Beautiful = Lovable

I’m in Puerto Rico—going on the cruise I’d originally intended to do with MaxEarnest with Dotty next week.  My roommate here is this fabulous woman from Australia, whom I adore.  She and I are about the same size, but she’s 6 feet tall and men think she is gorgeous, which pisses her off.  “Don’t tell me I’m gorgeous—I have no control over that! Tell me I dress well! I’m thoughtful! Hardworking!  Compliment me on what I can control.”

I’m the opposite.  Tell me I’m beautiful.  Anything I can control, I’ve done my best to control.  I know I am smart. I know I work hard.  I think I’m pretty thoughtful.  Tell me I’m beautiful.  Tell me you could love me.

Criticism lives in my bones.  My whole life, I’ve been criticized for things I might have controlled, but didn’t and things over which I felt like I’ve had no control.

The biggest of these, of course, was my weight.  But it was far from the only issue.

I believe that, as a child, I was more masculine in my communication style than most girls.  I was competitive, wanting attention and wanting to be recognized for that.  I was quite generous, but I wanted acknowledgment for that too.

My mother got migraine headaches quite easily and while she never said ‘you gave me a headache’ I always saw that I had quarreled with her and then she got one.  They were debilitating; she was hospitalized several times for them.

My mother is also hyper-sensitive.  One time I was in the bathroom and I was constipated and she asked me something.  Later she was hurt by my tone of voice and really wanted to ‘process’ what happened, and I, of course, was mortified to explain what I was doing.

My father was often critical.  I remember one time when I was probably 10 or 11 and they had me babysit my brother.  We made popcorn and I burnt the popcorn.  I must have spent an hour scrubbing the pan, but I had forgotten that I left the lid on the balcony and my father was furious that the house smelled bad and that I’d forgotten the lid.  It wasn’t enough that I tried.  I wasn’t perfect.

And, of course, my weight was an undercurrent that I think exacerbated the sense that I was always doing something wrong that was just beyond my control.  Our society is cruel to fat girls in a way that undercuts everything else they could possibly do.  I’m not saying that I’m not a smart, kind, beautiful woman, because I am.  But there is this cruelty in our society that played into my perfectionism that I had to be perfect in everything I do.

MaxEarnest loved me.  Mostly he loved me just as I was, except he always wanted more of me when we were together.  Whereas I wanted to be together more often, but less hours in each day. He thought I was beautiful, but did he think that because he loved me? Who knows?  He loved me, ergo I am lovable.

He is very, very handsome.  Do I think that because I love him?  Still.  I think I will always love him.  It makes me sad to think about what I lost because I wanted more.  And it is hard not to think of it on the trip I had planned with him. 

I am trying to imbue the attitude of my Australian friend.  Because, fundamentally, I think it is her confidence and comfort with who she is that is so attractive to me.  And every guy she meets.