It’s not a competition…

Last week I received what I now view as a compliment, though once it would have filled me with shame, dread and horror. A friend, normally justly confident with her lovely trim body, was preparing to meet up with us for a meal the other day. Her husband commented that, unusually, she had chosen a high necked top. Her reply was: ‘Maureen will be there – I can’t compete with her cleavage’. Love her, love the comment – thank you very much and good night….

But ‘twas not always so.

I was the ‘good girl’ at school. You would find me in a corner of the library, not hanging out with the cool kids. Throughout my schooldays I received plenty of praise from adults for my intelligence and commitment to study, but little recognition from anyone – least of all my schoolmates – for what really matters to a teenage girl – my looks. I was overweight, spotty – and flat-chested. My best friend, tenth in class tests while I felt let down if I slid to second place, was the boy magnet: skinny, bubbly, extrovert, she clinched the deal by possessing two elder sisters to share clothes and makeup tips – how could I compete?

Consequence: my belief system was created. It said ‘You can to be clever to make up for the fact that you’re unfanciable’.

I now know that we choose our beliefs – back then, they chose me and I blindly accepted. So when my chest suddenly decided to act like it had been attached to an airline my reaction was embarrassment – hide them! It took the appreciation of my husband to make me accept – grudgingly – that my body might actually be, well, sort of OK.

But throughout most of my life, I have been able to accept a compliment about my intelligence with equanimity and genuine pleasure, a personal compliment directed at my appearance has immediately triggered a ‘why is this person saying this?’ response. I looked for a subtext: is it a joke? Blatant empty flattery? What is its purpose? This does not accord with my core belief system: does not compute.

I once (only once!) watched ‘What Not To Wear’ and was horrified at the humiliation of the poor subject, being told she couldn’t wear garment after garment because of her figure. In contrast, I love ‘How To Look Good Naked’ in which Gok Wan, while grabbing bits of flesh, contrives to make women feel proud of what they have. This was perhaps one trigger to help me realise I could choose my own reality.

Another was receiving male attention and appreciation, initially at a time when I was feeling very low for several reasons, and which increased the more confident I became in my appearance, and in a couple of cases at least could not be explained away as anything other than genuine, however hard I tried. Reading Dawn French’s autobiography helped too – I fully identify with her feelings about her boobs, and her confidence boosted mine. (my confidence, not my boobs – they, like Dawn’s, need no further boosting, just good scaffolding!)

I can now accept my body as, to quote a Tim Minchin song, Not Perfect, but it’s mine’, make the most of its good bits and take attention away from the things I don’t like so much. I fully realised how much things had changed last Christmas when a (male) friend who I hadn’t seen for a year commented not only on how good I looked, but on my change of style: skinny jeans, fitted low cut top and leather jacket – clothes I wouldn’t have had the confidence to wear at twenty. So I’m writing this in honour of National Cleavage Day yesterday – I can now celebrate! I no longer feel like I have to compete – but I do finally feel like I’m winning.