(submitted by Guest Contributor Mir from Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda)
(What's Underneath, Part 2)
There was a tradition in the theater program I attended (it may still be going on, I don't know) that freshmen put on a show at the end of the year for the rest of the department. The script is always an elaborate send-up of that first trial-by-fire year of training; equal parts exaggerated recreations of the more ridiculous exercises we were forced through, roasts of the faculty, and humorous pokes at our own fears and foibles from our baptism into this bizarre world. Our class gathered for an afternoon of script writing, talking and laughing and working out just what we felt best represented our experience.
"Oh!" I said at one point. "We should, like, have a girl walk across the stage practically naked in the middle of another scene. We'll all stop and ask her what the heck she's doing, and she'll say she's on her way to Boris' class!" This was met with whoops of affirmation; it was a perfect roast of Boris' expectation that the coeds couldn't wait to get naked for him.
"Who wants to do it?" asked our ringleader, pencil poised over our work in progress. Several hands shot into the air.
"Wait. I'll do it," I found myself saying. All heads swiveled in my direction. "I should do it," I continued, with resolve. "I'm the last person he'd expect. Let me do it." More whooping; I was right, because me doing it would be hilarious. Save for that first disastrous leg-shaving scene, I had never disrobed in Boris' class again. My status as the anti-glamour-girl was known throughout the department. It was perfect.
The night of the show, I wore jeans and a t-shirt, the same as my classmates. But underneath, I was wearing a plunging black lace bra I'd had to borrow from a friend (none of my bras were fancy) and black satin undies. I smoothed my unruly hair back into a chignon and ditched my glasses. The show got underway and we all ran back and forth, high-fiving each other between vignettes and having a fabulous time.
And then they started the scene I was due to interrupt. In the wings, I stripped off my clothes and stuffed them into my backpack, after pulling a tattered scene book out of it. I opened the book and hoisted the pack over my shoulder. I waited for my cue and reminded myself that laughter was the goal. One more deep breath and it was time.
I strolled into the heat of the stage lights, eyes fixed on the scene book, as if I was going over lines and oblivious to my surroundings. All activity on stage stopped, as we'd planned. But what happened next I was completely unprepared for: Rather than laughing, the audience was… whistling. Cat-calling. Guys who'd barely glanced my way all year were on their feet, hooting and applauding. When the roar quieted enough for my fellow students to ask me what I was doing, I looked up, feigning surprise, and delivered my line into the expectant stillness: "I'm on my way to Boris' class, obviously." I continued my trek to an eruption of appreciative laughter and a spontaneous standing ovation. More whistles and hoots ushered me offstage.
Back in the wings, my heart thudded in my chest as I scrambled to pull my clothes out of my pack and put them back on before I was due on stage again. What the heck had just happened out there? And why did I feel… giddy? I mean, sure, it was true that under my oversized shirts and ratty jeans I was actually sporting what I'd recently read in some magazine were "ideal" measurements, but so what? It's not like it mattered.
That night at the afterparty, Boris made a point of congratulating me on my risk-taking. I tried not to laugh. I'm not sure he would've noticed, anyway, as his eyes now seemed to have difficulty moving any higher than my nipples. More guys hit on me that night than had spoken to me the entire year. And a drunken (female) friend threw her arm around me and declared, "Oh my God, homely my ass! Who knew??" The thing is, I knew, I'd just decided to ignore it. And then in the space of 20 seconds on stage and the reactions it set off, I began to wonder if maybe—just maybe—it was possible to be smart and sexy.
Furthermore… maybe it was okay to want to be. Because… I liked it. A lot. I felt powerful. This was something totally different. Huh.
Do you remember a time you surprised the heck out of yourself by feeling unexpectedly proud of your body?
Check out Mir's amazing blog at www.wouldashoulda.com.
Awesome, Mir. Abso-friggin’-lutely awesome.
In answer to your question, Yes. And it was remarkably empowering. I was the homely girl in high school, but those college boys at Big State College didn’t seem to know that.
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This is awesome! What a great end to this story!
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You go girl. That was brave and ballsy and amazing! My unexpected proudness came after I birthed my first baby. Like, man! This kid grew inside me and came OUT of me and now I am feeding her with my body. That is so amazing and weird and wow.
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I totally had similar feelings, especially because we struggled with infertility and then I ended up being an industrial milk machine. Wooo, I make FOOD! Heh.
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That is AWESOME!
I bet a lot of people had that moment in college. I know I did. I was always the homely girl in high school: band geek, wicked dexter, brainiac. Frizzy hair, glasses, the whole thing. When I got to college boys LIKED me. Boys asked me out. I have to say, it made me feel like a new person.
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YOU ROCK! I felt somewhat PROUD of you and your bravery. I would have NEVER done that! This is just awesomeness in every sense of the word! PROUD!
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Woohoo, Mir! You’ve got a lot more courage than I do.
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Yes. Yes, I do. And I was an old lady of 37 at the time…
Picture it. The night of my new job’s Christmas party. I had bought a new outfit (LDB with red jacket) that I had tried on in the store with a devilish 5-year in tow. Meaning, I glanced at it quickly to ensure it fit in all the right places and hauled it off again before she demolished the place. Even if I had looked closely, I didn’t have the hairdo, etc. to really set it off, so I figured it was okay, it would do and bought it.
So, back to the night. In the manner of mothers of small children the world over, I had to get the kids ready for bed before I could get ready to go out and then, at top speed, I slapped on some make-up, did my hair and leapt into my clothes in a mad tear, never REALLY looking at myself at all. When I had all the bits and pieces in places, I walked past the mirror in my bedroom to get the jacket and… stopped dead in my tracks. Even by my own hyper-critical eye, I looked damned GOOD. I looked like the kind of well-dressed, dare I even say sophisticated, women I never, ever dreamt I’d be. I thought, “Huh! Who knew?” and went out into the living room where I asked my waiting husband, “Does this look okay?”
His response?
“Yeah. It’s fine. Let’s go.”
*sigh*
What? Oh yeah. We’re divorced now. The other men at the party, THEY appreciated it, though.
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Oh Dawn, I love that story. Especially the part about the divorce. (Kidding! But so glad you saw it, and others did too, even if your ex didn’t!)
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I loved the stories, but I have to say I was surprised by the ending. I expected the proud feelings to stem from showing the teacher that he was an inappropriate bastard, not from the audience’s appreciation of the student’s body. I’m sure it was a combination, but…
I went through an “ugly duckling” period, and was also empowered when I came out of it. I wish I had felt the same way about myself when I was not receiving attention for my looks, but I was not programmed that way.
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While I would’ve loved to stick it to the teacher, that’s… unfortunately not how real life often works out. If it were a made for TV movie I definitely would’ve, though.
For me, I’m not sure I’d ever felt truly sexy before that incident, and even though I found it very empowering to know that I could draw attention to myself that way, for the most part it didn’t change anything about how I conducted myself in the day-to-day. I still wore baggy clothes for quite a while (hey, it was the 80s, everyone did) and still had the glasses and there’s an argument to be made that it took me another 20 years to conquer my hair. What changed afterward was that I knew I could, and for me, that was enough for a while.
It may interest you to know that I ultimately decided not to pursue theater because of the politics involved. I didn’t want that to be a part of my day-to-day life, so I walked away.
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I’ve always been petite and athletic, but around 22 I suddenly realized that I liked my athletic figure, IBTC membership not withstanding! Upon that realization, I decided to get a tattoo. I still like the tattoo, fortunately, plus it helped bring to light the fact that my (ex) husband was a jerk who considered getting a tattoo a divorceable offense. Talk about someone who is hung up on appearances to the complete negation of character!
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Love the stories!
I’m glad you were so brave, and that it turned out to be such a powerful experience for you.
And yes, smart is sexy as hell!
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LOVE the story, Mir. Thanks for sharing! It’s not quite the same, but I will never forget the first time I thought I was beautiful, objectively. I was in high school and a bunch of us were skating on a frozen lake. A guy from the journalism club snapped a candid of me and gave it to me later. He was all, “Oh, it’s over-exposed…and the composition…and yadda yadda.” But I remember standing there holding the picture and thinking, “Wow. I’m really pretty!” And then, “Is THIS how people see me?” It totally shifted my perspective of myself as ugly-ducking outsider and made me feel all glowy.
Yeah, maybe we shouldn’t care if we’re homely or smoking hot or have a jiggly belly, but I think feeling glowy and pretty can’t be anything but good.
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I remember my 10-year high school reunion. Although I hadn’t been exactly plump, I’d lost my baby fat in the intervening 10-years and had moved to the “big city” and was much more sophisticated than I’d been during those days.
There was a guy that I’d had a crush on all four years of school, but he’d never given me the time of day – and on occasion he’d even teased me unkindly.
What a thrill it was to walk in and see his mouth drop open…
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Wow – you are really one of the most brave women I know….. this was an awesome story – thank you for sharing.
I know I’m not always proud of my body – want to lose those baby pounds… but then, I did a sprint triathalon. And with less training than I should’ve – I finished – I felt so proud of my body then. It was strong! (and the whole milk producing thing too – apparently I can feed a nation)
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I LOVED this story and the comments! In high school I was short, skinny (now, not so much…) had knobby knees, thick glasses, no boobs, and a horrible perm that almost fried off most of my hair. My junior year math teacher even sent me to the Principal’s office, because he didn’t believe I was old enough to be in his class. Needless to say, I HATED high school. Thank God I grew a bit (34D?) and went to college. Meeting new people and having a theatre major roommate saved me. I almost thought about going back to my 30 year reunion with my nice body in a LBD and figured it wasn’t worth $90! Now, if my 12 and 8 year olds didn’t think I was the meanest mom in the world, life would be good.
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