November | 2014 | Let's Be Frank

I mentioned before that dancing is one of my all-time favourite things to do, and yet I rarely actually do it. Can you simply forget to do something you like? It seems so as I don’t think I’m the only one to be suddenly surprised by the thought “I used to love doing that!”

But one of the reasons I don’t do it much is because clubs and parties are the natural habitat of dancers, neither of which I enjoy. I used to dance more when I was living in the Maldives because, well, there wasn’t a great deal else to do in terms of a social life. Except crab racing. Dancing on sand doesn’t really get easier.

It’s taken me a long time to become okay with the fact that I don’t like to party: what sort of person doesn’t, after all? It has always felt a little shameful and as if there was something wrong with me, making me feel even more insecure and even less likely to party. One of my favourite things about getting older is not feeling the need to pretend any more. In my thirties I still felt like I should be enjoying these things; in my forties I’ve made peace with the fact that it’s more important to be honest about who I am. Even if that’s a weirdo who doesn’t see the point of partying. As it turns out, quite a few people feel like me, even Johnny Depp.

This year of living authentically has been about shedding layers of pretence, which has included learning to embrace my inner square-ness. I’m the only one I need to impress and I no longer care how cool I am. Ironically, on the rare occasions when I do venture out to party, this attitude means I enjoy it more. And I do like an excuse to dress up.

In the meantime, I need to remember I really don’t need an excuse to dance, except for the love of it. I can do it in my kitchen or even in a queue (a la Full Monty) if the mood takes me. Who cares? Any time, any place, anywhere, simply for the pleasure of shaking my ass!

Talking with one of my close friends yesterday, she told me about a recent night out with a group of girlfriends. What should have been a wonderful evening was, for her, marred by the main topic of conversation: body image. Not a constructive debate about media pressure and the like, just ten women sitting around a table bemoaning what they see in the mirror and discussing how fat they are. This went on and on, and from her point of view was made more frustrating by the fact that the woman driving the conversation was tall and slim.

Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we waste so much of our precious time and energy worrying about this shit (my previous blog Underneath It All). Even when we’re smart enough to know better, we still let these insecurities drive us, drain away our potential for enjoying life to the full. It’s like a constant, annoying background hum – the accompanying soundtrack to our lives. As my friend pointed out that evening, we judge ourselves harshest of all: when we look in the mirror we focus on what we don’t like, when we look at others we take in the whole picture. And the list of potential defects to focus on grows longer as the social dictates of what constitutes beauty becomes ever more narrow and unattainable.

The support and bond of female friendship is something to be treasured, yet we fall prey to the demon Comparison. Other women damage our self-esteem. If we weren’t comparing ourselves to media images and to each other, would we feel too fat or too skinny or too saggy? If we appreciated our bodies for the amazing instruments they are and shifted our focus to keeping them healthy, I’m sure we would be a much happier lot.

A male friend of mine summed it up well by saying “when a man walks into a bar, he scans the room looking at the women. When a woman walks into a bar, she scans the room looking at the women.” These days it’s rare for a woman to need a man to put a roof over her head or food on her table, so why do we feel the need to check out the competition in a way men don’t? We compare, we judge, we let that eat away at our self-esteem and our sense of female solidarity. Come on, ladies, we deserve better than this.

The truth is I have always been deeply insecure about my looks. And there is no doubt it has held me back. But when I look at (rare) photos of me ten or twenty years ago I would love to have that version of me back now. Yet I remember at the time hating what I saw in the mirror. And I know the me of ten years hence will feel the same way about this current version. So I’ve chosen to bow out, I’m not playing that game anymore. Instead of waiting for the perfect vision of hindsight, I am making an effort to appreciate the me I am now. And you know what it feels like? Relief.

Image found in the public domain