I Can Only Please One Person Today
As a chronic people-pleaser myself, I used to turn myself inside out to try and make sure people would like me. I was always the “nice” one. The “helpful” one. The well-behaved child, the soft-spoken teenager who wouldn’t say shit if she’d had a mouthful of it. If she’d even known the word, back then.
I was like a cute, little puppy just wagging its cute, little tail, hoping you’d notice and give it some love — or at least, acknowledge it’s there.
My, my, how things change.
Well, it was a long time coming. Being people-pleaser is hard to shake. And coming from a place of — I was going to write “low self-esteem” but that doesn’t even begin to cover it —
And, in part, these experiences, which affected my growing up, are part of what changed a sunny, happy, albeit, shy little girl into someone who felt their only value was as someone who could do something for someone else.
That was my job. To help. To applaud. To support. To be the friend, the sidekick, but never the lead.
My mother told me when I was thirteen that, like her, I would never be pretty. But eventually, I would be a handsome woman.
Oh. My. God. What thirteen-year-old girl doesn’t want to be pretty. And who the hell wants to be handsome. Men are handsome, not women. I was crushed. Doomed (in my mind anyway). Consigned to the ugly-pit. I was already blessed with glasses, boobs, and a Marilyn Monroe tummy.
All these things are acceptable and even sexy now. But in the post-Twiggy era of Skinny-Girls-Rule, I already felt fat. Overstuffed. Well-upholstered. As out of date as Grannie’s comfy armchair next to a sleek Danish modern settee.
And who cared if the Danish modern settee was hard, unyielding and damned uncomfortable — it was thin and sleek.
The funny thing is, after the initial pain, I accepted her assessment. And it didn’t matter afterwards what anyone else said. I never again believed I was pretty. Certainly not even close to beautiful. Not even on my wedding day.
Sad.
Today, I understand what she meant. My mother whom I adored and thought was beautiful, had never been considered pretty. I also understand as well, someone told her the same thing she told me.
And she’d also been taught “pretty” was fleeting and superficial — that character would win out when the lines and wrinkles started to appear.
I get it now — not so much, then.
Then, to make things worse, I found out I was smart. Strike three. Glasses, not pretty and smart. Kiss. Of. Death.
Once I escaped junior high, I met a few other glasses-wearing nerd-girls. We hung together and trashed anyone who was dating — because we weren’t.
We were the “nice kids” who volunteered at the cafeteria, managed the chess club and took on the extra-curricular assignments no-one else wanted. But we did get some attention from our schoolmates. Especially when they needed help with their homework.
I ghost-wrote a few college papers for girls whose social calendars were too full for study. Funny how long it hangs on, hey?
As an adult, working in retail, I was ripe for the picking. Just butter me up nicely and I’d help out with any nasty old chores you’re to busy to finish or too high and mighty to be bothered with.
I was an office mate’s dream. Clean up the coffee room — no problem. Happy to help. Have to rush home and feed the kids? No worries, I’ll finish photocopying your presentation. Hot date mid-week? Don’t give it a second thought. I’ll open up for you tomorrow. Cover extra shifts, trade days-off?
The list was friggin’ endless. And any attempts to beg off would draw down petulant scowls and two or three days of cold-shoulder. But I was convinced I needed the job — any job.
Finally tired of bending over backwards to please and appease — and getting screwed over for my trouble — I left. It was the best job-move I ever made. And even though it’s hard not to fall back on old habits, I’m learning to take better care of my needs.
And guess what? All those things I was led to believe were selfish? They’re not. Surprise.
I am allowed time to myself. Quiet me-time. I am allowed to not call people or check in on FB just because I’m expected to every damn day. I am allowed to write about whatever I damned-well-please — whether it’s a short story or an in-depth piece on the relative merits of hand-dyed hemp for waffle-weaving.
Or something equally as ridiculous.
I’m allowed to use the occasional cuss-word and say things that scare men — well, not real men, only the sexist ones. Vagina — there. Boo! Be very afraid.
I am Woman, hear me roar.
Gone are the days when we need our husbands or partners to sign for us so we can open our own bank account for money we earn. Or when our man must sign a consent form so we can undergo a “feminine” medical procedure.
I don’t need anyone’s permission to check in with myself. To see how I feel. To decide if I want to. I am allowed to do all these things because I give me permission to do them. No-one else. Just me. I can be my own damn hero.
Question: How many people-pleasers does it take to change a lightbulb.
Answer: Are you kidding me? Only two, but they’ll never change it — they’re too busy trying to figure out what kind of lightbulb the other one wants to use.
Don’t let that be you!
I Can Only Please One Person Today
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