Note: I wrote this piece some time ago, but felt too shy to post it publicly. Today I found it while cleaning out old files and I had a surge of bravery. I think it's important to talk about these things so here it is... shared with the world (or the five people who read here, whatevs.)
I’ve never had a self-confidence issue, ever. Not even in my formative, angst-y teenage years. I’ve always been proud and considered my confidence to be one of my best attributes. That confidence is partially an inherent piece of my personality; I’ve always found it a waste of time and energy to be concerned about what other people think of me - especially if those thoughts happened to be negative - ESPECIALLY if those thoughts were about something I can’t (or don’t want to) change. But that confidence also stems from the fact that I grew up surrounded by family, friends, and a community that thought I was the bees-knees. According to them, I was kind and giving, brilliant and innovative, lovely and statuesque; I had the voice of an angel, great artistic talent, and a striking presence upon entering any room. And I believed it all. To this day, I sincerely believe that I possess an ethereal grace and creative genius, even as I spill my coffee, for the second time, onto the pile of envelopes that I’m stuffing for my mundane job.
This isn’t to say that I have a great big ol’ ego; I don’t think myself better than anyone else, I just try not to focus on the negative. It also isn’t to say that I don’t ever experience self-doubt or hate on my thighs; I do – often. But I try very hard not to ever let that stuff outweigh the ethereal grace/creative genius stuff.
I’m writing this, because I’ve recently been thinking a lot about self-confidence; and the near impossibility, for women in particular, to consistently maintain a positive self-image. How even the most confident of women occasionally listen to the negative voices and allow that self-criticism to creep in. And this week, I’ve been experiencing that creep.
Over the weekend, my husband and I were leaving a restaurant together and a man had stopped to hold the door for us. Just as we were passing through the door, I realized I left something on the table and had to run back to retrieve it. When I turned back to the exit, I noticed the door-holder remained, chatting with my waiting husband. As I neared, I could hear bits of their conversation – he was asking if I was his girl and asking how tall I was and responding with an incredulous, “WOW!” and then muttered something about me being big.
This all rolled off my back with the resilience that you acquire when by age 12 you were easily a foot-or- more taller than your peers. Over the years, I’ve become immune to stares and questions about my height, assumptions about the sports I must be involved in, and debates over whether or not I should be permitted to wear heels. It comes with the territory; it doesn’t offend me.
But then, as I smiled and passed by him through the door, he looked me up and down and called after my husband, “well, you’d better make sure she don’t beat your ass!”
Dying Achilles, a sculpture on the Greek island of Corfu. Very dramatic, no??
That evening, as women are often wont to do, I over-analyzed and internalized this man’s words. Instead of being a result of his ignorance and rudeness, or his own self-esteem issues, the words became my issue; my problem. “I’m carrying more weight than I’m comfortable with, so he was well within his rights to make a comment about my appearance; he’s probably only saying what everyone else is thinking anyway,” my mind taunted. “If I was skinny, my height would be admired as model-esque as opposed to fear-inducing.” With this over-analysis came a steely resolve. You know, the kind that leads you to unhealthy behavior, like vowing not to leave the gym until you’ve burned 1000 calories each day.
The next day, determined to make good on my resolution, I hit the gym with much more vigor than usual. My anger and hurt had powered me through about 700 calories burned when my thoughts started to shift. “Damn, I’m strong… I wonder how many people pray every night that they had the strength and stamina to power through a workout like this?” I looked down at my strong legs working and watched the timer click down and the calorie count click up and slowly my disgust with myself began to fade away and something else surfaced in its place… my temporarily-lost pride.
The anger, though; the anger stayed. I was angry that the words of one stranger were so easily able to knock me off course and I was angry that he felt entitled to say them in the first place. Then I got angry at society, because really, he was only doing what society has empowered him to do; to look at a woman, judge her by her appearance and vocalize that judgment.
So, I’m really happy that my confidence only took leave of me for less than a full day, and the anger; I’m sure that will eventually dwindle, too. But until it does, to the asshole door-holding man, I say this:
“I AM strong and this 6 ft tall body that intimidates you is a gift from my Nordic ancestors. My big-long legs carry me far and fast; if we were ever to work out together, I guarantee I could outlast you by hours. And your concern, sir, should not be for my darling husband who supports me always and sees only the very best in me, but for arrogant, entitled pricks like yourself who feel within their rights to make unnecessary and unwanted commentary on random women’s appearance.”
To myself and any other confident women experiencing a temporary lapse in their swagger, I invoke the words of the incomparable lyricist of our time, Jay Z, and say:
“Ladies is pimps too, go on brush your shoulders off.”