In the Meantime...

I was talking to my girlfriend earlier today, let’s just call her “Michelle”, and we were going on and on about nothing in particular. I was telling her how I still hadn’t found the perfect brown shoe for 2011. 

“Everywhere I go…nothing. I’ve been to the stores, on the Internet; I just can’t find ‘em. Hell, I’d even take some more thigh highs if I could find some decent ones in brown…” I gushed at break-neck speed, because anybody out there who knows me knows when I want something, I get totally engrossed in the wanting. I BECOME the want, if there was ever such a thing.
She was quiet, then said, “Oh, well, I can’t wear those, my legs are too short. Too big on the top.”
I barely heard her over the thoughts running through my head:
What’s due next check? Cell phone, car note…hmm, maybe I can swing it…
When she never said anything else, I came back to our conversation.
“Well, maybe not the thigh-highs, what about the cute ones that come to the knee? Those would be cute on you. I hate when people have on saggy knee boots, they look better on people who can fill them in.” I said, thinking the thighs would be cute on her, but maybe they weren’t her style. She’s a thicker type, with the classic Atlanta-girl shape, big legs and butt, tiny waist.
“No, my calves are too big.”
Ok.
“How about the ankle boots? Those would be hot on you. They got some cute booties out right now, remember I was showing you…”
She shot that one down fast too. “Ankles. Or should I say Cankles.” She made a sour face. 

Sigh. 

Alrighty. Moving on. 

Later on in the conversation, she said she wanted to change her look.
“Why don’t you cut your hair?”
She whined, “Mmmm, no, my face is too round. I need my hair.”
“I don’t mean ski-bald, Michelle. Just a new something. Maybe layers? Bring your face out more.”
“Naw, because I wanna be able to have a ponytail.”
“Well what about a weave? Make it super-long. You can look like a cute little video-vixen.”
“No, because I’m too chubby for all that hair.”
Another sigh from Roxanne.
“Well then leave it the way it is then.” I said, bland faced.
She nodded her head, content that I finally agreed with her. She didn’t realize I was being facetious. And this is how our conversation went. She was such a downer on everything:
“You have such pretty skin, Michelle. I’m drinking more water to clear mine up, it’s been tripping lately.”
“I have these wrinkles.” She pointed to two lines around her eyes.
“I want to borrow that nail polish. It’s so pretty.” I’d said.
“I don’t really like the color.” She said, holding her nails out like she just realized that her nails looked a mess and frowning at them. 

Well shit! 

Is there any fucking thing good about you? I wanted to say. And I would have, but I knew that she was probably going to come back with a list of things that weren’t. 

I mean damn. 

Who the hell wears polish they think is ugly for an entire week? 

I was aggravated. And she had no idea. The way Michelle saw it, she was just two steps from the female embodiment of Flavor Flav, and she was glad she’d convinced me of the same.
At first I thought she was fishing for adulation. But when she stole another disgusted glance at her fingers, I knew she meant what she said.
Why are we as women so hard on ourselves? We hate every little thing about ourselves, and if someone is nice enough to give us some semblance of approval, we’re gonna damn near undress to show them how this one titty is bigger than the other. 

Do you like you? 

I like me. 

I got a little pot on my stomach and I don’t really care. I’ve gotten so good at holding in my stomach that it comes second nature. My skin has a fucked-up attitude problem. Too much soda and I get a few good pulsating bumps on my face, you know, the kind that feels like it has a heartbeat? But that’s not stopping me from liking my one dimple. One tooth in the front is a hair crooked, but I’ve learned not to smile too hard so you don’t see my gums (and I’ve had to re-take many pictures to counter this fact on many occasions, thank God for digital cameras). I’m super hairy, and my voice is so deep that whenever I order at the drive-thru, the person on the speaker thinks I’m a man.
An occurrence the kids find hilarious every single time.
“Ahhh haa!!” Joe and Jayda always howl, “She called you SIR!” 

I got all kinda shit wrong, but I love it. I love me, and that is not being conceited or self-righteous.
Can’t we love what we got? 

Apparently this is not ok. 

What’s wrong with you? 

Better yet, what’s right with you? 

I’m not going to get all clichéd and say that it’s not what’s on the outside, it’s what’s on the inside. I have lived long enough to know that not many take the time to get to know a great personality if the person is….well….less attractive. Hell, I used to be a teeny-meeny, boney, slight girl. They call ‘em “po” out here in Atlanta. My driver’s license from 1988 says 5’9, 105 pounds. 

Skin-NAY. 

I don’t have to tell you how hard it was to get any attention of the male species back in those days. 

I’m not perfect by any means, and I don’t trick myself into thinking that. I still have my problem areas I’m working on, so please don’t get me wrong. Some days I look in the mirror no less than 50 times before I walk out the door and still wonder what the hell is going on in the reflection. 

But ladies, we’ve really got to work on the acceptance of whatever we got. 

I mean, this here is ri-damn-diculous.
At least learn how to ABSORB a compliment. 

I don’t like to look at myself as a feminist, because Rocky loves to be treated well by her man. Like a lady. But I will say I am pro-woman. If I see a girl who is looking great, or her clothes are right, or she has some must-have shoes, or her hair slammin’, I tell her. If she’s pretty, I say so. Big, small, heavy, thin, mahogany black or high-yellow, White, Asian, or Latina. No hate here. And I will say that about only 40% of the time do they just smile and accept graciously. Most times I’m provided either a rebuttal or a strange look accompanied with a “thanks” and a shaky side-eye as if I asked them out for dinner and dancing. 

Girl please…you are SO not my type. 

I just want us to realize that whatever way we are is how we were intended. If you are positive that this wasn’t the intention, then change it. Take the steps. 

But more importantly (Michelle, yes you!), let us like what’s in the mean time.