Friendship, Beauty, Bullshit.

When I was growing up, in my family there was not a whole lot of emphasis put on the physical side of life. Brains were what mattered in our house, not beauty. My looks were never even commented on, unless I was unusually pale, an indication that a migraine might be on its way. If someone complimented my mother on my prettiness as a little girl, my mother would glower at the complimenter and point out how intelligent I was. In my old blog, I told the story of how I came to look like a Barbie doll, and maybe I will repeat that one day, but suffice it to say, it was a form of rebellion. In my house, you better be smart if you wanted anyone to notice you. If you wanted a hairstyle, Mom would take the scissors to you. If you wanted a “real” trip to the beauty salon, why, she’d take you on down to Montgomery Wards, where haircuts were four dollars. Did you know that MG had a hair salon? Indeed they did- it was back by the tire department, a dark little corner of the closet, and the man cutting hair there left locks lopsided and looking like an evil razor had taken you into the ring for a round or two. My first curling iron was one I found in the garbage of our apartment building. I brought it home and was enthralled when it actually worked, even though rust was growing on the metal barrel. My first make-up was a hand-me-down and my gay guy friend, who bore a marked resemblance to Boy George, showed me how to put it on. The coolest clothing I owned was that given to us by another family where there was a single, spoiled daughter. I was so excited when she would pass on her leftovers to me, even though it meant that she would have opportunity to point out “her” shirt the next time she saw me. Everything I learned about fashion and beauty, and the accessories and tricks pertaining to them, was learned on my own, by clever observation and copying, not from my mother. In my house, beauty, looks, physical anything just didn’t matter…at all.

If you wanted money to buy clothing of a certain brand and were stupid enough to suggest its purchase, you were looked at as though you’d lost your mind, and beauty bugs had begun rotting your brain, taking away all good sense and leaving a vacant echoing darkness behind. You’d be given ten bucks and sent to Kmart, told that they all “last the same amount of time anyway”, or “Jeans are jeans, right? Denim, stitching, a few buttons? You want to pay for a name embroidered on the back pocket?” Then a hand would check you for fever.

I remember one day clearly when my mom came to pick me up at the mall. I was about thirteen, the same age as my son now, an age primed for embarrassment by anything remotely uncool. I was hanging out with a group of casually run-into guys, one of whom I had an enormous crush on. I remember seeing my mom appear, I was getting ready to launch into my carefully rehearsed “Why I Should be Allowed to Stay at the Mall for the Rest of my Life” speech, when I noticed that her pants were high-waters, about an inch above her ankles. Embarrassing enough, yes, but they revealed the fact that she was wearing two different socks. Green sock, with her gray pants and red shirt, and they were two distinctly different shades of green. One dark, like Christmas, one light, a bright lime…probably left over from my sock drawer of the eighties, when we layered socks in unbelievably eye-tearing combinations.

Knowing that at any second, the boys, including the man of my dreams, were going to notice and start to laugh, I pointed it out first. With all the scorn in my possession, I declared that my mother was hopeless, told everyone to look at her socks and theatrically began to groan. It was my only defense, an offense. Yet I still remember the shame that seared my soul as the guys gleefully picked up the refrain, “Jolly Green Socks” and chanted it over, and over, throughout the day, because of course I got to stay at the mall longer, although as the day went on, I just wanted to go home. I was ashamed of my mother, yes, but even more so, I was ashamed of me. Some time later, I got to spend an evening with this man of my dreams, and he turned out to be, although heavenly looking and a great kisser, really, really dumb. He left hickies on my neck and a hole in my heart as I chose to never return his phone calls and ignored him in school. He was puzzled, I could tell, but there was no way he would understand that to me, he represented my defection, a breaking of loyalty, and shame…shame. I had joined the sheep. Other events scattered my life in the next few years, mixing me up and plopping me down in a new form, so it was inevitable that I would not be a “typical” teenager, but I remember that day as the beginning of the shift in my mind.

And …although I did continue my quest to be a Barbie and a real woman at the same time, I changed after that day in the mall, over the next few unbelievably hard years, when I had many lessons in what was “Really Important”. I stopped noticing socks on my mom, and my sister’s uncombed hair, and started noticing my mother’s fierce intelligence, my sister’s gentle heart. I noticed how my mom never, ever said “I don’t know” when I asked her something. Believe me, I tried hard to bring forth that response, too, but she never said it. She admitted freely when she was guessing, but her guesses had merit, thought, and logic behind them. She taught me how to think my way through situations before reacting. She taught me to think, period. By the time I had children of my own, I had realized the unique and wonderful woman my mom was, and I was as powerfully proud of her and I had been embarrassed on that one, long ago day in the mall.

At the same time, I had figured out sometime in my late teens that I was attractive. Not my early teens because when I first hit the waves of puberty, I was floundering and unable to swim. No one had told me I was cute growing up. I was fairly sure I was smart and could debate on any subject known to man, and write a five page paper on my position, but I didn’t know if I could get a boyfriend. That gay friend of mine helped me enormously, as soon I could layer on thick black eyeliner with the best of them, and he had the concept of thrift store shopping down to an art way before it became cool. The man I became involved with at a young age used insults as a way to control me, and I was told I was fat and ugly enough times to believe it. When I escaped his clutches long enough to take a breath and look around, I noticed that the men in the general vicinity happened to be watching me back. It was heady for a year or so. But honestly, I was unable to be shallow…it was like it had been bred out of me, or maybe just cut out by events beyond my control. If a guy wasn’t intelligent, or sensitive, or funny, beyond being the owner of an impressive pair of biceps, I wasn’t interested for longer than a day (or night).

And so I finally come to the subject of this post, the reason I sat to write this morning. I have a friend who I have never really “looked” at, I suppose. She is overweight. I know this, but when I have thought of it, it is more in terms of her health than her looks. She gets short of breath too easily, it alarms me. She has glossy chestnut hair that spills down over her shoulders, huge sparkling brown eyes, and a face that you could use as a cast for an angel. Her grin is infectious. Her skin is smooth and silky, white as milk, but not ugly white, like mine when I don’t tan. It’s velvety, buttery white, if that even makes sense. She actually does not have to wear makeup, because her skin is so gorgeous. She is also very witty, extremely bright, and a lot of fun to be around.

It wasn’t until this morning that I realized she is also envious of me and maybe even hates me a little bit. This concept has so shocked me, and I am at the same time, berating myself for being shocked. I had dropped A off at school and then had gone to chat with her a bit, and I was telling her how he mutters his quick “bye” and scrambles off, anxious to get away from me, how he won’t even look at me. She said, “Well, I guess it isn’t easy for him to have you as a mother.”

“What do you mean?” I was honestly puzzled.

“Well, just look at you.” It wasn’t the words, but the scorn, the thin icing of hatefulness in them, that really took my breath away. I had no idea that this lurked in our friendship.

I did look at myself, tried to do it objectionably. I was wearing camouflaged shorts and a thin tank top, the first clothes lying on the floor that I grabbed up when I got out of bed. I hadn’t brushed my hair this morning, it was mussy and flying around. I didn’t have makeup on, and I’d shoved on a pair of sunglasses to hide the fact. Flip-flops on my feet. She continued, and her eyes were narrowed, her mouth now wore this uncomfortable, but somehow gleeful grin. It was all tight and un-natural looking, her face, like I have never seen it, and her words just got heavier and heavier with scorn.

“Your hair is all messy and sexy. You’re wearing your glamorous sunglasses, all movie star-like. Your boobs are bouncing around and you’re showing off your muscley legs in those short-shorts. God, you just scream ‘Look at me, I’m sexy!’ Of course he wants to get away from you. You probably embarrass the hell out of him.”

I gaped at her. I had no response.

I could see in her face that although some part of her hated herself for saying this, it was also something she’d wanted to say before. I wondered how long this had been there, under the easy surface of our friendship. Her face was like a twisted, jerking mass. I mean, I could actually see her mouth twitching uncontrollably, her eyes went from squinty to wide, but her mouth continued to wear that yucky, sickly-looking grin that was so fake, so hateful, so…disturbing.

I finally just said, “If you say so.”

I know my friends. I know my loved ones, and I am a little ashamed to admit that I also know how to manipulate their emotions. I know exactly what to say to hurt them, or inspire them….hopefully, I use the inspiring ones much more than the hurtful ones. In this case, I spoke without really thinking, just wanting to wound, the way she had wounded me. I could immediately see that my words had their intended effect, that she was wounded, by her own shame. I have been reminding myself of when I was young, when I mocked my mother in front of my peers. I think of how I hated myself more than her…and I hope that is how my friend feels, too. I hope she hates the side of her that forced this forward, more than she hates me.

The funny thing is, that I never thought she was one of them, the overweight people who just hate the skinnies. She knows how hard I worked to get thin, to get fit. She saw the tortuousness of it, has seen me pass up things I’d love to eat a million times. She is aware that to look like this, at least as far as my body is concerned, it took work, and sacrifice, and more work. This is not genetic. The woman in my family are soft, short and soft and nature would definitely be dragging my ass (soft, pillowy and wide ass) with it in that direction if I didn’t fight it every step of the way.

I don’t even remember if we said anything else. I came home. My stomach feels slightly sick. I know I will be thinking about this all day.

Do men have these nasty little surprises in their friendships? Or are they as they seem from the outside- simple, solid, and unaffected by pettiness and the ridiculousness that pepper women’s friendships? I have heard men say “Bros before hos” sooo many times, a gross little saying that nonetheless, is understandable. Their brothers (bros) come before women (hos). Here is the part that gets me… we woman, in my small group of friends, have a similar thing. We have talked many times about the kind of woman who “will dump you for a guy”. It is understood, what this kind of a woman is, and I have always assumed none of my friends were that kind, or thought it of me. Now I am unsure, and it makes me feel ill.

No doubt just writing all of this out has helped and I will find a suitably philosophical way of looking at it by tomorrow.

But in the meantime, I wouldn’t mind grabbing a chunk of her glossy chestnut hair and showing her in physical form, all about the cliché of a woman’s catfight.