Don’t Say Funny Things If You Don’t Want Them Subsequently Blogged
Him: Hi.
Me: Alright! I didn’t go to the gym today. I went to the mall.
I can’t possibly be scolded for this as the Captain knows well how much I hate the mall. Also, clearly I could never be trusted with government secrets.
Him: Oh?
Me: I was looking for a dress for your army prom thingy.
Yes, army prom. I swear that’s what it says on the tickets. Ok, maybe “military ball.” Whatever.
Him: And how’d you do?
Me: I came home with two books from Barnes & Noble . . . and no dress.
He shakes his head and walks away from me.
Hey, book shopping doesn’t require mirrors.
Me: Wait, but I didn’t mean to come home with books instead. I went to the mall with a very singular purpose. I parked right outside of Macy’s and went straight to the dress department. I tried a couple dresses on that were ok but I didn’t love. So then I tried JCPenney, which is apparently where all the ho dresses are. If you want to go clubbing and have sex in a dirty bathroom, shop at JCPenney. If you want to look nice and elegant, better stick to Macy’s.
Him: Ok . . .
Me: So on my way back to the other end of the mall I had to walk by the bookstore and I got distracted. I just wanted to see if they had this particular book, which they did. And then I had to get that book a friend . . . But anyway, I did find a dress . . . sorta. It’s red and pretty but very clingy. Very. So if I buy it, I can’t get it til closer to the ball, after I spend more time at the gym. Cause it fits ok now, but if I put on any weight in the next month, it’s not going to look good.
Him: I see.
Me: It clings to everything.
But in a sophisticated way!
Me: Honestly, I spent some time contemplating if I could even wear underwear. You could definitely see panty lines and I’m wearing pretty flimsy panties today.
Him: Go commando. It’s appropriate. It’s a military event.
Poisoned
Back when I had my own apartment, I didn’t have much of a social life (realistically, not much has changed in that respect), but I did have extended basic cable.
On the weekends I typically parked my derriere (and laptop) on the living room sofa and spent my afternoons lusting over Hal Sparks while loving the 80s, noting (and disregarding) fashion tips from Stacy and Clinton, and wondering if my sister’s hospital rotations were anything like Scrubs.
But, by far, my favorite idiot box entertainment was the America’s Next Top Model marathon.
ANTM was my heroin. Succumbing to the urge to watch super-thin women vying for the title of prettiest live mannequin violated most of the principles I claimed to hold dear. Yet I couldn’t tear myself away. I’d sit there bare-faced in jeans and a hoodie, completely mesmerized by underweight girls with long legs and amazing cheekbones. During commercial breaks I would make pouty faces in the mirror and imagine life as a model. Sure I had thick thighs, bad skin, a wicked overbite, crooked teeth, and a large nose that looks like it’s been broken a few times, but clearly my career as a Victoria’s Secret Angel failed to take off only because I was a mere five foot three and three quarters inches tall.
I was still perfecting my pout, waiting to be discovered, and nursing my ANTM addiction when I saw an episode where several plus-size girls joined the competition. I remember feeling such sympathy for those women because the skinny girls made them look and feel like heifers by comparison and Janice Dickinson was a real bitch about their curvy bodies.
God, I can’t imagine being them, I thought. It must be a constant battle just to maintain healthy self-esteem.
As I watched with rapt attention, one of the plus-size models broke down and started fretting about her shape. The lithe, svelte, traditional models blamed her lack of self control. They scolded her for eating too much and not exercising enough. Then they belittled her for letting herself go and being overweight.
“But I’m a size eight,” the girl cried.
[insert record scratch sound effect]
A size eight?! That’s not plus-size. That’s not even average. Christ, I’m a size eight, and that girl had to be a good head taller than me. She probably weighed less than me too. And she was the fat chick!
My entire sense of self-image shattered.
Like most women, I’m not always happy with the way I look. I dislike mirrors, and when obligated to stand before one, I usually feel a mix of disgust and shame. It doesn’t matter that I’m in ok shape, all I can focus on are my flaws. I hate that I can’t be comfortable in my own skin. I hate that a thorough search of my house would turn up at least one Glamour or In Style because I think I need advice on how to look more attractive. I hate that I feel guilty for wearing sneakers instead of stilettos. I hate that the total investment put into my makeup bag could probably fund dinner for an entire African village. And I hate that I can’t bring myself to just be done with it all.
When I exercise at the gym or avoid certain cuts of clothing or apply mascara, I try to tell myself that I’m doing it for me. I justify that I’m helping myself to look good and feel good. But as much as I live in a state of denial, I am aware that I’m doing these things just as much for the high school boys who rejected me, the optometrist who told me if I wore glasses I’d never get a date, and the models who think a size eight is equivalent to a fat ass. Yes, you’re one of my sources of motivation to look hot, Janice Dickinson, and for that honor you can go fuck yourself.
Legend
I’ve always been the kid who got picked last for teams in gym class. I’m small, I’m slow, and let’s be honest, I’m not terribly coordinated. I could never be described as “athletic.” Something I should have reflected upon before joining the company softball team.
I think most people would award me the title of “least talented player,” but the coach generally had to play me anyway because our league requires a certain number of women to be on the lineup. Basically I showed up so everyone else could play. That was, sadly, my greatest contribution to the team. I’m a guaranteed out. My first year, I struck out nearly every time I was at bat.
This year I didn’t fare much better. I could hit the ball, but it tended to make it to first base long before I did. My teammates offered words of encouragement every time I trudged back to our bench with head hanging, but I was sure that my lack of skill frustrated them. It certainly frustrated me.
The season ended and we prepared for the playoffs. With each week of rain that delayed the start of the postseason, I became more uneasy about playing. As far as I was concerned, it was time to acknowledge my lack of athleticism and hang up my glove. But I had committed to the team, they needed me to be able to play, and our first playoff game was just across the street. So on the appointed day, I half-heartedly trotted across the road and assumed my place in right field.
The game started a few minutes late because one of the women on the opposing team hadn’t shown up yet and the rules specify they need five to play. Our team took the field and warmed up while we waited. Traditionally I never warm up because I’m embarrassed by my inability to throw or catch the ball. But the left center fielder threw a couple my way, so I was forced to practice. Happily, I caught what came to me and scolded him not to use up all my catches before the game.
Amusing, of course, because nothing ever comes to right field.
Eventually the missing woman turned up and we were able to begin. Some of our coworkers wandered over to watch us. My teammates played well and quickly took a good lead over our opponents. For the most part, I stood idly in right field and watched dragonflies.
I was probably doing just that in one of the later innings when the ball flied out to right field. I watched it arc over the infield when my brain clicked and directed me to run towards it. I charged forward, trying to position myself in the ball’s path, but I’m not a very good judge of these things. My teammates later told me they were yelling “In! In!” but I didn’t hear them. I was completely focused on the ball and trying to get near it. Unfortunately, I had been playing deep and there was no way I was going to make it. Without really thinking, I did the only thing that made sense to do. I reached forward as far as I could and dove. I watched the ball land in my glove as the ground came up to meet my body. I rolled a few times, then held up my prize to show I hadn’t dropped it.
The team went crazy.
I had caught not only the last out of the inning, but the last out of the game. What I didn’t know until I reached the infield was that we had enough runs to mercy the other team. My teammates came rushing at me from all directions giving me high fives and pats on the back. All around me I heard shouts of “Incredible catch!” and “Alright, Stacey!” and “That’s one for ESPN!” Even the coach jogged out to meet me, announcing, “That was freaken fantastic!”
There I was, once the girl who started little league with a huge shiner because I caught the ball with my face instead of my glove, being glorified as making the best play all year. One of my coworkers said he thought they might actually carry me off the field. To say it was surreal would be an understatement.
It was the most amazing moment of my life.
At work people keep coming up to me and saying, “I heard you made this great catch.” It’s getting embarrassing. I’ve told them that if I were a better player, the catch would have been much less impressive because I would have been under the ball, not eating grass, but my coach says to bask in my moment of fame. In a way it feels wrong because there are talented players on our team that make those ESPN-worthy catches every game.
In reality, the only reason my catch was so exceptional was because I’m the mousy girl who was never meant to make it.
Then again, maybe that’s the point.
People Will Google Anything
Top search term to bring people to this blog: “boob fairy.”
Great, I think my secret identity is blown.
idk, my bff Jill?
My mother once told me “Everyone needs friends.”
At the time I was about nine or ten years old. We had recently moved to a new town, which I thought was a great adventure right up until school started and my fifth-grade classmates promptly shunned me. After several months of heartbreak and humiliation, I thought it best to give up on the BFF crusade.
Since my elementary school days I’ve had a few close friends here and there, but for the most part interpersonal relationships are not my forte. This used to bother me tremendously. There was a time when I wanted nothing more in the world than to be popular. I longed for my peers to like me and want to spend time with me.
Nowadays I couldn’t care less.
I realized recently, after patching things up with an estranged friend, that I don’t crave phone calls, shopping adventures, gossip sessions, or dinner dates. Really all I want out of a friendship is something more like a pen pal. I want to be able to write to someone and ask questions or share secrets and have the person write back. Anything more involved than that begins to annoy me.
I was surprised to discover this about myself. But the more that I think about it, the more I see that I’ve always been a wallflower. Part of me worries about my tendency to observe life rather than participate in it. I think I think too much and act not enough. Sometimes I get angry with myself for not being a “social butterfly” like my sister. More often I get angry with myself for wanting to be anything other than the person I am.
The person I am. There’s another post entirely.
I’m glad the aforementioned friend and I came to a reconciliation. I really am. But in the grand scheme of things, I guess it’s not as important to me as I thought it would be.
After all, if I want intelligent conversation with thoughtful and articulate individuals, I need not look further than my own blog. (Thank you, readers!)