The Fun House Effect

I've always been the kind of girl who always felt a bit left out. In elementary school, I was the smart kid who had friends -- until I figured out that all they actually wanted to do was copy my homework. In junior high, there were the music kids but, as Mean Girls will show you, cliques exist even in the very depths of the popularity Inferno.

High school was better; I managed to run with a variety of crowds (we ain't too pretty, we ain't too proud. Sorry, couldn't resist!), most of whom I still maintain as casual Facebook acquaintances. I was kind of a bitch,  but we'll get into that some other time. College was more of the same friendships, in that I won some, I lost some, hell, I even bought some, but suffice to say that I was never "that girl", the one for whom the crowd waits to get their parties started.

So you can see why I've become slightly insecure, now that I've noticed a trend among some of my friends.

Apparently, there was a close-out sale on Fun House mirrors, and someone forgot to invite me. 

[Source]

For weeks now, ever since the sun started to peek out from behind the clouds and shorts and bikinis became the weekend wardrobe of choice, I've been hearing it all over the place. "My legs look fat!"; "My nose has a weird bump!"; "Shamu had less blubber around his midsection!"; "My hips are too thin!"; "I look like a little boy!" (Sidenote: I hate how common an assumption it is in this little blog niche we have here that everyone's body issues stem from the same perceived "flaws." There are plenty of people out there with concerns that they are too thin, too short, too tall, not womanly enough, et al., so shut up and stop assuming that everyone and their mother thinks their thighs look like cottage cheese already).

It's funny. My friends apparently look at themselves in the mirror and see circus freaks; I look at them and see smart, beautiful, hilarious individuals. Some of them have hair I would kill for, others have mile splits that I'm pretty sure would leave my poor little lungs curled up in the dirt resembling the fetal version of Voldemort. A few of them who have cared to share their writing have completely blown me away with their words. The sheer talent that flows through so many of my friends' veins, whatever the arena, is something that I often find myself stopping to think about, and counting myself lucky to have them in my life.

You know what I almost never think about?

Their size.

I say "almost never" because basically, the only thing that makes me say, "HEY! So-and-so is a size X!" is because I'm secretly planning to plow through her closets like a preteen boy on a panty raid.

"What do you mean, this is your shirt?!"

If you were to go through my dresser, closet, undergarment tower and/or workout/goingout/pajama bin, you would find clothes that range from a small to an extra large. You'd find a size 18 business suit from Macy's that I wore to my first "grown up" job interviews and enough "suits of armor" (aka spanxx) to get the Klumps on the cover of Shape magazine. Loads of tshirts in every color, cut and size imaginable litter my hamper and those rolly-things that go under the bed. There are jeans in every size from 10-16, with one pair of 12s that I can't wear for fear of running the risk of plumber butt, and another in the SAME SIZE that I can't even yank up past my thighs. Somewhere, in the very depths of a box that's probably hidden in my living room closet, there is a pair of shorts in a size 7 from the summer I left for college, 130lbs and too thin for my frame. 

Maybe I should just lay off this whole writing thing and consider making my claim to fame via Hoarders.

I'm definitely not a saint myself when it comes to the whole "fat day/skinny day" phenomenon, but I have noticed one thing in the past year or two: while I still suffer from negative self-talk, that second little voice in my head has, bit by bit, begun to grow bolder. When I think, "jeez, I weigh the same thing I did when I was a size X, but these feel WAY tighter on my thighs!", there's another voice that overrides that one, saying, "yeah yeah yeah, but you were totally lazy at the time and never moved; you've been running and spinning and ok, so maybe there is still some extra fluff in the lower region, but your endurance at the track and resistance on the bike don't lie." It's a slow process, but it's happening.

Like a briiiiiidge overrr troubled, watterrrssss....

At the Blake Shelton/Brad Paisley concert last weekend, I'd be lying if I said that I didn't, at one point, look around at all the uber-tan, straight-haired, belly-baring ladies in cowboy boots and daisy dukes and think, "I don't belong here." But then one of those "perfect" chicks next to me ended up engaged in a bitchfight with a posse of 15 year-olds, the "what? what?" hand snap in the face and accent straight out of The Fighter included.

Then I realized that, while I might have been comparing my pasty white calves to her golden gams and wondering why I couldn't be "perfect" mere moments before, Girlfran had her own set of issues to deal with. One does not feel the need to "step up" to a group of little girls nine years her junior if she's secure with who she is.

I felt a lot better about things once I took that in to account. It reminded me how grateful I am for what I've got, both inside AND outside, and how proud I was to have made a distinction that a year ago, when I was 20lbs lighter, was so far outside the realm of reality for me that I probably would have said, "I'd rather be a size 2 and trashy than a size 14 with friends." It's crazy what a year, some therapy and a bit of perspective can do.

Anyway, not to get all Operation Beautiful on you or anything, but seriously, ladies (and gents, if you're reading): stop getting all down on yourselves because of the number inside your pants. Chances are, your friends and acquaintances don't care about whether you're a size 2, a size 12 or a size 20.

Unless, of course, they happen to be the same size, in which case, they probably just want to steal your pants.