The Pressure

It’s garbage day, and I’m sending away the pressure. I can’t take it anymore. 

Twenty years ago, I was in an aol chat room and a man told me that I *have* to shave my legs. Eight years ago, my boss’ boss told me I *had* to wear lipstick. A few years ago, tired of the back pain and the attention, I got a breast reduction. My ex husband got mad at me, though we’d been divorced for many years, and said I was stupid because I used to have “a bangin’ body”. A coworker once cornered me, forcefully, “why do you always wear dresses? You should wear pants!” My sister told me that I should wear a bra. 

Now, I’m all for dressing up, feeling pretty, laser hair removal, wigs, eyelash enhancements, etc. I wear lipstick because I like it. I don’t think there is anything wrong with any of it. Being fit and healthy is so much fun, but if you happen to spend six months in bed due to a pandemic and gain 40 lbs that’s cool, too. 

What isn’t fun is the pressure. The pressure to look pretty for you. A couple years ago, when I started reading a bunch of codependency books, I discovered that the pressure I thought was coming from you, wasn’t. It’s all me. 

Every day I had worked hard to be thin, pretty, well-groomed, well dressed, and flawless. I ran a constant inner dialogue of self-criticism that I thought was coming from you. 

What I know now is that you never cared how I looked. These odd comments by people throughout my life on *their preference* on my appearance were just that. 

I’ve made it my mission to fall in love with my chubby arms. I know, there is a risk that someone will love me less because of them, but the way I see it, if you can’t love me with my chubby arms, you’re really kind of a shitty person anyway. 

I think it’s time that we all stopped telling each other what we should wear, do, or be to fit an ideal image. I can’t tell you how many overweight people I’ve heard comment negatively on someone else’s weight. I can’t tell you how many people in Ill-fitting colorful clothes have told me that I wear too much black. What makes them think this is okay?

It’s not. We need to change our thinking. If someone doesn’t like me because I don’t look like someone they would have sex with, hang out with, or work with, I have to wonder if they really liked me at all. 

So I’m setting myself free. I’m challenging you to love me, my chubby arms, my face without lipstick, with the tiny breasts Dr. Hop Le made for me, in all black, with or without makeup, shaven or unshaven. I’m asking you to accept me as I am, and I promise to do the same for you. 

Once we decide that we can leave the house without so much pressure on our hair,  “bangin’” body, face and chubby arms, we truly begin to live. This is my first day of my forty-seventh year, and I definitely don’t need pressure to stay twenty-seven forever. 

It’s garbage day, and I’m sending all the pressure away, internal and external. I no longer care what I think you care about (and probably don’t). Today, I’m good enough, just as I am (all 179 lbs of me), and I have a sneaking suspicion you are, too.