I recently started running–an activity that I generally avoid, mainly because I’m not exactly skilled at it. But I am running. And now my body has rebelled against me: specifically, my shins. I’m convinced they’re conspiring against me, plotting my demise.
And I think I’ve decided that treadmills are a stupid invention. My brain just can’t seem to wrap itself around the fact that I’m doing all this work, and I’m not getting anywhere. Yes, that really is as stupid as it sounds.
…and it’s the WORST kind: foot-in-mouth disease. Most days, it lays dormant in the deep recesses of my brain, but this past Friday I had two major flair-ups. The second was a huge one and made me feel like a big-time asshole, so for the sake of preserving what little respect you may have for me, I won’t share it here. But the first one, while embarrassing, was actually quite funny.
I was asked to sit in on a meeting that Pete Partner (remember this guy?) was having with a Senior Manager we’ll call Moe, and the LTP for our office named Larry (LTP stands for “Lead Tax Partner”, which is just a fancy way of saying “Really Important Guy That You Should Always Try And Impress”). We were discussing a long list of additional services that we could potentially pitch to our existing clients. I’m not really sure why Pete Partner had me sit in on this meeting, other than to give me the opportunity to gain a little more exposure about our clients and what’s happening with each one. And I appreciate that, I really do. But taking notes about stuff I don’t as yet understand while in a meeting with the LTP and a Senior that I don’t know is kind of a recipe for disaster.
Said disaster struck towards the end of the meeting, when Pete jokingly said to Moe: “Let’s add them to the list. Don’t you want to make sure you’re getting credit for that one, Moe?”, to which Moe replied, “Oh I don’t care about the credit, Pete. All I care about is the firm.” And what did I do? I laughed. Snorted, in fact. And it wasn’t exactly subtle.
I mean, COME ON!!! If that isn’t the biggest kiss-ass line you’ve ever heard, then I don’t know what is. Moe may have been completely serious in expressing his commitment to The Firm–he probably wasn’t in jest. But to me, that kind of brown-nose, kiss-assery kind of comment–especially when said in front of your boss’ boss–DESERVES a little chortle.
The embarrassing part (because snorting inappropriately in a meeting isn’t embarrassing enough) came when Larry, who was sitting next to me, nudged my knee and said “Why are you laughing?”. And I quickly had to try and recover: “Umm…uh, that was really cute, Moe. Ha ha ha…”. It was bad. I turned a million shades of pink, from lavender to carmine to amaranth. Died, I did…from a rush of blood to the head.
So now I fear I’ll be viewed by upper management not only as the admin with an awfully rosy complexion, but the one who also thinks commitment to the firm is a big joke.
Later that day when flair-up number two occurred, I was re-filling my coffee cup in the kitchen when in walked Moe. And in an effort to recover a bit of my dignity and perhaps smooth things over w/ the guy (I did laugh at him, after all), I promptly stuck my foot in my mouth again. Epic Fail.
I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: Essaytch, you just may be the death of me. The two doses of humility I took on Friday really helped me get that foot down, but I’m desperately in search of a more permanent cure. So if anyone knows of a topical ointment or a cream, perhaps a pill that I could take or a support group that might help my little ‘problem’, please let me know. I’ll be forever in your debt.
My poor mother was as big as a house when she was pregnant with me. From what I’ve been told, a disagreement with her doctor over my conception date had me cookin’ in the oven for an extra 3 weeks. However, I also have it on good authority that she could eat an entire pan of brownies made from scratch in one sitting: you be the judge. Regardless of the reason, the Christmas before I was born, my dad bought my mom a HUGE t-shirt that said “RUFUS” on the chest, with an arrow pointing down to her swollen belly. I think they thought I was a boy–or were hoping for a boy. They had even decided on my name: Richard. I was to be little “Ricky”, named after my paternal grandfather.
So when I finally decided to make my grand entrance into the world–minus a few crucial boy bits–my parents scrambled for a name. While all the other little girls born that year were Jennifers, Melissas, Jessicas, or Amandas, I was stuck with what I later came to consider an unpopular name, one synonymous with outsiders, afterthoughts, and odd-balls: Stephanie. I think I was 16 before I ever met another Stephanie; now, of course, they are everywhere, but at the time I was the only one and I hated it. In fact, I think my name was the first thing that I can remember ever hating about myself, soon to be followed by my height and by the fact that, while I might have been missing those crucial boy bits at birth, by the age of 11 I was more than making up for their absence with an overabundance of…well, boobage.
Strangely enough, it wasn’t the stigma of my name or height or the size of my boobs that would haunt me into adulthood. Instead it was one simple, seemingly harmless phrase repeated over and over and over again for 30 years that did me in: “You look just like your father.”
Ordinarily, I think phrases like these are meant for parents, a congratulations of sorts at their ability to pass on their best features to their little ones. In my case, it quickly became the running joke in our family that my mother was simply a baby incubator, failing to pass on any of her genes to either my half-sister or me. Unfortunate, really, considering my mother was–hell, is–a knockout of supermodel caliber, a platinum blonde bombshell with legs for DAYS. Even when strangers would remark on our resemblance, my mother was always quick to dismiss their comments: “Oh we don’t look anything alike! I was just the carrier–you should see her father!” It wasn’t too long before I started to repeat these dismissive phrases as well, and not long after that that I started to believe them.
What’s the big deal, you’re wondering? So you look like your dad–what’s the problem? The problem is that for as long as I can remember, my dad has been more than a little overweight (picture John Goodman in his Roseanne days). At 6′3″, he’s already a physically imposing guy, and in his younger days before I was born, I’m told he was really quite active. But an old football knee injury aggravated by a particularly spirited hand ball game early in my infancy sent my dad to the sidelines. Having a young family, new baby, and a wife who could cook a decent meal (remember the pans of brownies?), his activity level decreased…and his waistline increased. Time flew and before he knew it, there was no turning back. He’s been stuck in a vicious cycle of fluctuating weight for 20 years, and now it’s more than just the old knee injury that holds him captive: sleep apnea keeps him exhausted from lack of sleep, adult-onset diabetes limits him, and his own shame about his body prevents him from casting off the ball and chain that quite literally weighs him down.
So here I sit in the final months before my 30th birthday, reflecting on all of my “issues” (the chubby issue being the biggest) and I had a breakthrough. After being told for 30 years that you look exactly like your dad, and your dad–who is brilliant and funny and charming and whom you love with all your heart–also happens to be fat, comments like “You’re just like your dad” get twisted, and take on the meaning “YOU are fat”. Subconsciously, I have grown up all my life believing that I am fat.
Now, I may be curvy, yes. Boobalicious? Absolutely. And to describe me as “tall” is understating things a bit. But FAT? This, my friends, is simply NOT TRUE. I realize that none of you have ever seen a picture of me through which you could verify my non-fatness–in fact, you didn’t even know my real name until about 600 words or so ago–and believe me, I would attempt to remedy that situation if it weren’t for the fact that I stopped posing for the camera years ago (started avoiding cameras like the plague in fact). But trust me–I see women with my body type on the street every day, and the last word that I would use to describe them is “fat”.
Don’t get me wrong-I don’t suddenly think I’ve got a free pass to skip the gym for the rest of my life. Like most people out there, there’s a bit of toning and trimming of the mid-section that needs some ongoing attention. But after my breakthrough, I feel like I finally have an accurate mental picture of my body that is grounded in reality. I can finally match the confidence that I have in myself as a person with newfound confidence that I have with my body. After 30 years, I feel like I can look at myself in the mirror and see a beautiful woman who is feminine, unique, and desirable. A woman who, just like her dad, is also brilliant, funny, charming, and whom people love with all their hearts.
I may not be around for a while. Which really isn’t THAT big of a deal, because no one reads this damn thing anymore anyway… I’m not sure when I crossed the threshhold from many readers (read: 4) to a few readers (read: 0), but apparently I’m there. And I’ve been there for a while.
I know, I know…this blog isn’t supposed to be for you. It’s supposed to be for ME. But I’m beginning to wonder: am I wasting my time?
So I will leave you with this thought:
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Well, shit. I can’t even come up with a good closing thought to leave you with. See what I mean?
11.9.08 UPDATE: I was in a mood when I wrote this last week. I’ve got too much to say to stop blogging altogether, and I realized that some time in the past few months, I lost sight of why I started this blog in the first place: to chronicle my own personal evolution into the woman I want to be. So who cares if no one but me reads any of this? I’ll keep going, at my own pace, whenever I have something to say. And if anyone else out there happens to find it interesting, amusing, heartbreaking, or just plain stupid–awesome. Oh, and if Kristiane is my only reader from now until the end of time? Well, mission accomplished!
Dear Essaytch:
I know work has been busy lately. Since your recent promotion from Company Vagabond to Queen Executive Assistant, your workload has quite literally doubled–and that is thrilling! Nothing is better than a full day of solid work, and trust me: you’d rather be busy than bored to tears.
That being said, you still need to eat. And pee–going to the bathroom is critical. If you need to schedule time to eat and pee, then do it. Because right now, it’s almost 2 pm and you just left your desk for the first time today to use the bathroom. And you still haven’t eaten. And we are HUNGRY.
It would probably also be a good idea to head back to the gym right after you get off work. You might not feel stressed out now, but trust me–a few more weeks of this, and you will. Working off a little of that steam on the treadmill will not only do wonders for your mental health, but your body will thank you too. Especially when it hasn’t dropped dead before the new year.
Sincerely,
Your Self
ps…Why are you still sitting there?! GO EAT!!
…please PLEASE go vote today. Please? If you do only one thing today, if indeed the ONLY thing that gets you out of your PJs and off the couch to face the day is the promise of shaping the future of America from the inside of a voting booth, than DO IT. At this point, I don’t care who you vote for–ok that’s a lie because I do care–all I care about is that you exercise your right and cast your ballot. So go do it, and then come back here to report your progress. Go ahead. I’ll wait…
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I won’t even ask WHO you voted for. In fact, I’d prefer that this didn’t turn into a place to debate the politics of the day. But I will say this: if you don’t vote today, then I don’t want to hear all your bitching and moaning 3 years from now when we face another election and everything is still as fucked up as it is now (or worse). So please, don’t end up on my Shit List: VOTE ALREADY!
