Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Planet Fat

Distorted body images were the order of the day yesterday. One after another, customers entered the yoga apparel store and immediately complained about some particular aspect of their physique. At my wits end when a very thin and fit woman referred to herself as fat, I confessed that I was waiting for one person – just one -- to come in and not complain about her body. The delusional but wise thin woman told me I’d be waiting a long time.

As it turns out, I didn’t have to wait all that long, because a man eventually arrived, armed with a list furnished by his wife of items to purchase. I imagined she was home gazing in the mirror in disgust while he braved the racks of body hugging spandex on her behalf. There he stood, right in front of the mirror that, for me, is a non-stop horror flick, and he didn’t even glance at his reflection. He wasn’t turning blue from holding his breath and sucking in his stomach. He wasn’t self-consciously pawing at his love handles. Mysterious creature.

I’ve begun to feel like a bit of a therapist, which is ironic since I’m about as guilty as the next woman at being overly harsh about myself. Sometimes, I’m actually surprised when body woes don’t naturally lead into discussions of general worthlessness as a human being. Why not go the whole nine yards? Why be so shallow about the flaws that appear in the mirror? Don’t these women know that ugliness is way more than skin deep?

Determined to prove that I could “man up” and see something pleasing in the mirror, I vowed to try on the adorable dress that had just arrived in the shipment of new product. I was so taken with the dress I could barely focus on anything else; the line of customers hoping to be rung up lengthened, and I just continued to lovingly hang the new dresses and drool. I hid one in my size in every color, lest some greedy shopper even think about grabbing one. I closed my eyes, I fantasized, I saw myself looking like a tanned gazelle in my new summer frock.

Ah, but reality bites, and when the moment of truth arrived and I stood in front of the fitting room mirror, I was horrified. Sure, the fact that I was wearing running shoes didn’t help matters, but the dress, on me, looked nothing like it did on the hanger. I looked frumpy. I looked fat. I looked short. And, lest you think I’m shallow like the rest of them, I looked like a completely worthless human being.

But enough about me. It still pisses me off when women who have no reason to be critical about their appearance are critical about their appearance. What the heck is wrong with these people?