Body and self

When I was married, and Rob and I would head out for a night of fun, I didn’t really think about what else I needed to put on other than something I liked to wear.

As a fortysomething divorcee, I’ve learned that a woman needs more than a hot outfit and brains. She needs one particular accessory, and it can’t be bought.

Jennifer and I decided to dress up and play adult for the Mill Valley Film Festival opening party. As we mingled and schmoozed, we ran into my former neighbor who moved away a few years ago, a zaftig-plus late-fiftysomething Goddess-type who favored big flowy dresses and clunky but comfortable shoes. There she was, hand-in-hand with an attractive older man — her fiancé, I later discovered.

We chatted for a while, caught up on neighborhood comings and goings, and said our goodbyes. Then, as Jennifer and I stood by ourselves, I looked at her and realized we both had the same impression, a politically incorrect one at that.

“If she could find a man … ” said Jennifer, dressed in leopard-print stilettos and a tight black dress that accentuated her curves and cleavage. Unhappy with the dating scene, she’d been getting really discouraged.

“I know, I know, I know. Don’t say it.”
“But …”

“Jen, the difference is this. She’s always looked like that, and she’s OK with it. She’s totally comfortable in her skin. And you know what? The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that that’s the sexiest and most attractive thing a woman can be. Confident.”

Jennifer was quiet after that, but in my mind I was replaying a conversation I’d had with Elaine the day before.

Elaine is a knockout, a smart, sassy divorcee with a toned, shapely body. But when she, her boyfriend Geoff and I had taken a bike ride on the Tiburon loop one Sunday — ostensibly to enjoy the gorgeous day and get a workout but in reality to head to Sam’s for laughs, people-watching and a shared plate of fried calamari — I saw a side of Elaine I’d really never seen before.
But a side that, sadly, so many women display all too often.

“Oh, I can’t eat another calamari ring,” she exclaimed after eating about three. “I had so much to eat last night, I can barely fit into my jeans anymore.”
“Babe, you look great,” Geoff said. “Eat!”
“No, I’ve just gotta lose those five pounds…”
“You’ve got to be kidding. You look bitchin’,” I chimed in half-heartedly, not because she doesn’t — she does — but I just hate to hear women put themselves down like that, especially in front of their lovers. I looked at Geoff — I’m pretty sure I detected a look of exasperation and disgust. I could see this kind of talk wasn’t sitting well with him, and he was right.

It’s so unattractive for a woman to diss herself — much more so than the extra five pounds, imagined or not.

The next day, I called Elaine. I love her too much as a friend not to say something.
She already knew what I was going to say. “I know, I know. Geoff hates when I talk like that, and we had a big fight about it recently. He told me I sound needy and insecure. I’ve got to stop. I will.”

My heart went out to her, but I know where Elaine is coming from. We women focus on those extra pounds, the saggy breasts, the cellulite thighs, the wrinkly stomach from giving birth. We think that’s all that others see in us, too. Then we look around us here in Marin — we’re surrounded by bodies perfectly sculpted with the help of personal trainers and hours of spinning classes and yoga. And whatever jiggly stuff remains after that, well, there’s Botox, liposuction and implants. And there’s our model of “beauty.”

No wonder our teenage daughters are puking in their high school bathrooms a few weeks before the prom so they can fit in their slinky dresses, as I heard a counselor at Redwood High once say at a parenting conference. No wonder a recent study by Girls Inc. found that 84 percent of girls believe they have to be thin to be popular.

I don’t want to buy into that, and I don’t chat up my weight or my imperfections in front of the men I date (no matter what I think or what I share with girlfriends). But as I look in the mirror, my flaws — which seem to be increasing with each birthday — are the first things I see. And I’m not immune from self-degradation, either, subtle as mine might be.

It was pretty apparent me early one Sunday morning. I had just finished my morning hike when my cell rang. It was Sean, the single dad I see from time to time. He sounded shaken.

“I’ve just been in an accident. I’m OK, but my car’s totaled. Can you come pick me up?”
“I’m on my way,” I said, as I hopped into my van and zoomed up 101.

I picked him up, took him home and as we sat outside his condo, I noticed him looking at me. Well, staring was more like it. Then it dawned on me. I’d just rolled out of bed and headed for the hills without a shower, combed hair, deodorant or my “face” — the eyeshadow, mascara and lipstick I always wear, except on my hikes.

For the first time, Sean was seeing “me” — Kat Unplugged.
“Oh my! I’m practically naked!” I sorta joked, but he didn’t hear me because he was talking at the same time. I didn’t hear him, either.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“I said you’re beautiful.”
I blushed and chortled. “You hit your head and smashed your glasses in the crash, remember? You’re practically blind.”
“No, I’m not, and you’re beautiful.”

I felt embarrassed, not only by the compliment, but by my inability to believe what he said, to embrace it, to accept it for what it is.

Why is it so hard to take a compliment like that? Why do I, like Elaine, like so many other women, want to disallow it, make fun of it, put ourselves down?

It reminded me of my former neighbor, comfortable in her skin, in her own beauty. No wonder she attracted a man, a man who saw in her the same things she saw in herself — “I am beautiful, and I celebrate my femininity and my beauty.” It made perfect sense that a confident woman would end up with a man who wanted to be more than just her lover — he wanted to be her fiancé, her partner. We are so quick to judge each other — and ourselves — and we are missing the point.

I thought about that recently, as Sean and I woke up in a sweaty tangle of arms and legs and with his face in front of mine, his eyes studying my face.

I know exactly what that face looks like first thing in the morning; smeared eye makeup that I forgot to remove the night before; the dehydrated bags under my eyes, courtesy of the two glasses of red wine I had with dinner; god knows how many errant hairs that managed to escape my aging eyes and the tweezers; and what is up with that breath?

“You’re beautiful,” he said, as he kissed the tip of my nose.
What could I say but, “thank you”?