Reading Toxicity Levels, or, How I Just Learned Not to Give a Toss!

An oldie... From my first love, www.myhumblepie.co.za... But a goodie!

I recently attended a wedding and came to the conclusion that there is a very interesting dynamic (mostly) for women in preparation for the Big Day.

Now it was my initial understanding that in such things, all eyes are on the bride and groom. But then it came to my attention that even I, the humble and unassuming guest, had to be suitably attired.

My boyfriend, on the special day, would be suited up to the nines as the best man, so no pressure. First, I was informed by my family (read: mother and aunt and grandmother) that flats were out of the question. Now, if you could take one look at my shoe shelf, you’d be sympathising. I came to terms with my brief and uneventful (read: barely noticeable) growth spurt a long time ago, and have never tried to overcompensate with heels.

I guess I just always figured I wouldn’t be fooling anybody.

Today, I look at women in fabulous cliffhangers the same way I did early-morning joggers on the leopard crawl home from a trance party in my youth: with a mixture of envy, shame and absolute abhorrence. The uninhibited mobility that some women pull off in heels is staggeringly impressive from my vantage point.

But then I never learnt to do cartwheels either.

(Sidebar to reader: This is not to say I am immune to shoes. I locked eyes only the other day with a pair of Vivienne Westwood’s in a ‘vintage’ shop in Franschoek… They made their coy advance… They whispered to me, ‘You don’t have to live like this.’ Then my bank balance spoke those simple and profound words, ‘You’re fine just as you are.’ My bank balance is perhaps the world’s most gifted motivational speaker.)

So what did I do?

Well, I scrounged in my cupboard and dusted off a dress that seemed the most appropriate, my most dressiest dress (and please don’t get the superlative police on me!).

I obtained a pair of Prada heels that did not put the fear of God into me from my incredibly stylish fashionista aunt.

All I needed now, I was told, was a pair of tots blinging earrings to pull the whole thing together.

But as the day grew closer, and the task of tackling the shopping mall to hunt for said earrings nearer at hand, something wasn’t sitting right.

I had to admit it.

I tried on my immaculately crafted outfit and decided that I looked like an impostor. I felt awkward and uncomfortable.

It just wasn’t, well, me.

So instead, on the day of the momentous occasion, out came my favourite dress passed down to me by my great grandmother (it just doesn’t get any more hipster, right?)…

And out came the pair of comfortable leather peep-toe wedges I’d found at the local animal welfare charity shop (and yes, in a town where, nope, it ain’t vintage; it’s just plain ol’ second hand).

The impulsive packer I am, I’d also forgotten my watch at home, so no jewellery either, ladies and gentleman.

(If I’m wrong, and a watch doesn’t qualify as jewellery, inform a sister.)

Anyway, loooooooong story short, here’s the funny thing…

I wasn’t covered in tar and feathers as I’d suspected I would be. In fact, I was complimented and even told that the dress brought out my eyes and made my tits look great (which they did).

I guess I don’t really need to point out the moral of the story, but I’m gonna take a moment to say,’ You go, girl!’

Now that the fun and festivities are all but a beautiful memory, I’ve been doing some thinking about this…

About the mild panic I had before leaving my changing room in the outfit of my choosing…

About the weeks I’d spent trying to pull something out the bag well beyond my usual fare…

And it all seemed to come back to a particular moment…

Something happened to me a few weeks back.

I’d been leaving the grocery shop wearing shorts and a V-neck blouse and a middle-aged man passing by had all but spat in my direction.

Apparently I was supposed to be ashamed of myself, as a woman, for walking around (to use his wonderful phrasing) ‘half-naked’.

I was pretty taken aback.

Not so much with what he’d said (same shit, different day), but the sheer disgust with which he’d said them.

And, around the same time, I had been growing increasingly frustrated with a friend on Facebook and his posts about what women (or girls) should and should not do with their own bodies, say, for instance, in matters of plucking their eyebrows to use one example. In the end though, maybe it’s poor form of me, but it doesn’t surprise me when this horseradish comes from men.

What has become increasingly more noticeable and of perhaps greater significance for me, is when it is directed at women by women.

And why I say of greater significance, is that I find these kinds of attacks from other women all the more insidious than the clumsy attempts made by misogynistic men.

I wondered, quite recently, why it is that women (and here read: Alpha Females) don’t seem to be particularly intimidated or bothered with me, when they so desperately feel the need to get their claws out with other females. I asked a very smart friend and her answer was this: I’m not naturally flirty. Fair play.

So let’s break this down then…

From the day puberty strikes as young girls, our finest asset becomes our youth and our beauty.

And if you don’t have that going for you, pot luck I’m afraid…

Time to earn your worth as a martyr and become like, the nicest person ever!

And we don’t see each other as fellow comrades, out to damn the man, quite literally…

Oh no, we’re co-conspirators for patriarchal vigilance or at worse, fierce competitors all vying to be noticed, to be The Most Desirable…

Cue Rachael Leigh Cook gliding down the staircase in She’s All That.

(Apologies, if you’re not an eighties baby, you may not catch that reference.)

Breathtaking, yeah?

But I’ll tell you what…

All of us will come to an age when we have neither youth nor beauty on our side… We all, no matter how we look, rot in dirt at the end of our days.

Age is inevitable and let Death Becomes Her be a lesson to all. But I get it. It’s a machine… The beauty industry… Ingrained stereotypes… Blah blah…

So what does little ol’ me do about it, right here and right now?

I do this…

I read your toxicity levels.

You may not realise I’m doing it.

I may have a smile on my face the whole time…

But if I am in the room when you tell another woman her nails (nails that look a certain way because she’s known a day of manual labour) are disgusting and you whip out a bottle of nail polish to cover them when I don’t believe I heard her ask you in the first place…

If you feel the need to lean over to me and whisper that someone really shouldn’t have their hair that ashy blonde because it makes their hair look dirty…

If you feel the need to post on your fashion blog that certain women (and I’m assuming all women who aren’t size 6 right?) really shouldn’t wear leggings…

Then your toxicity levels are raised pretty high on my scale, and I will make the quickest exit as soon as I’m physically able for fear that you might taint my world, my incredible, incredible world filled with so many inspirational people who leave me with nothing but heartfelt gratitude that they once came into being…

Your unkind words, your need to pass comment on the appearance of other women (no doubt egged on by that green-eyed monster) will not penetrate my world and its toxicity will not affect me or the people I love.

It’s really just that simple.

And I urge all women, to merrily walk away from it too.

If your experience is anything like mine, in time, without toxicity, you will discover the isness of you, unadulterated, spectacular, ebullient, a total force of nature to speak true.

Self Portrait as a Tehuana by Frida Kahlo