As a woman, I wear a lot of armor. Makeup is my armor, against my physical imperfections that I wish for no one to see. My hair is my armor, something to draw people’s attention to, and away from other things. Clothing is my armor, covering up bad spots and accentuating good spots. Hell, even my designer purses and expensive shoes are my armor, projecting a sense of confidence, when underneath, I’m mostly uncertain.
But there are also less concrete forms of armor. My words, chosen carefully, can inspire those I love, or hurt those that I hate. My attitude, friendly but defensive when provoked, is designed to protect myself. I’ve never shied away from a tough situation, especially when I’m being attacked. I’ve never been afraid to defend myself when necessary. But all those little pieces that come together to form full metal armor, the ultimate protection, can fail me when I need it most.
I let it all escape me this weekend. It fell apart at the seams, publicly and tragically, right when I desperately needed to hold it all together. I found the chink in my armor, my vulnerable spot that, when pointed out, makes the whole design permanently flawed.
It doesn’t really matter what I do or say in a situation if the person attacking me knows my weak points. It renders me unable to defend myself, regardless of the amount of people watching and listening.
Yesterday, upon getting home from a rough night with some “friends”, I let the armor fall away. As B gathered our things, exhausted himself from all the animosity, I stayed behind in the car. He looked at me, searching my face to see if I was okay, but I broke down. Tears streamed down my face, faster than they have in a long time, and I urged him to go inside. “I just need a moment by myself,” I explained. I sat in my car alone, tired and restless and angry, and I just let myself cry. Here, no one could see me. I’d held it together longer than I thought I could, but now I just needed to fall apart. Once I’d gone inside and washed away the remnants of Saturdays makeup, and hoping against hope that it would also wash away the weakness, I moped around the house, unable to shake it off. I’m still not 100% yet.
You see, a girl that I know of, but don’t necessarily know insulted me to my face while we were at my friend’s house on Saturday night. Everything was going well. There were fun people there, everyone knew everyone else. We were among friends. It had been a long week for everyone involved, so we let our hair down and decided we’d have some fun. My girlfriend and I even got brave and took a shot of tequila for the first time in a while. I felt it rushing into my body, turning the heat on, and with it, bringing back “the old me”, if only for a little while. I was feeling confident, and I was ready to let loose. I’d slipped into smaller jeans that day, happy with the fact that I’m succeeding at my goal to lose weight. Friends that hadn’t seen me in a while commented on how great I’m doing, asking me “how much weight have you lost?” I smiled, grateful for their kind words, but proud of myself and replied, “25 pounds. Hard to believe.”
Then suddenly, the dynamic of the room changed. A girl came in who most of us know, but aren’t really friends with. People were confused — is she friends with the girl who is throwing the party, or is she just friends with people that are here? It didn’t matter, but we were curious. This girl brought with her an air of self-entitlement. It was practically as if a black cloud was over her head, following her around wherever she walked, and leaving a wake of total destruction in her path. But of all of the people that were there, she chose me to start in on.
About 3 hours into the party, after a couple of cocktails and shots, I found myself directly in her path. I’d avoided her the whole night — you could say it was woman’s intuition telling me to keep my distance. All of a sudden, from out of nowhere, she was yelling at me, telling me to “shut the fuck up.” Well, like I said earlier, I don’t usually shy away from the chance to defend myself, so I aptly responded, “what the fuck is YOUR problem? Where do you get off speaking to anyone, let alone me, that way?” From there, it was all downhill. I mostly thought it was funny. This girl, three years younger than me, who doesn’t know me from the next girl, had decided she was going to start shit with someone. And don’t you know, I guess I was the lucky one that night. But then, she went where most girls don’t go. She went to the place that women avoid, no matter how much you hate someone. She violated the Rules of Women and insulted my weight.
“I don’t know why you’re so fucking upset….I mean, is it because you’re fucking FAT?”
After that, it was all a blur. I remember my girlfriend jumping off her perch on the counter and getting directly in her face, taking the opportunity of a surprise attack in defense of me. I remember people yelling. I remember people staring at me and her in surprise. I remember feeling embarrassed and humiliated, yet unwilling to let her get to me. I remember B standing between me and her, screaming at her to “just go to hell.” I remember saying things, but I don’t remember what they were exactly. Mostly I just remember gathering my purse and coat, and walking outside to my car. I sat in the passenger side, turned the key, switched on the heat, and sat in disbelief. I picked up my cell phone and dialed a friend who I knew would answer her phone. I told her the story, stopping only to say, “Seriously, wtf? How do I get myself in these situations?” She calmed me down, told me I’d what anyone would expect - I defended myself. So what if I called her a stupid skank? It had been earned on her part.
It doesn’t matter what happened after that. Eventually, the girl left, after being asked and told repeatedly to do just that. Even when she left, she was still yelling at me, even though she looked like a ridiculous idiot for literally crashing a party, showing up somewhere uninvited and unwanted. It didn’t matter that I’d been drinking, because after that I stopped. It didn’t matter that at 4 am, when everyone was going to sleep, that I wasn’t tired. I laid there next to B, staring at the ceiling, willing myself to “just get over it.” It didn’t matter that she was practically a stranger. She’d found the chink in my armor, and she had exploited it.
So that’s where I was yesterday, emotionally. After finally getting home, I let myself fall apart. I let myself admit that it hurt and embarrassed me. I felt like an idiot for crying, and I didn’t understand why it had hit me so hard. But then, my best friend pointed it out.
“It’s enough to hurt anyone, especially a girl. But the reason it hurt you so bad is because you’ve worked so hard to get where you are now. You’ve lost 25 pounds and you look fantastic. You could have been a size 2 and she still would have called you fat because it’s easy.”
She is right of course. And even though the girl had pretty much violated the unspoken rule among women, she had exposed my insecurities. Screw her. She doesn’t even really know me enough to judge me. But she was able to find my Achilles Heel. And I hated her for it.
This weekend was more hurtful than I’d expected. I’d been expecting to be attacked by B’s sister-in-law, but instead, I was attacked by a girl who I know of, but who doesn’t know me. But it hurt worse. It was unexpected. And my armor failed me right when I needed it most.
