I Am My Own Worst Frenemy
“Oh god, look at your arms. They’re so fat. You should have worn long sleeves,” she wraps her fingers around my arm, measuring its girth critically. “You’ll have to do some push ups as soon as we get out of this meeting.”
We’re sitting in the conference room at work while my boss, Dave, paces and details the sales goals for the next quarter. I’m listening, but her comments, made so only I can hear them, are distracting.
“When you cross your legs like that, I can see the dimples in your thighs,” she points out and I uncross them, searching for a more flattering position. “Oops, your hair is starting to look a little flat. Part it on the other side.”
“Shhh,” I tell her quietly, but I do comb my fingers through my hair, adjusting the part.
“Yeah, like that. That’s sexier,” she settles down, satisfied for now.
“-gotta hit it hard for the rest of the week,” Dave starts to write our active accounts on the whiteboard and I turn my attention to my lead list.
“I should be able to drag in that big boxing gym order by the end of this week,” I remind him and he adds it to the board. “And the marathon job too.”
“Your tummy is pooching,” she whispers, always vigilant. “Sit up straight and tense your abs.”
“Do you need any help bringing that in?” Dave asks, completely oblivious to the background conversation competing for my attention.
“Lift that chin, it’s turning into two!” She hisses to me while I’m answering his question.
“I don’t think so. The quote is out for approval. I just have to follow up.” I raise my chin and run my thumb down my jawline to make sure it’s smooth.
The meeting continues in much the same way, with my focus being pulled between her and Dave like a metronome.

This was a 60 second snapshot of my life. No matter where I am or what I’m doing, she’s right there with me, monitoring every single detail of my appearance. Her cold, flat voice has provided the background music to my every thought for as long as I can remember. She is relentless and she is a tyrant.
She’s gotta go. I want to sit through meetings and daydream about my next vacation instead of worrying about my complexion. I want to take photos to remember good times, not good hair. I want to lie on the beach and be more afraid of skin-cancer than I am of cellulite. I want to dance, run, jump, laugh, play with dogs, make art, have sex, stare off into space, eat everything good, cry, and do it all with abandon: for my pleasure, for my benefit, for my satisfaction.
So, I’m declaring my independence from her incessant enforcement of objectification culture and I’m going to do that by refusing to give in to her demands. No more adjusting, primping, or sucking in. She will rage and she will throw fits, but I won’t give in.
