was a welcome distraction).   Finally at home, in my kitchen, I  began to frantically make banana bread.  I needed to do something quick before my self-esteem ran out of me into a puddle on the floor.  And the bananas were there, ripening before my eyes.   So I’m standing at the kitchen counter, measuring flour and stuff  when my husband comes to hug me, asking me how the Family Fair went.  “Fine”, I said, “until someone asked if I was pregnant.” 

There, in the safety of his strong arms, my face smushed into his chest,  I sobbed quietly.  And with each sob, he stroked my head and held me close, each of his consoling “Hush, now” speaking to my heart, telling me that no matter what anyone says, I’m his beautiful girl and that’s all that matters.  And he’s part right.  What matters is what he feels for me, but also what matters is what I feel for myself. 

Eleanor Roosevelt said:  “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”   Add fat to that inferiority complex.   Even though I wish I was a Beatrix Potter, or a Marie Curie, or a Sacajawea, I am a modern woman living in modern times where women struggle with their weight and appearance from the time they’re 10 when they notice that their thighs jiggle (why doesn’t anybody tell us that thighs are SUPPOSED to jiggle?).   I was a typical, shy, awkward young girl dealing with a secret she eventually told.  I grew into a shy, awkward young woman with no fashion sense to go along with that low self-esteem who did her best at building a life like she thought she should.    Three years after having my children, I topped the scales at my heaviest post-baby weight, and had lived for years in a survival mode of not feeling too dang much emotionally. 

Many moons ago, an unkind observation was made on my appearance by someone very close to my heart.  I had not realized how sensitive I can be to others’ unintentional comments until now, as I write and reflect on this whole thing.  And I’m amazed at how I let myself be affected.  Eleanor is right, I need to stop giving consent to others making me feel bad.   In any case, with this remark all those years ago, a realization came to me that I had to take better care of myself, if only for my children’s sake.   Deep down, I wanted to be loved for me, no matter what my body looked like, but somehow there are crossed wires inside that (still) fool me into thinking I am nothing  if I am not thin. 

And so I began to lose weight, losing a significant amount over a period of 7 or 8 months, transforming myself into someone I had a hard time getting used to when I looked in the mirror.  Who is that girl?   Sometimes I would smile when I asked that question, sometimes I’d frown in bewilderment.  I went from years of not feeling, to a period of time when I had to acknowledge alot of issues and serious matters in my life.    In those seven or eight months, I was losing more than weight:  my father passed away, I was going through a separation, then my mother passed away.   The day after my mother died, I began a sporadic cycle of bingeing and purging that lasted about four years.   Weight loss, weight gain…..it has nothing to do with eating or excercise.  It’s all about your psyche. 

The woman I was when I was at a normal, healthy weight was actually hurting more inside, probably because she was dealing with all those repressed emotions in her life but felt them to be too much and tried to swing the pendulum a little with bingeing and purging as a way to bring comfort and relief.   At least that’s what I tell myself.   

But a funny thing happened on my way to Skinnyville:  I became visible to others, whereas before I went about my business, relatively unnoticed.  Now, people where I worked knew my name and sought me out.  I didn’t know most of these people, but suddenly, they knew me.   Men I could understand, but women who wouldn’t have given me the time of day before were now seeking to get to know me.  People were nicer.  All because I was thinner.   I became That Woman Who Lost All That Weight. 

Last summer, I got tired of the near-obsession I had maintained in order to keep my weight down.  And I found myself going off the rails a little.  The pounds started piling on.  At least I wasn’t bingeing and purging anymore, right?    But I could feel myself expanding.  By the fall, I couldn’t fit into any of my jeans.  By winter, I was down to three skirts &  a few sweaters for work, and two pairs of yoga pants to wear on my down time.   I had made an attempt before Easter to curb the appetite enthusiasm a little, because at the rate I was going,  I couldn’t zip up my winter jacket, and could barely button my long winter coat.    I’m dreading spring and don’t dare think of summer.  I go to work now, humiliated at being the fat girl again, at having everyone be a witness to yet another of my failures.   I avoid looking in the mirror when I dress, I wince if I happen to catch my reflection; I can’t cross my legs like I did; I feel body parts jiggle when I walk where they had not jiggled for a while.      

I see people look at me differently now, I see their eyes asking:  “How can you let yourself go like that?”.  I hear their voices boldly asking  ”Are you pregnant?” .   I know how pathetic and insecure it is, after 42 years of being here, to be placing so much of my personal worth on how big or small my body is.   I also know how this latest weight gain is a symptom of things I can’ t deal with.  High sensitivity to other people and what they feel and think of me affects me more than the average bear.  Couple that with a lifetime of feeling unworthy and inferior and you get the idea.  Not that I want to feel superior to anyone, I just want to feel good about me in my body no matter what size I am.  And to find my purpose in life, and to know that my passions and my drive to achieve something, to create something, is not dependent on my body size.    

It’s not a good feeling to be ashamed of how you look, and it’s even worse to admit that how you look even matters.  I think of myself as an intellectual person, and I’m smart enough to know that your body size means dick all.  In each person I meet, I try to see beyond size, bad breath, differing opinions, or whatever else is different from me in that person.  So why can’t I see that other people are probably giving me the benefit of the doubt as well? 

Because I can’t cut myself any slack.  It’s much easier to see the beauty in others than it is to see it in yourself. 

Later that night, after the Great Banana Bread Bakeoff, I lay in bed with Mr. C.   He reminded me that he fell in love with my mind way before he actually met me in person.  And hadn’t I done the same?   I don’t know how he does it, but he manages to become a mirror, reflecting back what’s essential for me to see in myself.   Going from years of not feeling to feeling too much, maybe this is a time where I will find balance and wisdom. 

Maybe this is the time of my life.     

Love, 

Chantal xoxoxo

Meet the PHIMHs

I don’t know which causes me more aggravation, my fear of carwashes, or my inability to say the right thing in moments where I’m intimidated.  I try to take on the voice of someone I know who is really good at speaking their minds, but their voice comes to me hours after the fact.  Kind of defeats the purpose.  I wish my brain would have an automatic-pilot retrieval system, where as soon as my body gives physical signs that my mouth is about to shut down, this little mechanism kicks in to make the right words travel from my brain to my vocal chords.

I live in a 60-unit building.  We have three washers, three dryers, that’s it.  In consideration for my fellow tenants, when I do laundry, I only do one load at a time, not three.  It can sometimes take up an entire afternoon and evening to do it this way, depending on how many loads I’ve got (because I usually wait til we almost run out of underwear or facecloths before I declare laundry day).  The point is it’s not fair to anyone for someone to hog the machines.  If you have 6 loads of laundry that you need to get done ASAP, go to the laundromat down the street. 

Friday, the kids were off school due to a teachers’ professional development day so I took the day off.  We had done our errands, now it was raining and I thought it would be a good time to do laundry.  So I sorted my five loads, and brought the first one down to the laundry room.  Great, nobody here, Friday afternoon, most people are at work.  Thirty minutes later, I’m back down to put the first load in the dryer, and to wash the second load.  Thirty-one minutes after that, I walk back down with my third load, and I’m greeted by the PHIMHs (pronounced fimz; one fim, two fimz) committee.  PHIMH = Paris Hilton Is My Hero.  That probably tells it all, but I’m on a roll, so I’ll elaborate.

Allow me to introduce you, although I’m sure you have some PHIMHs wandering your neighbourhood too:  These two particular PHIMHs are roommates in my building.  They’re in their mid-twenties.  They wear their perfectly highlighted & straightened hair in an updo made to look messy but which probably takes them hours to perfect.  They wear capri  leggings with hoodies as a casual fashion statement, and walk with their Yorkshire Terriers tucked under their arms, like furry luggage.  Always.  I’ve never seen those dogs walk.  Their faces (the girls, not the dogs) are caked with bronzer, their makeup would be called Club Chic (but not by me), lots of eyeliner around those flat, heavy-lidded eyes that look through people, never at them, and lots of lipgloss on those lips that never smile.  Ever.  Not at anyone.  They are way too busy concentrating on keeping their noses in the air to smile at anyone.   I see them with nice, easy-going-looking guys, but the guys appear more as porters (of dogs) or lackeys who follow them two steps behind, and to whom the PHIMHs speak to over their shoulder.  They drive expensive silvery gold SUVs with cream interior.  I have no idea what these two do for a living, but I don’t think it’s in anything remotely connected to working with people……how could you when you’re so busy projecting yourself as being better than everyone else just by the fact that you are….what?  Better-looking?  I’ve seen these girls rush ahead into the building when they saw someone coming loaded down with grocery bags and not even hold the door for them.  They just walked in with their precious doggies under their arms and let the door close behind them seconds before the poor man reached the door.  And it’s not like they didn’t see him.  He was maybe five to ten paces behind them.   If you happen to ride the elevator with the PHIMHs, they visibly cringe at having to actually share space with others, and converse loudly with each other until the elevator door opens and they quickly exit, without ever having made eye contact or said good day to anyone.   

These are the girls in high school who were pros at excluding others and being obnoxious and nasty if not to your face, then behind your back.   They could make even the teachers feel lower than a worm.    Frankly, I wish the PHIMHs would all migrate to Hollywood to feed on each other and leave the rest of us to live in harmony.  So back to my laundry story. 

I arrive in the laundry room with my third load.   One PHIMH is SITTING cross-legged ON the folding table, the table that is meant to FOLD CLEAN laundry, with her DOGGIE on one side and piles of dirty laundry on the other side.  The other PHIMH is standing by the washing machines, as if she’s guarding them with her life.  They’ve loaded the other two available ones with their laundry.  They’ve opened the lid of the third machine that has MY clothes in it, I guess to show me that I’ve kept the divas waiting.  I only have one basket with me, and it’s filled with my third load of dirty laundry.  I take out my wet clothes, put them on top of my dirty clothes and haul it to the dryers.  Now this is a very small laundry room, maybe 10 feet x 10 feet.  I’m guessing.  I have one load of towels drying in one of the dryers.  I don’t want to take up more than one dryer, because I’m considerate.  But I have my third load that I want to put in the washer that I just emptied, and now the standing PHIMH barely waits til I’m out of the way before she starts loading up the third washing machine!  She saw I had a basket of dirty clothes…..GRRRRR!   I sigh, because now I won’t get to do this third load.  I open my dryer and start folding the towels, wishing the idiot PHIMH  who was sitting on the table with her freaking dog would move so I could fold my stuff properly…..but no, she stays there, picking at her nails, talking to her roommate in that affected Valley Girl accent, peppering her conversation with ”like uh….like uhh….yeah….uhh…..”  Real intelligent.   I finish folding my towels, I put my second load of wet laundry into the dryer, and the standing PHIMH nearly knocks me over with her laundry cart as she goes by behind me!  No “Excuse-me I need to get by”, no nothing.  Of course not, silly me……she’s much more important, I should’ve been the one to get on my knees and grovel as she went by.    

Women like these two upset me, because they act like the world owes them everything, and that they are entitled.  They behave inconsiderately and they don’t care.  They don’t care about anyone but themselves, and they don’t care about how they affect the world around them.   I don’t care to change their behaviour, and I don’t care if they ever DO change their behaviour.  I would really love to body-check them into those washing machines.  That’s what I’d love to do.  Or at least have a really good comeback line which would be just as effective as a body-check. 

So P & I go back downstairs with the same dirty load to retrieve the clothes in the dryer.  Standing PHIMH is still there, but I see that the last washing machine has 6 minutes left before the cycle is over.  Good.  P & I fold the clothes that are in the dryer.  I turn to put them on the folding table, but it’s covered with piles of her dirty laundry.  So I set my clean folded clothes on the one chair, and I make small talk with P as we wait for the washing machine to become available.   Standing PHIMH  is looking at the sales flyers from the newspaper while she monopolizes all three machines.  She glances at me and says “Are you waiting for the machine?”  Whenever PHIMHs speak, it’s as if you have just sullied their environment by breathing the same air as they do; this affects their speech so that everything that comes out of their mouths has a tone of flatness & disdain.   So, to answer her question,  I smile (cause I always smile, especially when I’m ticked off) and say “Yes I am. I see that one’s done now.”, pointing to the last one.    “Oh”, she says, ” I still have two more loads to do….”   I straighten up, flash my green eyes at her, and with great control, I say “I’ve been waiting to put this load in.”  She looks at me with her big stupid eyes and her big stupid mouth starts: “Oh, well, I thought you were done before…..I have to get this laundry done….”  I swiped my clean clothes off the chair and plunked it as hard as I could on top of my dirty laundry and said “We ALL have to get our laundry done.”  She slunk to the machine and said a most insincere “Sorry”, so insincere and condescending that I wanted to ram it back down her throat so she would choke.  But I didn’t.    I was so mad that climbing the five flights of stairs was nothing, I could feel my blood pressure rising as the adrenaline coursed through my body.   P said “That lady wasn’t very nice.”  To which I replied “Don’t EVER date someone like that.” 

I flung myself on my bed when we reached the apartment, and I tried to breathe deeply.  It wasn’t helping.  I thought “If I don’t calm down, all this anger is going to harden my arteries.”  So I screamed into a pillow.  That helped.  The rest of the night was good (no I didn’t finish my laundry), and once I was calm, I thought about why this upset me so much.   If it had been anybody else, I would not even have thought twice about not being able to do my third load of laundry.  But it’s more about me than about them.  It’s about me not being able to have those words ready to tell somebody that they’re being jerks and to f*ck off.   No, that wouldn’t be good either I suppose.  I would be lowering myself to being rude & inconsiderate, and it would only contribute to the cycle of nastiness. 

BUT IT WOULD FEEL REAL GOOD!

P.S. The good thing that has come out of this is that the kids & I were able to talk about how our behaviours affect others.  My girl G’s advice to her mom was to let it go because one day the PHIMHs will have someone be rude to them.  Bad karma.  As I thought about it, I pictured the PHIMHs as little girls, and they probably grew up in a rude & inconsiderate environment….Geez I can’t even hold a grudge, and I know that if I see the PHIMHs again, I’ll forget the laundry room thing, and I’ll smile & hold the door for them & say what cute doggies they have.  All the while they’ll probably be cringing and thinking “Oooo there’s that (enter adjective of choice here) woman….”  That’s ok, I’ll be kind anyways. 

Love, Chantal xoxoxo

Men Who Love Women & The Women Who Hate Them

The following will link to an excellent rant from my bloggerfriend, One Female Canuck, who inspired me to start this blog.   I’ve written about her before, and I probably will again.    Anyhow, she just posted this rant on emotional head games some women play by calling it ”dating” or “being in a relationship”.       It’s really a sad commentary on how some women go through life eating up their soul for breakfast. 

http://www.onefemalecanuck.com/2007/09/men-are-from-mars-and-some-women-are.html

Love,  Chantal xoxoxoox

Nasty women

 

 I was colouring my hair the other night, and while I waited the 15 minutes processing time, I thought I’d watch a little TV.  I don’t have cable or satellite, so I only have 4 channels:  CTV, CBC, Global and Radio-Canada.   This is plenty for the amount of TV I watch.   So I’m channel-surfing (ha!) and decide upon Global, which is broadcasting The Bachelor.  This is a little different from the other Bachelor show, I’m guessing, because in this one, there are 2 groups of women:  one group is comprised of women in their twenties, the other is a group of women in their forties. 

I’m not too sure what the rules of this stupid game are, because I tuned in to the middle of the program.   I’m assuming Mr. Bachelor has to make a choice eventually between a 20-something woman and a 40-something woman.   Reality shows are degrading enough, but what I saw in the few minutes that I watched this program brought the human race to a new low.

When I tuned in, the 40-somethings were all dressed up, sitting around a kitchen, I’m guessing waiting to spend an evening with Mr. Bachelor.  One of the women was saying how she was tired of having her heart broken.  Then, the magic of television brought us into another kitchen somewhere, where the 20-somethings were also all dressed up & talking.  But this is what I found most repugnant.  The women in their 20s were openly laughing and mocking the women in their 40s, with comments about their sagging bodies and their emotional insecurities.  I won’t repeat what they said, because as they’re saying these awful things about other women, I’m thinking:  Honey, one day you will be 40…and if you keep it up with that nasty mouth, you’ll be forty, friendless and fried from tanning beds. 

But it wasn’t just the comments that these women were making that I found, well, shocking.  It was the obvious glee and pleasure they were taking at tearing someone apart.   It was like watching a group of grade five bullies having the time of their lives recounting their harassment of a more vulnerable child, egging each other on to see who could come up with the most torturous tale.  This display of female machismo, directed at other women, was another notch on Misoginy’s belt.  I turned off the TV after watching that little segment, as I couldn’t stomache any more than the five minutes that were already causing me indigestion.    

When I see stuff like this, I think about the impact it has on society in general, that women will feel it’s ok to disrespect strangers, acquaintances, friends, family members, whomever.  That it’s even more fun to do it in a group, and to do it as cruelly and maliciously as possible.  That no matter what life experience you have, no matter your age or your intelligence, no matter if you’ve carried a life inside your body and have the stretch marks to prove your courage and strength at giving birth, no matter that you’ve battled a life-threatening disease, or gone on to higher education because you want to help people in whatever field you’ve chosen to study, no matter that you volunteer countless hours to something you believe in, no matter that you live your life as spiritually as you can so that people around you can also have a measure of caring and peace in their lives, no matter that you struggle against your fears, or have to deal with abuse in your life, no matter that you’re caring for someone you love who is dying, it makes no difference that you’re quietly facing the end of your life in a nursing home with no family to care for you.   None of this seemed to matter to these pretentious women.  

The bottom line for them is that mean girls get what they want, and whoever dies with the biggest breasts wins.