Tag Archives: self-esteem

We See YOU

Freeform thoughts, ,

nerves

So I was helping a friend do some interviewing last night, for a fairly important role in her business. That happens a lot when you work in human resources, you’re sort of seen as the oracle on all things people-related. It’s one of those professions where you try and avoid telling strangers what you do for a living because as soon as they know you get the tale of woe. You know the score…everyone’s got a ‘friend’ who’s having some bother at work, and what should they do. It’s the equivalent of someone inviting you to check out their rash if you’re a doctor, or having to listen to complaints about someone’s hotel if you’re a travel agent…you just sort of learn to keep schtum.

Anyway, given this was my friend I was happy to help…we saw a couple of people who were a bit less than impressive, and then in walked Mr Charisma – we loved him instantly. He had exactly the right sort of experience, amassed over a number of years. He was really open and friendly, and the answers he gave to our questions were terrific, there’s no question he could do the job. And yet, he was possibly the most self-conscious person I’ve ever met.

I know, it’s really easy from the interviewer side of the room to say relax and enjoy the meeting, and I totally get it, as an interviewee you’re probably going to have a few heebie jeebies. But genuinely, I don’t think he was nervous about the interview – he knew his onions, and to be fair he aced it. This poor bloke was in his own private version of hell because he was self conscious about his weight.

There’s no getting away from the fact that he was very short and very round. And I can say with absolute certainty he was desperately hoping that it wasn’t the only thing we noticed about him. My empathy-ometer was nearly off the scale and If it hadn’t been highly inappropriate, I might have hugged him…I’ve walked a mile in his shoes, which is why I can tell you exactly what was going on in his head. He so wanted to be judged on his ability rather than his appearance, but I guarantee that in that moment, how he looked and how he felt was leeching 95% of his focus.

The chair we offered must have been agony. He had a bloody good go at sitting in it, but it just wasn’t built for a man of his proportions. He spilled over it you know? He looked so uncomfortable. His suit jacket was a little snug, and when he sat down it kind of bunched up around his shoulders. He spent the best part of the interview adjusting his tie to cover the buttons on his shirt which were straining across his frame, and tugging at the lapels and the sleeves of his jacket.

The irony is, I was having a moment myself at the same time. I wasn’t sitting up to a table, you know in true HR style we’d set the room up with no barriers so I was writing my interview notes in a pad balanced on my knee. I’m still too fat to cross my legs and as I looked down at my notes, the asshole in my mind couldn’t resist the opportunity to point out how my stomach and my pad were fighting over the right to rest on my leg.

I so badly wanted to say to him it’s okay…quit fretting about the fat thing, we see you. Of course I didn’t…but I was so in sync with his thoughts I felt like Mystic bloody Meg. The really ridiculous thing is that out of the three professional people in the room, at least two were preoccupied with how they looked and what other people might be thinking about that.

Being free of that distracting and destructive thought ball and chain is the thing I’m looking forward to more than anything once I get to Skinny Town 🙂

 

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Anything, But Not Grateful!

Freeform thoughts,

insecureMy friend’s daughter had her confidence knocked big time at a Christmas party this weekend – she’s quite a curvy girl, but definitely in a ‘curves you’d kill for’ hourglass kind of way. She’s young, gorgeous, and to be honest if she was my daughter she’d be locked in a tower until she was at least forty. There’s a bloke in the mix who she has a bit of a soft spot for – actually she’s got the raging hots for him, I was being discreet – so she was gearing up for a bit of a flirt and maybe a moment under the mistletoe you know?

Off she went, feeling really giddy. And within ten minutes of arriving at the party, a thoughtless catty comment made by one of her so-called friends about the way she looked ruined her whole night. I could have wept for her as my friend was telling me about it, because like many of you guys I’m sure, I’ve been there.

She doesn’t see what we all see, when she looks in the mirror. I look at her and I see flawless peachy skin and an amazing smile. I see a girl with boobs to die for and a proper waist, and yet all she sees when she looks in the mirror is fat. To put it into perspective, I’ve got more fat on my earlobes than she has on her body.

When I look back at my own teenage years, I often wonder how different my life might have been if I’d grown up in a hot body. I mean don’t get me wrong, I was a proper party animal when I was younger, and I didn’t suffer from a lack of confidence per se, but, I always felt like a munter at the side of my skinny string bean friends, like the fat funny one who was good for a laugh but not, you know, fanciable.

At the end of the night when it got to slow dance time, all the girls used to stand around the dance floor looking like they couldn’t be arsed with the boy thing, and didn’t care that they hadn’t yet been invited to shuffle around in circles and have a quick snog. And yet one by one the hot girls all got picked off by the hot boys, the reasonably attractive girls got picked off by the reasonably attractive boys, and then there were only swamp donkeys left, feeling a little bit awkward, with both sexes furtively weighing up their remaining options.

I used to fall somewhere in the middle, you know? I had a pretty face but I filled my disco pants a bit too well to be an A-lister. Mostly my dancing partners were definitely to the left of hot, but you know it was generally quite dark so it didn’t matter too much, in the moment. But the point I’m making is, because I didn’t feel confident about the way I looked, the overwhelming feeling I got whenever someone asked me to dance was grateful. And let me tell you that’s not how you want to feel when it comes to members of the opposite sex.

Feeling grateful that someone picked you leads to a whole world of pain…you put up with more, and overlook things which should set alarm bells clanging because you know, he likes you and that’s good, right? You settle. Usually for someone who’s not worthy of you…here speaketh the voice of experience.

When I look back, I wasn’t fat really, not fat like now fat. I mean yes, I filled those disco pants a bit too well but not on an industrial scale. Trust me, I wish I was the same size now as I was when I thought I was fat the first time around…nothing quite like the twenty twenty vision of hindsight hmm?

Anyway…I’m happy to report that my friend’s girl got her man, well that is to say he texted her the next day and apparently told her he’d thought she’d looked ‘sick’ the night before. I’m reliably informed that these days that is a compliment…I shall file that away for future reference because under normal circumstances if anyone texted that to me they’d be asking for a smack in the chops 🙂

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Scratching The Surface

Freeform thoughts, In the here & now,

surface

One of the advantages of being curious about the world in general, and interested in how other folk manage to get – and keep – their shit together, is that there is a wealth of ideas out there about what works and what doesn’t. Some of them are offered up as irrefutable fact, some are just abstract ideas which kind of plant a seed in your head and you can ponder it yourself and start to form a view, and at this time of year particularly there are lots of lists…’the top ten ways to…’ kind of thing, you know the score.

Some of the absolute gems come from people you know who just appear to have it all effortlessly going on – although don’t forget that appearances can be a bit deceptive. One of the most put-together people I thought I knew totally left me hanging when I tried paying her a compliment by telling her how much I admired her. I don’t mean in a weirdo stalker-ish kind of way, I mean I just mentioned in passing that I wished I could emulate the way she dealt with things. Big mistake.

Before I had chance to catch my breath she started unloading all the reasons why she was the wrong person to regard as a role model – picture me standing there, catching all these reasons one by one, as though I’m holding an armful of groceries without a basket to put them in…I felt like a right numpty, I mean what do you say? Cue awkward moment where I wished I’d kept my mouth shut to start with and realisation dawned on her that perhaps she’d over-shared instead of just accepting the compliment.

It did make me think though, about what goes on under the surface you know? The way in which we’re regarded by the world in general isn’t based just on how we look but also on what we choose to show of our character – and to be fair, if you invest time in portraying yourself in a certain light but then shoot the illusion down in flames when someone calls it out, it kind of defeats the object, the above example being a case in point. I’d be more likely to fist-pump the air at the fact I’d pulled off my impersonation of someone cool, calm and in control.

Do you think there’s a direct correlation between what we know and like about ourselves, and the self we choose to share with the outside world? I do…it’s definitely true in my case. I’d love to be able to say that I’m always authentic and honest in the way I interact with other people but if I scratch the surface, I’m so not.

The things about myself that I like, I’ll share freely and openly ’till the cows come home. But it’s a different matter altogether when it comes to revealing things about myself that I don’t like, or which I think don’t present the impression of me that I want people to have. The things I feel ashamed of, or guilty about, or which are character flaws that I wish I didn’t have..? These things you’re likely to find me trying to bury under the patio in the dead of night in the hope that nobody will ever see…or think harshly of me because of them.

And how strange is it that on here, I feel like I can say that freely and yet some of my closest friends wouldn’t know that about me..? I suspect it’s because I think about you guys as my support system, you know? You’re helping me be the best version possible of the authentic me, so it’s ok that you know…after all, I can’t change what I don’t acknowledge, right?

More food for thought 🙂

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So What Makes The Cut?

Freeform thoughts, In the here & now, , , ,

casesLordy, where do I even start with this one. So I’ve been busy over the last couple of days getting my stuff ready for my forthcoming trip. (What do you mean you hadn’t realised I was going away, didn’t I mention it?) And the fact that I’m only going for four nights is in no way proportional to the size of the bag I’m taking with me, in fact folk might well suspect I’m emigrating when they see me setting off.

I’ve mentioned the wardrobe situation before haven’t I, in a post a few weeks ago – my skinny clothes reside inside those closet doors whilst my fat clothes are relegated to the laundry basket/ironing pile merry-go-round. I bought quite a few new outfits before my last holiday, but I’ve got to be honest I don’t think I possess one single fat garment that I would choose to wear as a skinny girl. So what makes the cut, and gets to come on the trip? I think probably everything. I have to account for the asshole factor you see.

In the few times in my life that I’ve achieved the hallowed skinny girl status, I’ve gone mad buying clothes…lots and lots and lots of clothes. Most of which sit in my closet still, with the tags attached. Were I travelling as a skinny girl, given that we know our itinerary I’d have a carefully selected outfit for each day, each evening and maybe one or two spare things. I’d unpack, hang them up and wear what I’d planned to wear, when I’d planned to wear it and beyond that, I wouldn’t  give it much thought.

Travelling as a fat girl, with the asshole in my head in tow, it’s a different proposition. Whilst I’m packing, he’ll tell me yes that looks fine…he’ll say that about everything, pretty much. But when I’m there…different story you know? You’re really wearing that? It makes your bum look like two puppies fighting in a sack. Your arms are on display and it’s too tight…it doesn’t look right, doesn’t fit right, you look twice as big as you really are if that’s even possible…I know I’m getting better at ignoring him, but I sort of feel like I’ve got to take twice what I actually need you know? Kind of like fat girl insurance.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s no pity party going on here…it is what it is and I’m buffeted from the barbed comments he’ll sling in my direction by the deep rooted confidence that I’m on a clear path from fat to skinny, so next time I can set off with a pair of clean knickers and a toothbrush rattling around in my bag because the rest of my holiday duds will be waiting for me in the boutiques lining the malls that I’m going to pillage whilst I’m there.

There’ll definitely be shopping this week…you know the score. Maybe a bit of jewellery…a handbag perhaps…scent, yes definitely scent…fat girl accessories, but clothes, no. I don’t need fat clothes, I have them and besides they’ll have limited shelf life since I’m on the road to skinny town 🙂 And I have all the skinny clothes I need, I’m just waiting for my buns to shrink.

I have everything I need…I’m in a good place  cocktail

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Selfie Esteem

Freeform thoughts, In the here & now,

turd_polish

So preparations are underway for the big trip…four more sleeps till I hook up with my friends, and one further sleep before we all jet off for five days of girly time. To say I’m excited is a bit of an understatement, after all we’ve been planning the trip for about a year. This weekend will be mainly about doing all the holiday things like picking up holiday money, and packing. I feel energised, and I feel in control. I’m not stressing about the diet, which is going well and is flexible enough for me not to have to deny myself the odd treat. We’re cool, I’ve got the food plan down and I’m totally ready to keep hitting it straight whilst I’m away.

I’m not stressing about the asshole (who is busy packing too, he is of course coming with me) and I’m not stressing about the flight (seat belt extension, check)…I’m not even stressing about the fact that whilst I’m pretty sure no klaxons will sound when I check in for the helicopter flight and step on their scales, I’ll almost certainly have to pay extra dollars for my extra arse. I’ve lost weight but I don’t think I’ve lost enough. We’ll see, but whichever way up nothing’s crimping my mood right now.

Except the selfies, dammit. Now I’ve spent the last two weeks rubbing out the ordinary and installing the bling. I’ve got my false eyelashes in place…individually glued on in plenty of time for me to get used to navigating through them to put my contacts in. Nails manicured, with added holiday sparkle. Hair has lost it’s ‘just cut’ look and grown long enough to cover any rogue pubic-looking hairs which might suddenly sprout out of my neck at warp speed whilst I’m away and have my eye off the ball temporarily. I’ve even got some new fat-girl-clothes. It’s fair to say the turd is well and truly polished…this is as good as it gets. So in the grand scheme of things, I should be ready for all the holiday selfies, right? You’ve got to be kidding.

There’ll be phones out every five minutes taking photos in every location, capturing every moment for posterity…me included of course. I love these girls to the moon and back, they’re my people, you know?  Of course I want lots of memories to look back on, and so will they. They don’t care that I’m fat, we all go back years and years and we work perfectly as a six pack. We laugh together, cry together…fit together. They’ve seen me fat-skinny-fat-skinny and they don’t give a rats ass. But I’m still not ready for the cameras.

I have strategies, of course…if we have to have a group shot taken I’ll find a way to be on the back row. Hide my bulk behind someone else and just flash a big smile. Selfies might work if there’s just head shots and if I’m really clever I might get just the one chin in shot…no body shots allowed obviously. But what happens to all the pictures..? Facebook happens…the asshole in my mind has been chewing at me all week about that.

Friends of friends might see me. And I was probably skinny the last time they saw me…because fat photos don’t make it onto my Facebook. With the exception of one photo taken by my friend which caught my head at just the right angle so several chins were all but invisible, I think the last photo of myself I put on line was probably at least 5 years ago. As far  as my on-line life is concerned I’m the carefree skinny girl I was before life stopped mirroring art and I disappeared underneath the weight of my own body.

Friends of my friends, who know me too, if they recognise me at all will think Crap! Would you look at that! And that’ll be it, my skinny on line cover blown. And that’s a real mood hoover. Apparently it’s a recognised phenomenon. Lots of people have on-line lives which are far more shiny and happy than their real lives…they just edit out the bad and display their shit in the best possible light for other people to ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ over.  I’m not saying I do that – I don’t. I’m genuine, and I don’t mislead…I just hide instead. I post words. Pictures of my dog, pictures of places I’ve been…witty soundbites of my life…just no photos of me.

So girlies, if you’re reading this…what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, right? I don’t mind waking up with tigers in the bathroom or one of the dream boys in my bed (let me just say that again in case you didn’t hear it the first time, I don’t mind waking up with one of the dream boys in my bed 🙂 ) but NO TAGGING ME IN PHOTOS Y’HEAR?!!

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