self-esteem – Rebecca Jeffries

Date Night

Sitting in a romantically lit cafe during a long-awaited evening out with my husband, it happened. We talked easily, sipped our wine and waited for our dinner. My handsome, effortlessly thin husband ordered Mediterranean lettuce wraps. I ordered a cheeseburger. The waiter (someone different than the one who took our order) swooped over and.. you guessed it… set the lettuce wraps down in front of me and gave my cheeseburger to Thinny McThin.

I’m not that sensitive about my weight. Really, I’m not. I live somewhere between wanting to drop about 30 pounds and trying to learn to be happy and at peace at whatever weight I am, since I know being thin isn’t the key to happiness. Yeah, I’d like to be a couple sizes smaller, but I also know that there are pretty features about me. My husband loves me, and I know that constant obsessing about my weight doesn’t make me sexy to him. You can’t be married to a chef and be shy about enjoying food. They aren’t really into that. Plus, there’s sugar. And I ain’t talkin’ about the kind you give your Granny on the cheek. I can’t give up hope that there’s a way to be healthy without totally sacrificing bread, cookies, and cake.

At the end of a long, emotional week, the cheeseburger thing just rubbed me wrong. I know that magazine covers are airbrushed, that stretch marks can’t be erased, and that a woman’s weight and shape don’t define her value. I really wish the rest of society knew it too. There are still enough smart remarks, fat jokes, and judgemental looks out there to make a girl feel like a less-than because of her weight… especially in a weak moment. I couldn’t help rolling my eyes at the waiter’s assumption that the fat girl needed the lettuce wraps. Couldn’t help feeling a little embarrassed at his quizzical expression as my husband corrected him and handed the cheeseburger over to me. Couldn’t help wondering if the guy walked away shaking his head at why a handsome, thin guy would be with a Mrs. Sprat like me. Depressing, huh? I know. AND a little crazy. AND I totally projected my feelings onto the poor, unsuspecting, stereotyping waiter. It was enough to ruin a perfectly good first-date-night-in-a-long-time with grumpy sighs and over-obsessing defensiveness.

When I was a little girl, my mom and dad used to sing a song about how God made me special. They believed that, and still do. I do, too. Most of the time.

The cheeseburger was great, by the way. I ate about half and took the rest home, a normal part of my attempt to practice balance and moderation every day. My head’s still held high, and I know I’m loved. My shape’s not perfect but it’s me, and no one else can be my husband’s wife, my kids’ mom, my parents’ daughter better than I. There’s so much more to life than bodyweight and so much more to me than my physical appearance.

I’ve recovered from my temporary insanity and remembered that other people don’t get to dictate whether I enjoy my life. I shall continue to laugh, love, and eat sugar.

Lettuce is nice. Thanks for the gesture. But stereotypes just don’t fit me right. I’ll have the cheeseburger.

Jan Karon, in her novel Out to Caanan, tells of a hurricane that hit the small town of Mitford.

“At the edge of the village, Old Man Mueller sat in his kitchen, trying to repair the mantel clock his wife asked him to fix several years before her death. He happened to glance out the window in time to see his ancient barn collapse to the ground. He noted that it swayed slightly before it fell, and when it fell, it went fast. ‘Hot ding!’ he muttered aloud, glad to be spared the aggravation of taking it down himself. ‘Now,’ he said to the furious roar outside, ‘if you’d stack th’ boards I’d be much obliged.'”

A few days ago, someone I counted a friend said some unkind and severe criticisms about me and to me. You see, I have this “thing” this NEED for people to like me. So much of the time, my need to please and my inability to say “no” gets me an overloaded schedule and an overburdened heart. Pair this with my unrealistic expectations of perfection and I’ve got a formula for a pretty severe emotional thunderstorm.

Situations like these tend to bring out those old thoughts, reopen old emotional wounds for me. “You’ll never be good enough.” “No matter how hard you try, it never works, so why keep going?” Sound familiar to anyone? I hope not, but just in case it does, here’s what has occurred in my heart:

I have a forever Friend. His name is Jesus. He’s been there since the beginning, seen it all, knows the deepest darkest. He has invited me to hide under His wings, in His shadow, inside His fortress. From there, He can tell me what is true. He can gently and lovingly show me pieces of myself that need repair work. He can remind me how steady and sure His love is for me, and that no matter what anyone thinks of me, He and I know who I am. It’s like He and I can sit in the kitchen like Old Man Mueller, watching the storm’s damaging attempts outside, and be able to appreciate and smile at the good brought about by challenges and difficulties in life.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you that this realization has come after my husband got to witness not one, but two emotional fall-aparts. He got to hear plenty of the old disgusting ideas that seep like infection out of my old emotional wounds before I’ve finally decided to take this situation to the “kitchen table” with Jesus. Sometimes running to God isn’t always my first reaction. Sometimes it’s my last resort, but it ALWAYS is the right solution.

Yeah, so maybe I had a little hurricane come through. Maybe it knocked over a thing or two for me. But I know who I am. I’ve examined my heart and it’s right with the One who matters. So thanks, little storm. And if you’d stack th’ boards I’d be much obliged.

Tag Archives: self-esteem

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