I had a crush on a guy in my high school band. We hung out for a few months but then he fell hard for Danette. She was adorable and very flexible. She used to stretch at lunch.
I remember once she sat down on the lawn and leaned forward with her legs wide apart and touched her head to the ground between her legs, and I thought, does she have a missing bone or something? Are people even supposed to be able to do that?
Danette also played the flute, so in addition to the hour of orchestra they shared every day, she and my crush spent a lot of time together in after school band practice.
Anyway, he liked her, and who could blame him?
Still, I kept asking myself if it would have been different if I’d been in the band. Would additional hours of forced togetherness every week have given me the edge? Should I ask him to be my physics partner again next semester and try to win him back?
No. He liked her more. That was all there was to it. Okay, fine. Let’s move on.
But wait--What was it was about her that made him like her more? What did she have that I didn’t have?
The problem with comparing ourselves to others--whether it’s how they look, what they have or who they date--is that one of two things always follows:
1) You get a false sense of superiority, or
2) You get a false sense of inferiority.
Neither of the above is helpful. There will always be people who are better looking than you, smarter than you, more charming, more talented. Likewise, there will always be people not as smart, charming or talented.
Growing up, my sister Heidi was blonde. I was not. She also had blue eyes (mine are hazel), was quiet (compared to me that would probably be true of anyone).
Everyone loved Heidi. I was challenging.
Every Christmas when I asked for something, my parents bought it for Heidi. True story. Even Heidi will admit it now.
I also got blamed for all the crap she pulled. (Using a hole punch to create decorative patterns in the bathroom curtain comes to mind. There was more, but my mom will probably read this, so we’ll stop there.)
When she finally came clean (we were both in our 40s by then) instead of apologizing to me for blaming me all those years, my parents gave Heidi a pat on the back for finally telling the truth. We both got a chuckle out of that. But by then I’d grown up, and I no longer felt compelled to assess my worth based on how my parents treated my sister.
I no longer resented her for getting those white go-go boots with the tassels that I had repeatedly asked for, while I got flat suede boots with fringe on the top and thigh high fishnets that made me look like a second-grade ho. (I was expected to wear my new boots to school so the humiliation was compounded by the fact that I didn’t have any way to keep the fishnets up. I was constantly lifting my skirt to yank on them--exposing more of myself than was comfortable or appropriate.)
Likewise, I am no longer angry about the fact that they gave her the Scarlett O’Hara storybook doll for Christmas even though I was the one who read the entire book Gone with the Wind twice, back-to-back.
(I was in love with Rhett Butler and wanted to be Scarlett O’Hara--I had not studied the Civil War in school yet, so I had no idea how I’d feel about it just two years later when I learned about Harriet Tubman, Frederick Douglass, and the Underground Railroad).
My Christmas gift that year was the Thailand storybook doll. My doll did not resemble Vivian Leigh, with her miniscule waist and beautiful hoop skirt, my doll was dressed like I Dream of Jeannie, wore baggy pants, a skimpy top and pointy shoes—and where the bleep was Thailand, anyway?)
What I’ve come to realize is that my parents’ behavior wasn’t about me, it was about them. That’s when I had this epiphany: I couldn’t change what they did, but I could change how I thought about it.
I would never be like Heidi. But that was okay. I wasn’t supposed to be like her. My parents didn’t mean to upset me. They just wanted to make Heidi happy, so they gave the best gift to their oldest child. It was really that simple.
Ironically, it was my sister who first said to me “Comparisons are odious.” I have thought about that a lot in my decades of adult life. She is right. At some point during my childhood, I stopped wishing I was different and began finding my own way as me--not someone trying to be someone else.
When you get older, you notice that everybody who is comfortable in their own skin is beautiful.
It isn’t about physicality. There is no right way to be or look. But there is something undeniably attractive about people who know who they are and don’t pretend to be anything else. These are not people who waste time wishing they looked like someone else or had more money or talent than they do. They focus on being the best version of themselves.
How you do that is up to you but accepting yourself and being grateful for what you have is a good place to start. Antoine de Saint-Exupery said something like “The only sin is not being yourself.” I think he’s right.
No one can show you how to be yourself, that’s a private journey you must take on your own. If you want to get there, look in the mirror by all means, self-awareness is a beautiful thing.
But please stop comparing yourself to others. It isn’t helpful and it will only slow you down.