Why Don't I Feel Pretty?

No, I haven’t been on the scale.

No, I haven’t been to the gym. Lingering cough that makes people move away from me or threaten to haul me to a doctor. And I’ve been working my butt off (I wish literally, but hey).

I have blonde hair, blue eyes and great legs (I speak the truth. Not a brag. The rest of me can look like a sack of fertilizer with potatoes in it, but the legs are always good).

I’ve been taking supplements (maca root, biotin and prenatal vitamins) to thicken my hair and strengthen my nails. I use Revitalash to lengthen and thicken my eyelashes and it’s working. I’m using Aveda Invati shampoo, conditioner and scalp serum for my hair. It’s working (my hair stylist told me so and she IS truthful. And highly skilled).

 I got the hair cut and colored yesterday (and I pay top dollar for it. Worth every cent). The nails are manicured (the feet pedicured) and I have new clothes, including my very first ever LITTLE BLACK DRESS.

Okay, it’s not so little (XL) and I’ll need torso Spanx, but you get the point.

I am told that I have good skin (it’s called “No sun, no smokes, plenty of water, limit alcohol and eat your veggies”).

This may make me sound high maintenance, but I’m the one who pays for it and gets it done, so I’m not a burden.  I earn a good living and don’t expect someone to support me.

I’m educated, stay up on current events (and satirize them at www.dognewsteam.com and on its Facebook page. I write some of the one-liners they post) and can carry on a conversation about a lot of stuff. What I don’t know, I generally want to learn about (unless it’s how Jee-zusss is going to come back to Earth to punish us for supporting gays and Jews and Muslims and gay Jews and Muslims who don’t give a crap about gay Jews) or how I should really have a universal life insurance policy (I used to have a life insurance/annuity license. If you can get universal insurance, do it. It’s a good investment vehicle).


So why don’t I feel like an attractive, vibrant woman, which according to all of the above, I am?
The guys my age (which is 51. Why lie? There is a birth certificate out there. I  am 2 months and 3 days older than the President) want the 25 year old arm candy. I DID once date a guy who had voted for Roosevelt (Teddy). He would have preferred the chippy in her twenties, too.

When my hair color (they call it a “weave” out here in Cali.  As I have African American friends, this caused me some confusion. Regionalisms) was complete yesterday, I loved the color, but saw a tired, middle-aged, worn face beneath it. And fat. I think I could be 98 lbs. and still see myself as fat.

I work hard at it, but I do not feel beautiful and do not really believe anyone who tells me I am (and it’s always women). Those who do are generally the lovely, generous souls who see all people as beautiful.
I have only been asked out on two dates: one guy turned out to be a perv and the other, I never heard from again. Not exactly the kind of thing that boosts one’s self-esteem or confidence.

It’s like the sum of the parts don’t equal the whole. I pay attention to my grooming, dressing, health. Doesn’t matter: no man (not a member of the Sapphic Sisterhood) has liked it well enough to put a ring on it. Or even ask it on a date.
WTF?

And I Approve This Message Myself

_____ lbs. Since the armed forces are no longer using “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” I was able to buy it cheap and use it for my weigh-in numbers. (I haven’t been on the scale in days).

I got a little over-confident with the Roman chair and a 25 lb. weight plate to the point where my lower back was groaning last night. However, thanks to Epsom salts, Aleve and today’s Pilates class, that was undone. Oh yeah: and a good night’s sleep. Sleep is a miraculous thing: while you’re talking to giant winged bears in your dreams, your body is working like a NASCAR pit crew to repair damage and prep for the next day. Both your mind and your body get this treatment, so don’t cheat yourself out of a good night’s sleep. Sleep is the daily reset button.

I’ve been hearing and reading about a new teenager trend: young girls posting videos on Youtube asking the viewers to rate their appearance: Hot or not.  I came across a good article about it on CNN.com: http://inamerica.blogs.cnn.com/2012/03/04/opinion-hot-or-not/

And (time to blow my own horn) I’ve written a tangential piece in this blog: http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7290490097737409616#editor/target=post;postID=9153169401213506783

This time last week (Last Sunday being Feb 26, 2012 and the Oscar broadcast), I was dressed in a “sexy” cavewoman costume for the best annual Oscar party. Although I didn’t win any prizes (dammit. Next. Red wig, sword, cavewoman costume: Main character from “Brave” even if I haven’t seen it yet. Or red wig, black catsuit: Black Widow from “Avengers.”), I got a lot of kind and complimentary comments on the photos I posted to Facebook and on the ones I posted in this space. Applying the “Hot or not” choice, I think I came out on the hot side (and not because of the hot flashes, either. Youngsters reading this: this is what you have to look forward to. Not fun, but survivable).

Those comments, however great they are and made me feel, weren’t the reason for posting the pictures or for going to the gym 5-6 days a week, experimenting with various forms of exercise and diet (and that’s “diet” in the broad “What I Eat on A Regular Basis”, not “Cabbage Soup” or “Hollywood Juice Fast” diet sense), reading up on things like sleep and stress reduction. They aren’t even the validation I needed to know I’m doing right by myself.

(God forgive me for quoting the Idiot In Chief) “I am the Decider.”

Right now (Americans. Americanas = female Americans), women’s issues are taking up a lot of time and space in the news cycle and the coverage has a general tag of “War on Women.” An amendment to a bill that would allow employers to opt out of covering contraception was narrowly shut down. Rush Limbaugh, one of the biggest (in more ways than one. I used to respect the man, even if I didn’t agree with a damned thing he said. I no longer respect him) commentators in the American media is now on the hot seat for calling a woman who testified before Congress a “slut” and a “prostitute.” One of the MEN running for the Republican nomination for President, Rick Santorum, has said (and I’ve seen the video) that he’d like the US to be under a Christian version of Sharia law (which we know doesn’t favor vaginas). And ALL of the Republican hopefuls are courting the right wingnuts by taking anti-choice stances when it comes to abortion (Since they also like the death penalty, “pro life” is a wee bit hypocritical). “Mad Men” is and has been a huge hit on AMC (it’s a good show), enough for ABC to go ahead with “Pan Am” and I wonder if there may not be some white male nostalgia for the era when white American males were the undisputed  kings of the land. And on top of that, we have a new fad with girls/young women giving total strangers the power to decide their merits based on looks/video.

Where do I start?

Let’s start with the kind of people who write comments on the Internet. This is an anonymous place, unless one is a hacker of Lisbeth Salander skills, it’s unlikely that an anonymous writer is going to be unmasked. Part of the vast Internet community is a sub-group called “trolls”. Wikipedia says, “In Internet slang, a troll is someone who posts inflammatory,^[2] extraneous, or off-topic messages in an online community, such as an online discussion forum, chat room, or blog, with the primary intent of provoking readers into an emotional response^[3] or of otherwise disrupting normal on-topic discussion.”

Or it could be your irritating 13 year old brother and his jerkwater friends.

Trolls will post any and all kinds of crap in the comments section just for the sake of posting crap. They don’t consider the audience (unless it’s their jerkwater friends and they think they’re the heirs to the Algonquin Round Table), they don’t think about (or care about) the consequences of their actions or how it will affect the blog poster or other commenters. The Internet creates bubbles of personal space and there are no consequences in the real world. Or so we think. Especially the trolls.

So you really don’t want/need their input.

Then we have the real life mean girls. You could have the looks of Michelle Pfeiffer, the brains of Albert Einstein and the athletic abilities of Tom Brady (do NOT mention the Giants, Eli Manning or Tim Tebow), but people who feel rotten about themselves will seek to undermine you. Misery loves company. Your success or gifts make them feel small and unworthy. And, like water seeking its own level, they will attempt to pull you down to even everything out, whether it’s true or not.

So, you really don’t want/need their input.

We come to the black-hearted; those who would prey on you. (This is scary. I’m sorry, but sometimes, fear does serve a purpose) These are people who would actively seek you out exploit your looks, your youth, your innocence. Traffickers, pornographers, pimps, psychopaths. If you are online seeking approval, you WILL attract their attention and you have shown a weakness that can be used to control you once you’re in their power.

You DEFINITELY don’t want their input.

To thine own self be true. And be the best version of yourself that you can.­­

Look, what are your goals? Who do you want to be or what do you want to do with your life? What are you doing to get there and how’s your progress? There’s something to judge for yourself.

Outer appearance is like wrapping paper: it covers what’s inside and even the prettiest, most admired and costliest paper can conceal a box of moldy dog poop.

Looks fade. Even someone with beaucoup mega big bucks and access to all the plastic surgeons in Beverly Hills loses something along the way; you cannot look 22 forever, no matter how much money and time you spend on the issue. And when they’re gone, what’s left is the real you.

“She’s got a great personality” has been a sitcom staple since TV was invented, used to set up a punchline about an unattractive woman being set up on a blind date. A man may take a hot body to his bed, but he wakes up next to the personality. (And yes, women, too)

“Canterbury Tales,” is a personal favorite, especially the “Wife of Bath’s Tale” (those of you rooting for “The Miller’s Tale,” hold your horses until we talk farting). I’ll let Wikipedia summarize it:

There was a Knight in King Arthur’s time who raped a fair young maiden. King Arthur sent a decree out that the Knight must be brought to justice. When the Knight is captured, he is condemned to death, but the Queen intercedes on behalf of the Knight and asks the King to allow her to pass judgment on the Knight.

The Queen asks the Knight, “What is the thing that most women desire?” The Knight does not have an answer. The Queen releases the Knight, but commands him to return within one year with an answer.

The Knight spent this time roaming from place to place questioning women. Some say they want wealth, others happiness, others to be gratified and flattered. Everywhere he heard different answers. It is time for him to return to the Court and he is depressed for he does not have a good answer.

Outside the castle in the woods, he sees twenty four maidens dancing and singing, but when he approaches they disappear as if by magic, and all that is left is an old hag. The Knight explains the problem to the hag and she is wise and may know the answer, but she would require payment for saving his life. The Knight agrees.

The Queen asks the question again, and the Knight responds that women most desire sovereignty over their husbands. All the women of the Court agree that this is a valid answer.

The Knight is acquitted.

The old crone enters saying that she supplied the answer for the Knight and she now requests that he marries her. The Knight, in agony, agrees.

On their wedding night the hag is upset that the Knight doesn’t attend to his new bride, but her ugliness and low breeding repulse him. She reminds him that her looks can be an asset because she will be a virtuous wife to him because no other men would desire her. She asks him what he would prefer – an old ugly hag who is loyal, true and humble or a beautiful woman whom he would always have doubts about concerning her faithfulness? The Knight responds by saying that the choice was hers. The hag is pleased. She has won mastery over her husband, and she asks the Knight to kiss her. She says, “You will find me a fair and faithful wife”. The Knight turns to look at the hag again, but now finds a young and lovely woman.

Well, that kind of overdoes the looks angle, but my point is: she retains her own power, finds herself beautiful and powerful. So does the Knight.

If you’re thinking about a “Hot or Not” video, don’t do it. If you want to be hot, be hot within your own head (or wait for menopause. You never know when the heat waves will hit). Self-confidence is power and with energy costs these days, you don’t want to just give it away.

Phenomenal Woman

176.4 lbs. Lowest it’s been in 20 years.

WOOO FRIGGIN’ HOOOOO!      

Okay, yeah, so I’m back on HCG (Human Chorionic Gonadatropin. In fact, I found it in Chocolate Mint, I kid you not), but it’s working.

I took a good look at myself in the mirror (and there will be photos later. As I write this, my nose is peeling like I’ve had a sunburn – which I haven’t , I’m in my glasses (which are VERY thick), big floppy long-sleeved Buddha t shirt, sweat pants, fluffy socks and no makeup. No picture right now. Part of the HCG drill is no personal hygiene products with oils or creams and that extends to makeup unless it’s the mineral variety, which I don’t own. Well, not the stuff to put color in my cheeks and on my lashes. Seriously, I’m pale. Not Edgar Winter albino, but close) and stopped to look again.

I watch the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show every year (GO, MINATURE SCHNAUZERS!!!! WIN IT IN MEMORY OF LILY MARLENE III  AND GREEN MOUNTAIN MAXIMILLIAN AKA MIGHTY MAX THE WONDER DOPE!!!!) and there is a saying: “A good groomer can carve a dog out of a pile of hair.” 9 months of cleaning up my diet (except for a couple of rages, but I may have a solution to that problem), 7 months of faithfully exercising and I realized that I have been carving a woman out of fat.

I see the beginnings of a waist. Not the barrel shape between shoulders and hips that was there, not a straight line from shoulders to hips, but the beginnings of an indentation under the bra line. That hasn’t been there since the 20^th century.

I raised my arms and shook them. The upper arm jiggle is noticeably smaller. Huh. Dr. Best got the knots out of my back and shoulders and they are now responding to weight training. And I have collarbones. And a jaw. Not just the shadow of a jawline, I have an actual jawline and my neck looks longer without all the fat hanging around it.

Could it be…

Emboldened, I stood sideways and sucked in my gut. Doing this, it is nearly exactly where I want it to be. I can see where the bottom of my rib cage is (and feel it without pushing in too hard).

This is payoff. This is motivation. This is incentive. I finally feel like I look feminine. I look like the woman that I am (ironic as I am enjoying the beginnings of menopause aka the Hot Flashdance. I don’t need leg warmers, but the torn sweatshirt would be helpful when the internal furnace kicks on) and not some asexual blob with boobs. I’m a phenomenal woman, phenomenally.

I’ve been wearing my size 13 Calvin Klein jeans COMFORTABLY for days. I can pull the size 12 ones up on my ass. I can’t zip them closed, but we’re getting there (they’re boot cut and I really don’t care for boot cut mostly because the makers figure that all plus sizes have fat legs and therefore need boot cut jeans. I’ve been wearing boot cut forever).

If you saw me today, you saw me swinging my hips as I walked. Why? Because I am a woman, goddammit, and that’s just what we do.

I didn’t come to this realization in enough time to pull together a sexy costume for Halloween, but, wow, I can wear a sexy costume for Halloween and not feel ridiculous on some level (I wore sexy in 2003 and was told by someone I no longer trust that I shouldn’t; I was too fat and it was a joke and ridiculous and people were laughing behind my back. Fuck him). But, I can anticipate the next costume party and be sexy-eligible (film themed sexy. I have some time to figure it out).

I left the gym (weight training and elliptical) feeling powerful. Feeling feminine and powerful. This is self-confidence and not just the façade. Attractive guys in my age range (whom I’ve heard gigglingly dismissed as “Silverbacks” by girls who forget they will one day be the same age) are smiling in my direction, giving me a nod. Maybe. Phenomenal woman, phenomenally.

I leave you with Maya Angelou’s poem as this has been running through my head all afternoon.

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Maya Angelou

I Am Here Because I Finally Give A Damn

184.4 lbs. Temporary, I assure you because…

The planets aligned, the work gods were kind and I was able to finish my work for today with enough time to hit the gym for a Monday Monster Burn (cue Tim Allen grunting sound). An hour with the weight machines! Yeah, Baby, bring it on! An hour on the elliptical! Love it, love it. A SECOND hour on the elliptical! You heard me: two hours of cardio on top of an hour of resistance training! When he wasn’t getting bopped on the bean with apples, Sir Isaac Newton posited, “A body in motion tends to remain in motion.” Well, this body was in motion. There were plenty of empty elliptical machines available, TNT was showing a bunch of Lennie Briscoe “Law & Order” episodes (Jerry Orbach, we miss you) and I didn’t need to be anywhere else. This body remained in motion. I felt great, not just the physical “endorphin rush” kind of giddiness that one gets after working out hard (it’s actually kind of a fun goofiness), but because I had, if only for one afternoon, recaptured the drive I had when I began this project and I had kept the promise to myself I had made when I got to the gym: today would be a Monster Monday.

Accomplishment is good for the soul and the self-esteem. As a reward, I bought Epsom salts and Aleve for the body, which will be deployed when I finish typing. With great power comes great responsibility. I think if I multiplied what I’m feeling right now by a factor of 50, I might be able to talk to someone who just ran the Boston Marathon about post-race recovery.

But I still feel damn good. YEAH.

My very good friend, Darci Monet (shared courtesy of her sister, the fabulous Mandi J. Smith, who writes the “Mandi Crocker” blog and bakes so well, Martha Stewart should watch her back) writes a blog called “The Magical Musical Messcapades of a Juicy Girl in L.A.”. About two months ago, she wrote a post that resonated with me titled “I Am Not Broken.” Here’s the link: http://darcimonet.blogspot.com/2011/06/i-am-not-broken.html.  Reader’s Digest version: a woman at a women and food retreat realizes that her eating issues stem from her mother having eating issues and trouble handling people around her who were not experiencing the same trouble (Okay, I may get corrected, but this is MY takeaway. Got it?). This woman realized this and said, “I am not broken.”

Just that phrase is powerful. Not broken means functional, able and perhaps strong. I’ve been turning this over in the back of my mind.

Darci also related a story (not sure whose) about taking dance lessons at the advanced age of 5 and wanting to quit; the storyteller’s mother said, “That’s okay, Honey, you didn’t really have it anyway.”

I heard that after I got a “D” in acting classes because I didn’t want to act out lesbian scenes for the professor (not sex scenes, but scenes as a lesbian relating to others. Not being a member of the Sapphic Sisterhood, I had and do not have a frame of reference for how to be a lesbian, but this woman kept insisting on having me improv it). My father, on seeing the grade, said, “Well, I guess you’re not really an actress after all. You can focus on your real classes now.” (I haven’t thought about this in years and I’m tearing up a bit. Excuse me). Understand: this was a guy who was eligible to attend Julliard for piano and that was blocked by HIS parents.

My late best friend/soul sister, the fabulous Nancy Kurrelmeyer, gave me a bumper sticker that has been on my refrigerator ever since I got it (along with the late lamented “I Love NY, Too, It’s the Yankees I Hate” that shredded the last time I removed it): “Those Who Have Abandoned Their Dreams Will Discourage Yours.”

Something else that added to the mix was Ragen Chastain’s recent blog post on “Dances With Fat”, the “Awkward Conversations” post, specifically, where she repeats the statistic that 95% of diets fail. http://danceswithfat.wordpress.com/2011/09/24/awkward-conversations/ (In fairness, there’s the link). My previous post in this space discussed my disagreement with the half-hearted support she advocates based on her (I perceive) theory that whoever is doing the work will just do a 180 and start gaining it all back anyway. It still nettles me, probably because of the story I just related.

I will turn a concept or a “problem” (and that includes algebra-style problems) over in my mind like a hamster on a wheel. On Red Bull. Even when it’s shoved to the back, part of the organic computer that is my brain will be crunching the data. Yesterday, it spit out a response that synthesizes all of the above and I wrote it down:

“I am working on this project because I care enough about myself to strive towards the best possible version of me that I can become.”

I realized that I actually do give a damn about me and not because of the family/friend pressure. The woman who was not monitoring what was going in to the body (in the food sense) did not give a damn, mostly because she did not want to appear to conform to the wishes of those who disapproved (The terms “Maverick” and “Rogue” have been ruined for me since late 2008) and did not take care of my body just to prove who has power. If my body was a car, it could have been sitting on cinder blocks in the back yard, quietly rusting with weeds growing up around it, sort of like a Jeff Foxworthy “You Might Be a Redneck” joke.

Well, she won. In 2009, attempts to control/shame/force submission were cut off completely and it has taken until now for me to see it that way. People who had been telling me all of my life that they had my best interests at heart and I should trust them implicitly were wrong because their own interests trumped mine in their worlds and always will. My best interests trump theirs in my world and if I need to completely separate myself from them in order to survive and grow, so be it. But I digress.

Don’t get me wrong: I like food. I like it a lot. I love to indulge my sense of taste (and my sense of smell. I need to come up with a term for window shopping for the nose at a fancy perfume counter). Sweet, savory, sour, sometimes all three at once, I love it. I’ll overeat something just to keep its wonderful flavor in my mouth. But I can stop, save the remaining bites of whatever and anticipate its flavor at another time.

As for exercise, I’ve learned to recognize the difference between lactic acid burn in the muscles and pain from something being wrong and I have taught myself to push through that burn because the rewards on the other side of it are worth it. The woman who was previously in charge hadn’t learned this and would give up easily (although neither one of us is really comfortable on a bike. A few nasty spills as a kid and some ongoing low-level balance issues). I care enough about myself to make my body work; make the blood pump, the tendons flex and the muscles do what they were created to do. I’m not shooting for immortality, but avoiding physical decline, hell, yeah.

I HIGHLY recommend this video by Darci (“Pipes”): “Go On.”

http://youtu.be/cjN4Xw-CWPw

I can relate to one of the stories in it (and yeah, I helped. You can’t see me in the crowd scene, but I’m there) as portrayed by fantabulous Kelly Goodman. It speaks to me of winning the mental battles that are the biggest obstacles in our lives. Don’t let fear drive the bus. Go on.

I am here because I care enough about myself to become the best version of me that I can. And I am here because I will…go on.

You Can Make It Better

187.8 lbs. Okay, where’s the damned dynamite? Plateaus blow.

I can pat myself on the back today. No, I mean that literally: my flexibility has improved to the point where I can just about reach the bra strap by reaching over the shoulder. Yea!

I am not an expert on much of anything except for being me. Let’s get that straight. I am not a nutritionist, personal trainer or kinesiologist  except for where it pertains to my experience.  And I have a lot of experience.

That being said, I want to address something I’ve observed for years. I frequent public places like malls and I feel a little tug at my heart every time I see a young girl (teens and pre-teens) walking with head down,  eyes downcast and tightly hugging herself as she walks. There are also the girls with long sleeves (especially the big, baggy sweatshirts).  They have the sleeves pulled all the way down and clutched tightly in balled fists, arms rigid and straight at their sides and hood pulled down, if the shirt has one. If these girls do look up and make eye contact, it’s either quickly broken with eyes going back to the floor or returned with a defensive and hostile look (“What are you lookin’ at?). What makes this hurt a bit is that this is the body language of low self-esteem and feeling inferior or unattractive. It’s the body language of striving to be invisible.

I remember hearing a radio interview with someone who had been an aide to the Dalai Lama and written a book about it. He had attended an international symposium with His Holiness (I forget what the topic was. I heard this story in 1996 or 1997. That was a while ago). Self-esteem had come up as a topic and people were having a hard time explaining low self-esteem to His Holiness. The concept did not exist to a Buddhist monk.

There’s the “It Gets Better” campaign aimed at bullied, gay teens. There should be a similar campaign to reach young women called “You Can Make It Better.”

“Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent.” – Eleanor Roosevelt

Young Ladies, lift up your eyes, straighten your shoulders  and see the world around you. This is America. We do not have royalty, aristocracy or a caste system (except in high school).  You are equal to anyone you encounter. Always remember that.

I survived high school. I still don’t know why a group of kids in my home room decided that their mornings should start by torturing me, but they did. There was a group of guys who would taunt and harass me at lunchtime (again, I don’t know why). I had no classes in common with them and the only time we shared space was the lunch period, but they decided I was a good target. I ended up back-handing the ring leader in front of everyone in the lunch room (which was the whole school). I don’t remember much after that except for the vice principal (who later shut my finger in his car door, but that was an accident and a different story) dragging me away to the other end of the room and begging me to calm down. As for the taunting, it stopped that day (My older sister, who had suffered identical torture from this group, berated me for having hit the leader and how it had embarrassed her that I had done so.  Of course, she was in the A clique in her class and a small group of jocks had eliminated the problem for her by threatening to beat the shit out of the offender if he didn’t leave her alone. Not having the same support system, I had to solve the problem on my own. I also don’t let her decide how I think or feel).

This is important: The kids (usually girls) who make catty comments and seek to establish their ‘superiority” by making everyone around them feel miserable are themselves insecure and in pain of some sort. The best defense is a good offense. Rather than confront their own feeling about themselves and appear vulnerable to the clique, they’ll project their inadequacies onto you. (The members will turn on each other in a heartbeat. I’ve seen groups of women who cannot wait for one to even be completely out of earshot before they start verbally ripping her. Of course, when she returns, it’s all smiles and friendship) They deserve your pity because they cannot get away from themselves.

People who respect themselves and are comfortable in their own skins do not mock and belittle others. They do not attack and ridicule unless provoked and usually, not even then. They are supportive and kind because they believe life is good, the world is a good place and you pose no threat to them.  They do not make good bullies because they do not need your misery to feel better about themselves.  They do not make good victims because their self-esteem is bulletproof.

The classic ruling clique in high school (Mean Girls Syndrome) are not people who like themselves very much. They may seem to have it all but they don’t. The fat girl who ignores them and continues to play the tuba in band or draw Hello Kitty all over her notebooks even after she’s been ridiculed for it has a more solid foundation and a better sense of self than the girls who make the comments, even if the digs get repeated and spread throughout school.  If you can withstand the onslaught and remain standing, you have a good foundation for handling whatever life throws at you. Them? Not so much.  

One of my favorite movies is “Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion.” I don’t identify with any particular character (although I would love to have Lisa Kudrow’s long, elegant neck) but our girls Romy and Michelle, after having concocted a big lie about their lives to impress the clique who had tormented them, finally realize that they are perfectly happy with their lives as is and don’t need those bitches anyway. The phrase “peaked too soon” applies because whereas our heroines had moved to Venice Beach, California designing clothing and having fun, the A clique was still stuck in their high school personas and hadn’t grown (except for one whom they turned on when she voiced an opinion they didn’t like).

The A clique in my class blew hot and cold on me. I could fit in and be on great terms with them some days or they could decide it was the day to torture me. One of them wrote in my yearbook, “I can’t believe how much bullsh—(she didn’t have the guts to spell it out) you take from me and still smile.” I can safely state I’m still working on building my self-esteem, but at least it was strong enough 30 years ago to withstand the onslaught.

Cool comes from within. Cool isn’t wearing a particular label or having the right boyfriend (or girlfriend) or listening to the right music. Cool is actually self-esteem. You are who you are, you like who you are and you don’t allow anyone to change that. Cool is like style: it doesn’t reside in the latest trend or the hottest fashion or what everybody else is doing. If you like pink poodle skirts and it makes you happy to wear them and you actually DO wear them regardless of the public reaction, you are cool. If you like pink poodle skirts and it makes you happy to wear them, but you leave them in the closet because somebody made you feel bad about wearing them, well, the cool is hanging in the closet with the skirts.

I recognize the self-preservation instinct behind trying to blend in with the crowd or carrying ourselves so as not to risk attention. After all, we’re told that the nail that stands up is the one that gets hammered down. That’s the easy way out, though and likely to make you miserable because while you’re blending in, you’re not being true to yourself.  And it’s unlikely that the people you’re trying to impress will actually give a damn or value your sacrifice. Twenty years down the road, they probably won’t even remember your name and you’ll have sacrificed your identity for nothing. And the chances are good that they’re not 1) Oscar winners, 2) CEOs of companies that they built, 3) Nobel Prize winners or 4) President of the US (if you went to high school with President Obama, well…there’s an exception to every rule, but I kind of doubt he was bullying people in high school).

You don’t have to compare yourself to anyone, not the prom queen, not the girl who got the lead in the school play, not the girls in Cosmo Teen or the girls on “Glee.” If anyone tries to force it on you, brush it aside; chances are this is just someone trying to make you unhappy or use you to make someone else unhappy. Do not let anyone else dictate how you feel about yourself  or others.

I walk with my head up and look people in the eye. I have for years. My head has not yet exploded. Nobody has hit me in the face with a tomato. In fact, I get smiles and nods sometimes. There was an element of “fake it til you make it” for a while. When I was in law school, we had courses in conducting a trial. When I started the course, I was very harsh when performing a cross-examination. The professor asked me why I came across so hard. I told him that I didn’t want people to think I was just some fat broad that people could take advantage of. The professor and my classmates look puzzled. I asked them, “So what impression do I give when I walk into a room?” The answer: “Power.”  You could have surprised the hell out of me.

So, Young Ladies, if you’re still listening, instead of trying to make yourself small and invisible, try walking with your head held high, relaxed posture and eyes looking forward. Pretend you already have self-confidence and power. You’d be surprised how quickly they actually show up.