Would You Hand Me Those?

I was standing under the dim, dance floor lights at the Tiki Lounge, surrounded by my closest comrades. I was enjoying life as only a bright eyed, seventeen year old could - with an invincible attitude and a desire to mingle.

Our attempt earlier that evening to procure alcohol had failed. I had mindlessly pulled my car (the same car that contained four girls with big hair and spiral curls), up to the side window of the small liquor store. Always looking the oldest, I was sent inside. With confidence, I grabbed a six pack of beer - it didn’t matter what kind - and headed to the counter. My shoulders were squared, my back was held straight. I looked directly into the eyes of the woman behind the cash register (a key maneuver to a successful under-age booze purchase), and waited for her to ring me up. She floated her tired eyes over my bigger than life hairstyle, then glanced over her left shoulder out the window, and stared at the car filled to the brim with teenage girls. The woman kept her face directed toward the car while her eyes made their way back toward me. She stared at me, I stared at her. I pivoted and walked out.

The lack of good parking judgment didn’t stop us. We were high on life, and all was well. Now, I can’t say I’ve ever been thrilled with my appearance. But standing next to the dance floor that evening I heard a simple sentence that further changed the way I viewed myself. Glancing at the young man standing near me, I noticed his lingering stare. I also noticed when he leaned toward his friend and said, “If she had boobs she’d be a ten.”

Truthfully, I wasn’t thrilled with my breasts either. Regardless, his words were devastating. Those words managed to etch themselves into the back wall that surrounded my perception of myself. I was, in my opinion, always the odd looking one, but upon hearing his evaluation – it was obvious I was also flawed.

His opinion, as I heard it that night, and my opinion, as I heard it every day thereafter, stayed with me for the next twenty-three years. Not in an overt way, more similar to – when you like the house you just bought, except for that one room you can’t do anything with - sort of way. I remember buying gel inserts to boost my size. But God forbid I forget to take them out before a tussle in the hay; with hurried hands clothes are thrown onto the floor, the bra is unsnapped with excitement, and to his horror (and mine), out pops and bounces across the floor two objects that appear frighteningly similar to female breasts. “Excuse me,” I’d say, “Would you mind handing me those?” Something about that scenario never felt right – still doesn’t.

I don't know why it's easier to believe the harsh words said about us, rather than the kind. And I surely don't know why the voice in my head didn't even bother to argue that night at the Tiki Lounge, but it didn't - it agreed. I know quite a few people, like me, who have judged themselves by the words of others, and not their own.

But something changed when I turned forty. I can’t say I look in the mirror and smile. I still feel I’m a bit odd looking – not bad - not the best either. But I accepted myself. It is a liberating and divine thing when one accepts themselves. Sure, I may continue to make a few tweaks along the way, much like home maintenance, my face might need a lift here and there. Gone are the days though, when I want to add on to the front room. Not only do I no longer feel the need, it takes all the energy I have to take care of what's here already. It seems this "house" of mine, is always in need of a fresh coat of paint, there is always a wall in need of some spackle, and quite often when I look in the mirror I notice the gutters are looking droopy. This house has seen a few wind storms, and it shows, but that’s okay. It’s the place I call home.

It seems some people settle into their skin early, it took me forty years.

Sane