When we first entered the theater we were greeted by a woman who asked us if we'd like to write on the mirror. In lipstick.
Um, yes!
I've never written on a mirror in lipstick like I'm the scorned heroine of a fancy story! But there was a catch -- we had to write what makes us beautiful.
So Angela and I both took a lipstick and we moved to opposite sides of the mirror and we thought and we wrote.
I wrote, "My smile."
Angela wrote, "My smile."
I love that. I love that we both see our happiness, or our trying to be happy, as beautiful. Smiles do as much for me as they do for others. They help me to remember that life is mostly good. That life is happy. That I want to be happy. That life is beautiful. That I am beautiful.
But as we walked around the lobby of the theater we were inundated with information that would be touched on in the play's subject matter -- the ideas of bullying, of racism, of colorism, of beauty pageants, and the messages we are sending to our world's girls, boys, men, and women.
SCHOOL GIRLS is about high schoolers who are vying to be Ms. Ghana and eventually Ms. World Universe. It's set in the 1980s and it's fascinating to realize not so much has changed since then -- since before I was in high school.
How we are still fighting these ideas that being different is bad. That you must be white, or at least very light, that you must be thin, that you must have a handsome or well-off boyfriend, that you must fit into this norm someone came up with long ago, to be considered popular or beautiful.
I don't know many women who haven't struggled with these things at some point in their lives. I have been on some form of a diet since I can remember. Literally. (I'm talking middle school or possibly before.) And it's exhausting. It's exhausting to count points, to calculate calories, to do sit-ups, to buy the merchandise and the books, to look in the mirror and not see the results. Or worse, to see the results. Because sometimes, succeeding feels even worse.
I lost eighty pounds after grad school. It was a lot. I felt amazing. I ran down hills and around blocks and didn't feel out of breath. But I also devoted so much time to Weight Watchers and exercise that I had to sacrifice other things. I know this is true because I lived it. And it was my choice. And I was happy with it.
But slowly the weight crept back. How do I know? Because I kept track in my journal. I wrote down every pound that I lost or gained. Oh that's sad, you might think. True. But it's also reality. It's reality for SO MANY WOMEN. And probably so many men. It was reality that life changed, I got a new job, a different schedule, and I had to sacrifice something else this time.
I never thought I was beautiful though, not out loud. I'm sure others told me I was. I'm sure I heard it and maybe even thought it. But what stuck with me most was a comment made to my father, by a friend of his. He wondered if I was sick. Like really sick. Because I looked so thin, too thin.
Even eighty pounds lighter (and still a size sixteen, mind you), I wasn't right. I wasn't beautiful. I still looked wrong.
And at forty years old, I'm at a loss. I love walking. And I do a lot of it. Some days over my 10,000 step goal. I'm happy if I get 30 active minutes. But I hate the treadmill. I hate the idea of going to the gym and doing some reps on some machines and not knowing if it's worth it or not. I'm very goal-oriented, if you didn't notice. But I love that I am strong, and I want to stay that way. I love that I can hit a golf ball two hundred yards and that is mostly in part to my very large arms. But most days I do not love those very large arms.
And yet, I quit Weight Watchers, again, last week. I hadn't been on plan for months. Even though every time I put something in my mouth I think of the point value. After more than sixteen years on WW, I can't help but continue with those point value thoughts.
And right after I quit WW, I bought pants, new pants. Pants that fit. Pants that are one size up from some of my pants from several years ago. Because those old pants, while perfectly fine and cute and acceptable, are TIGHT. VERY TIGHT. They look fine but I feel so uncomfortable in them I can't focus on anything else. So I practiced some radical self-care and I bought new pants. And I love them.
Do they make me feel beautiful though? Like my smile?
Yes. They do.
Also? They make me not think about pants. Or my weight. Or being beautiful on the outside for a while. Because I've got so much other shit to do.
I've got movies and television shows to write. I've got a web series to promote. I've got people to feed and a God to worship and books to read. I've got Christmas presents to craft and an InstaPot to figure out and a couch to lie on in front of a television. I've got miles to walk while listening to my audiobooks and beloved podcasts. I've got puzzles to put together and money to raise for robot shirts. I don't have time to think about my pants.
I'm not giving up though. I have to make that clear, to myself, every day. I still choose the things that are good for me. And when I don't, I try not to beat myself up. I eat popsicles instead of cartons of ice cream. I decline the candy I tolerate but don't love. I take the stairs even though I end up winded at the top. I get up early to walk even though I'd rather a few more minutes under the quilt. I eat boneless, skinless chicken for almost every meal. I can't help it. Even if it won't change how I look drastically, I still hold out hope...
Because I want to be beautiful. The way beautiful matters to me. I want to be beautiful through my smile, under my smile, because of my smile.
I want the beauty that I want for girls and women all over the world. I want to feel strong and capable and smart and successful and most of all -- beautiful.
What makes me beautiful?
My smile.
And my new pants.
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