Scapegoats

I've been doing some thinking about the excuses we make for not having what we want. I remember a woman I worked with years ago who drove me absolutely nuts--she was loud, rude, insensitive, and she even smelled a little. Occasionally she would complain that our company was full of anti-Semites because no one liked her there. I wanted to scream at the top of voice that being Jewish had nothing to do with the fact that she was unpopular, but that being a raging, whiny bitch had everything to do with it.

It was easier for her to blame it on something intrinsic about her that she couldn't change--even better that she chose something she could take some ethnic pride in. That intensified the injustice in her mind, I believe. It was easier because to address the real cause of everyone's dislike would be too personal, too painful, and too damn difficult. It would mean taking a hard look inside her soul and cleaning out all the gunk--the narrow-mindedness, the bitterness, the insecurity, the pettiness.

I used to think that no one would love a fat girl. I was certain of it, and it was for the very good reason that this message is drilled into the head of every American girl from at least the age of 10. And my personal experiences seemed to back it up. No boy ever looked at me until I lost the weight. I've never been thin, but I became slender enough to attract the attention of the average male adolescent.

And here's where my theory fell all to pieces: I was attracting the AVERAGE male. The kind of guy who was too insecure to take a chance on a girl his friends might laugh at him for dating; the kind who wasn't terribly interested in what I was interested in but who needed someone moderately attractive on his arm at parties. I dated some nice guys; I dated some nearly evil guys; I dated some losers.

What I needed, and was too stupid to understand, was a guy who could embrace my weirdness and silliness at the same time he could embrace a body that would go up and down in weight, attractiveness, and fitness. Someone who wouldn't run screaming if he knew the Real Me, whoever that was.

I never found it until I totally gave up trying. After a scary first marriage and a couple of years or therapy to untangle all the knots I'd tied in my head--or at least most of them--I was finally okay with who I was and too old and tired to have any time for someone who didn't like that. If I was going to put any effort into a relationship, that man was going to have to be worth my time. To put it simply, I set my standards impossibly high.

But it wasn't impossible. Surprise of surprises, I found it. There was someone out there who didn't see an older, dumpy suburban mom, but rather an intelligent, creative, sensual woman who could make him happy. (And yes, it is hard for me to describe myself that way, but I'm trying to see myself through his eyes.)

I didn't need a scapegoat. I didn't need weight or ethnicity or any number of other intrinsic qualities to explain why I hadn't found love. To find love, I had to make myself lovable. And to do that, I had to strip away all the pretenses, excuses, defenses, and prevarications that had always held me back. Jeff wouldn't, couldn't, have loved the girl who blamed her lack of romantic luck on her weight. But he could love the girl who decided, "Fuck 'em if they don't love this. This is lovable."