I had been sitting in our living room, in the corner near the window of our sprawling, charcoal grey sectional. The television was on, showing one sports game or another, but my attention was split between watching the plays, following the updated statistics on my phone and responding to T’s questions about outfit choices. She had shuttled back and forth between the full-length mirror in our bedroom and her clothes in the front closet a number of times – it didn’t occur to us until months after being in our new apartment that it made more sense to move the mirror closer to the actual clothes – as she got ready for a moms’ night out.
I gave the best input I could muster; it sounds cheesy, of course, but I really did think she looked terrific in everything. I followed her lead, though, and tried to join with her critical view of the way a blouse sat on her shoulders or the way a pair of pants was slightly too snug. I usually didn’t think the details she pointed out were cause for concern – an outfit had to be particularly egregious for me to have a problem with it – but, after twelve years or so (at that point), I had an idea of the way clothes needed to fit in order for T to feel comfortable. I usually knew what she was going to point out when she tried on clothes but I let her tell me how she felt first before offering my opinion.
T eventually came to her final decision, based on an outfit that fit better than any other, plus my persistence in assuring her that my comments about her beauty were authentic (which they were). She put the finishing touches on her makeup and came back to the bedroom to get her wallet. When she re-emerged, she stood in front of the doorway, shook out her wrists slightly and asked what I thought.
“You look great. Try not to pick up any hot guys tonight,” I answered.
“I’ll do my best,” she said with a laugh. Then she added, “Sorry I’m so crazy about this stuff.”
I put down the phone, paused the game and sat up straighter as I turned to face T more directly.
“You’re not crazy,” I began. “You care about your appearance. You’re going out with your friends and you want to look nice because they’re all going to look nice and you’re going to a place where people usually look nice. Plus, there’s a lot more pressure on you to look a certain way because you’re a woman.
“You’re not crazy and you definitely don’t have to apologize.”
T’s lips broke into a smile as she made another trip across the living room carpet to get her coat from the closet.
“You just reminded me of the nicest thing you ever said to me,” she said. She paused to put her coat on, glanced back at me and rolled her eyes at the blank expression on my face. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“I have some ideas,” I ventured, “but I’m pretty sure they’re all wrong.”
“It was in college,” she said, sparing me of having to come up with the answer on my own. “You told me that you were aware of the different judgments from society that affect women every day, especially regarding weight and body image. You said you didn’t envy me for having to deal with all of that extra pressure but that you wanted to help make it easier on me.
“Hearing that really meant a lot to me. I don’t know how many guys really get that part of what it means to be a woman.”
“Hey, I do remember saying that,” I said. T smirked, unconvinced, so I provided some additional details to prove that I had it.
T’s smile broadened.
“I believe you, you remember,” she said. “I have to go; I’ll see you later.”
“Okay, have fun. I love you. You look beautiful.”
“Love you too, thanks. And I promise not to pick up any guys, hot or otherwise.”
