Mirror, Mirror Off the Wall

by Kjerstin Gruys

  Feeling like the third wheel when the two of them were together always hurt my feelings a little bit, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. How do you tell your fiancé that you’re jealous of his sister? I’d mentioned this once to Michael, but he’d politely suggested that I was overreacting; he got to spend time with Mandy for only a few weeks every year and wanted to make the most of their visits. He had a point, so I tried my best to keep myself in check.

  Still, despite all my progress in developing a generous spirit when it came to feeling competitive with other women, it was difficult for me to avoid comparing myself with Mandy. I felt jealous of their bond and of Michael’s open admiration for her numerous talents and good qualities. Michael assured me that Mandy had her own insecurities, but she did a pretty good job of hiding them. She seemed so perfectly comfortable in her own skin and in her role as party instigator and creator of (according to Michael) the world’s best Bloody Marys. She was his baby sister, and he had her on a pedestal. Frankly, I imagined that a non-filial version of Mandy was what Michael had probably hoped to find in a life partner, and this made me feel terribly inadequate; compared with Mandy, I was boring, uptight, and short. (Not that there’s anything wrong with short. I’ve just never fully recovered from being exceptionally tall for my whole life until fourth grade, when I stopped growing. I played center for my elementary school basketball team; in middle school I was switched to forward; by high school I played guard, and in college I was benched.)

  Of course, Mandy had always been incredibly nice to me and had welcomed me into their family with open arms, so I felt silly and guilty for feeling jealous of her bond with Michael.

  Upon our arrival to my parents’ home, Mandy whooshed in and gave me a huge hug. She bent down slightly, with squinted eyes, and wiped the side of my nose with her finger. “Much better, Martha! Your mascara was misplaced.” I laughed and thanked her, and then got out of the way so Michael could get in his own hug. So far, so good. I braced myself for a busy weekend.

  In preparation for the Ackermanns’ visit, my parents had temporarily removed all of their Obama 2012 posters from the living room, stocked their liquor cabinet with Kentucky’s finest, and bought tickets for all of us to attend a Cardinals game on Saturday. The date of the weekend, in fact, had been chosen to overlap with the Cardinals baseball schedule.

  My mom insisted that we do a bit of prepartying at home before heading over to the stadium; her penchant for a deal was notorious, and I was delighted to see Sherry nodding in agreement. If nothing else, the two of them definitely had a love for bargain shopping in common. “The price of stadium beer is atrocious! Everyone should get started with what we already have here,” she insisted. No one had any complaints about that, and by the time we headed out for the stadium, most of us were feeling a bit tipsy. Getting to the stadium involved a bit of a walk, plus a ride on the MetroLink, so we all poured ourselves to-go cups of beer to wet our whistles along the way. It was over ninety degrees out, with typical St. Louis humidity, so our ice-cold drinks were also helpful for temperature regulation.

  After a few minutes of walking, we started separating into smaller groups of faster walkers and slower walkers. I ended up talking with Sherry for part of the way. We chatted just long enough for my blood pressure to rise.

  “I read your blog post from last week,” Sherry announced, patting my hand, “and I have to say, I am so proud of you for deciding to lose weight before the wedding. I lost almost twenty pounds a few years ago, and it was the hardest thing I ever did in my life. People thought it was easy because I lost it pretty quick, but it took a ton of work and discipline. It’s hard, but I’m proud of you and I know you can do it. I’m rooting for you! You’re going to look so beautiful in that wedding dress!”

  I was speechless. This was one of the most enthusiastic and supportive things my future mother-in-law had ever said to me, yet she’d completely missed the point of what I’d written. Yes, I wanted to lose some weight, but I was really conflicted about it and needed to be exceedingly careful to avoid unhealthy dieting behaviors. I know it wasn’t what she meant to communicate, but I was left with the distinct impression that Sherry thought I really needed to lose some weight, that I should be on a diet. That hurt. It was exactly the kind of comment (a Sherryism?) that kept me on my guard.

  But I had to take a step back and think about what was really going on. I knew in my heart that Sherry had absolutely no idea that what she’d just said might have upset me. After all, I had blogged to the world that I wanted to lose a little bit of weight. Sherry knew what that felt like and was trying to empathize with me and let me know she was proud of me. She’d said so twice, in fact. How could I acknowledge her intent without bristling at the delivery? And how could I end the discussion before it went any further? I swallowed a big gulp of beer (and pride) before speaking.

  “Oh, thank you, Sherry, that’s such a nice thing to say. I’m trying to be healthier so I feel better,” I said. It was the truth, after all.

  “Yes, exercise is so important! I swim laps for an hour, every day that I can. It has really made a difference. And I only drink light beer,” she joked with a wink, clicking her Solo cup to mine in a faux toast.

  I called Michael over to walk with us, which made it easy to change the topic of conversation. I never in my life thought I’d say this, but I did: “So, how about those Cardinals?!”

  We arrived at the stadium sweaty but in good spirits. My mom had made sure to order seats under a shaded canopy, though she hadn’t been able to find seating for eight all next to one another. So we split up into groups of two, two, and four, with all of the parents sitting together and the two sets of twenty-something couples sitting on their own. The game went well, though we all had to take frequent breaks in the air-conditioned clubhouse to avoid heatstroke. Ample ice-cold beer helped, too.

  Once the game ended, we all did our best to meet up together for our walk out of the stadium. Michael and I immediately noticed with relief that our parents seemed to have become fast friends.

  “Your folks are going to visit us for a vacation in Florida!” boasted Sherry, my mom nodding vigorously beside her in agreement. I noticed that my mom had a slight wine mustache.

  The stadium was packed full of people emptying into the streets below. None of us knew our way around, but we were determined to find a local bar within walking distance so we could keep up our good spirits with, well, more spirits. The crowds pressed against us, making it hard to stick together as we found our way. There were five or six iPhones between the eight of us, and nobody seemed able to get directions to pull up.

  “We need a camp counselor to guide the way!” suggested Sherry. “I nominate Ken!”

  Indeed, my dad, at six-three, was the most visible leader for the group and seemed the natural choice to safely lead us through the hectic crowd. I also knew for a fact that my father hated large crowds, so I wasn’t surprised to see him take off at a decent pace. I doubted he actually knew where he was going, but just wanted to get away from where we were.

  Just then, my iPhone dinged, letting me know it had directions to the bar we were looking for. They pointed in the opposite direction from where my dad was headed.

  “Hey, everyone! I have directions! It’s this way! Follow me!” I shouted exuberantly. I’ve always liked taking charge.

  “This won’t work,” Sherry joked. “You’re too short to be the leader!”

  “I’m not that short!” I countered, also joking. I may have been the shortest person in our unusually tall group, but five-feet-five is average for American women. (And as I said before, there’s really nothing wrong with being short!)

  My mom came to my rescue. “Kjerstin isn’t short, she’s just right!” she asserted, giving me a one-armed hug. She said this with a smile, but I knew she was worried that my feelings had been hurt. It was nice to see my mama bear get all grizzly over the situatio
n.

  Sherry caught on to the possibility that she’d misspoken and corrected her earlier statement. “Oh no! I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to say that you’re short. I don’t know why I said that. You’re not short, really. I feel so awful.” She truly looked ashamed. I appreciated that Sherry didn’t want my feelings to be hurt, but it really hadn’t bothered me much. That said, I couldn’t help wondering whether she was backpedaling so quickly because she didn’t think I was short, or because she did. Either way, I just wanted the conversation to end. I was starting to feel embarrassed. This was turning out to be a night of uncomfortable Sherryisms.

  Sherry turned to my mom and continued apologizing, saying, “I’m so sorry for saying that, Julie. Your daughter is lovely, and I don’t know why I said that. She really isn’t short.” She paused a moment before continuing. “I’m just so lucky to have two tall children,” she concluded with a proud sigh, as though that explained everything. I suppose it did.

  My mom looked surprised, but quickly hit her stride. “Yes, we both have such wonderful children!” she asserted, shifting the subject away from the surprisingly contentious topic of my (relative) lack of height. I said a small prayer of thanks for my mother’s adept social skills and hoped we were done talking about my body for the night.

  Michael, who had overheard the entire exchange, made eye contact with me and gave my hand a squeeze. Sorry! he mouthed silently, not wanting the conversation to pick up again.

  I mouthed back Thanks, and then announced loudly to the whole group, “We’re here!” Thank god.

  I was grateful that the rest of the weekend progressed without incident.

  • • •

  ON JULY 14, THE BLOG POST I’D WRITTEN ABOUT MY ANGST about dieting and feminism was picked up by two popular websites, Sociological Images and Jezebel. For a few hours I floated on air, feeling as though I’d officially “made it” as a blogger. The Sociological Images post collected 438 Facebook “likes,” and the Jezebel piece—actually just a two-sentence snip from my original essay—had been read by more than 25,000 readers. How exciting!

  But then I read the comments, all 490 of them. I’d expected some discussion, and that’s exactly what I got. My personal curiosity as to whether or not wanting to lose weight was antifeminist had stirred up some pretty strong reactions. I’d apparently blogged myself right into the midst of the “choice feminism” debates.

  The term “choice feminism” was coined in 2005 by lawyer and scholar Linda R. Hirshman to refer to the popular feminist philosophy that, in her words, declared that “a woman could work, stay home, have ten children or one, marry or stay single. It all counted as ‘feminist’ as long as she chose it.” Proponents of choice feminism support the idea that we shouldn’t judge what any woman chooses to do with her life, because feminism exists precisely to give women choices. By this logic, self-proclaimed feminists who express disappointment in other women for not making the “right choices” are being elitist and doctrinaire. Since 2005, concerns about choice feminism have broadened from debates about housewives versus working gals to include numerous topics, including concerns about appearance. This is where I came in.

  Some comments on my post reaffirmed my fears that being a “good feminist” required 24/7 vigilance and careful consideration of every decision, every word, and every thought. A lot of these commenters were frustrated by—okay, “fucking tired of”—choice feminism, and seemed to think that I was promoting it by asking the World Wide Web of feminists for permission to diet. Other comments, obvious examples of choice feminism, vigorously defended my right to diet. Many were somewhere in the middle, often empathizing with the angst I was experiencing and telling their own stories. The ones I found the most interesting, however, were comments that suggested that my choice to diet itself didn’t matter, but that my motivations for dieting were the sticking points. This group thought it was okay—even commendable—for me to lose weight if it was for my health. But these same people seemed to think that the exact same behavior, dieting, would be unacceptable (at least from a feminist standpoint) if I was doing it to look better or to live up to anyone else’s standards but my own.

  This surprised me. Apparently, the greatest crime I’d committed when asking for “permission to diet” was not the diet part, but the asking permission part. This must be the flip side of choice feminism; just as passing judgment on other women’s choices had been deemed antifeminist, so too was the act of requesting judgment. Wanting to please anybody but myself was apparently antifeminist. But I did want to please other people, preferably everyone!

  My angst about being a good feminist seemed like just one more example of a chronic need for approval. I wanted to please everyone, from the most radical of feminists to my conservative and traditional future mother-in-law. By virtue of this, I also wanted to be everyone: I wanted to be a good feminist to my colleagues and readers, but I also wanted to be a good daughter to my parents, a good student to my mentors, a good fiancée to Michael, a good teacher to my students, a good future daughter-in-law to my future mother-in-law, and a good friend to my friends.

  This wasn’t a new thing. In high school I’d been a chronic overachiever of the worst sort. I was the student council president, an all-state track-and-field athlete, and the salutatorian of my graduating class. But these accomplishments didn’t satisfy me. I felt disappointed in myself for not being the valedictorian, and a part of me was truly crushed when I wasn’t voted onto the homecoming court. (My mother had been the homecoming queen, so I believed I’d failed to live up to her legacy.) I cringed at these memories. How annoyingly self-involved I’d been. How in the world had my poor girlfriends put up with that crazed intensity and competitiveness? My desire to be the best at everything had left no room for me to appreciate and celebrate other people’s gifts and talents. I felt ashamed by the memory.

  But how much had I really evolved since that time? How many times had I promised myself I could have it all (which, of course, really meant be it all)?

  As I read over the varied comments on my essay, it hit me: Even if all I’d wanted in life was to be a good feminist, it was clear that I wouldn’t even be able to please all the feminists! Wanting to please everybody, and trying to be everything, was impossible. Recognizing myself as a chronic, lifelong people-pleaser felt so lame and disempowered. But I had to face it as a truth. I needed to let go of these crazy ambitions, or I’d never be satisfied with myself.

  The more I thought about it, the more strongly I felt that my desire to please everyone by being everything might actually have feminism to blame, at least in part. Since childhood I’d been told that women could be anything we wanted and that I could have it all. I’d taken this message to heart, and then some, but it wasn’t true or realistic. It wasn’t even fun. There were too many contradictions embedded within my ambitions. I could be many things, but I’d have to choose which ones were most important to me, and I’d have to stop asking permission to be myself.

  I decided it might do me good to make a list of all the people—real or imagined—I hoped to please, and then list them in order of importance, keeping my own name at the very top. Below the list I copied a phrase I’d recently seen at a coworker’s desk: “I can only please one person per day. Today is not your day. Tomorrow isn’t looking good, either.”

  But would a decision to “stop asking permission” be at odds with last month’s commitment to practice trust? I decided that this wasn’t the case; succeeding at both being myself and trusting others would involve choosing the right people to trust, and the right (wrong?) people to ignore. But how would I know the difference? Clearly this would involve more than simply trusting my gut (which sought universal approval); I would have to consciously contemplate my values and priorities and then ignore people whose opinions pushed me in the wrong direction. I would have to refine my “please everybody” instincts to become “please only those who make me a better per
son.”

  I realized then that I didn’t want to ride the wave of choice feminism any longer. I didn’t want to surround myself with people encouraging me to “do whatever I felt like” and telling me that any choice I made would be an empowered one. Instead, I wanted to surround myself with people who challenged me to do better, to live in accordance with my values. I wanted my choices to matter. I was reminded that the driving spirit of feminism had never been rooted in simply offering women more choices (although we do have a habit of chronicling successes along these lines). Rather, the core goal of feminism was to challenge structural inequalities, even if this meant sometimes harping on women who reinforced structural inequalities through their supposedly empowered “choices.” I knew that sometimes I was one of those women, and that I could never expect myself to be a perfect feminist. Still, I could do better. My choices mattered.

  We all have habits and urges that draw us away from our principles, but this doesn’t mean we should seek out enablers. Indeed, our ability to suppress instincts in favor of ethics is perhaps the most defining characteristic that separates human beings from other animals. I needed to stop trying to please everyone, and instead seek appropriate role models whom I could trust for guidance and feedback if I began to falter.

  Contemplating this balance between trusting people and following my own path led me to a phrase I thought worth sharing. As I journaled my thoughts, I kept circling back to the saying “People who matter don’t mind, and people who mind don’t matter.” It seemed to be the answer to my puzzle, but something was missing. It didn’t feel right to me that anyone, no matter how different from me or disapproving, could ever just not matter. I recalled my decision to avoid conflict with Sherry, when I opted to acknowledge her thoughtful intentions (even if I didn’t like what she’d said). That had felt right, too. A mantra began to take shape. In my journal I wrote: Act in accordance with your values. People who matter don’t mind, and people who mind don’t matter (but it’s still important to treat people as though they matter!).