As we age, our physical bodies start rejecting us.  Whether it’s the belly revenge for the double-scoop ice cream cone after a soccer tournament or a back spasm from unloading a serving plate out of the dishwasher, it feels like a cruel joke that these once basic things feel so much more complicated.  We feel like strangers, navigating new bodily weaknesses in areas that were once so strong.

As I think about all this physical deterioration, I’m reminded of the complete flipside.  Over time, our mental, emotional and spiritual selves should be more faithful.  Whether it’s the damaging beliefs we hold, the romantic partners we’ve chosen or the hobbies we embrace, we start to recognize that we do also have remarkable control.  We don’t need to oppose ourselves so much.  Maturing should equal self-acceptance and wholeness.  

Part of my own growing process is remembering the times when I didn’t accept myself.  Lately I’m having many.  I see my own daughters growing up and I can’t help but examine my own coming of age, where I’ve been and where I hope to end up.

When I was a junior in high school I had a really good guy friend- let’s call him Mark.  Mark was tall with dark brown hair, striking blue eyes, a swimmer’s physique and a peculiar ability to have strong friendships with women. The women he chased were blonde, mysterious and not into him.  Me being raven-haired, self-disclosing and interested kept me in the friend zone.  Did I like Mark more than that?  Sure.  However he felt special enough just to be friends with.  The unrequited part wasn’t particularly relevant.

And Mark and I were very much good friends.  We’d talk on the phone all the time and take long drives gossiping about our friend group.  He helped me confront a male neighbor who was talking crap about me.  We discussed the girls that were never interested in him.  I made him laugh.  He was a year older than me so went to college before I did.  We talked a bit here and there and maybe even met up once or twice when he was home.  There was something about him being in college that made him even more attractive to me.  

A year later I started college.  I finally had my own space and unmonitored time on the internet (shoutout to older millennials).  Almost immediately Mark and I reconnected on AIM.  Our conversations changed course.  I’m not sure if it was the less-intimate communication medium, the boxed wine flowing in my dorm or the fact that Mark was being rejected by so many mysterious blonde co-eds, but there was new flirtatious energy between us.  When I told my mom about this, she fondly recalled the movie, “When Harry Met Sally, “ and I harbored a belief that this was the premise of our love story.  Mark seemed to feel the same, and planned to visit me at college on that Friday- a nearly 3-hour commute just to catch up.

Mark arrived at my freshman dormitory and his handsomeness made an impact as he glided to my room.  I felt proud.  He even brought a bottle of bright pink booze, Alize, which at the time I thought was fancy.  We drank the bottle pretty quickly and caught up.  However, this time his tone was different and our banter seemed forced.  I realized that this was him trying to flirt with me and then I had the stunning realization that THIS was why all the mysterious blondes didn’t like him.  His approach was awkward, fumbling and made me uncomfortable.  He didn’t need to try so hard. I liked him for who (I thought) he was.

Then to my surprise, Mark leaned in and started to kiss me.  It felt weird, but IT WAS MARK so I obliged.  Worse case scenario I knew the experience would make for a good short story.   Then, out of nowhere, he said he had to leave.  

And then he actually left.

I sat there dumbfounded.  What the heck actually happened? Rather than explore it more, I chugged the rest of the Alize.  I had told my girlfriends about my cute friend who was visiting, so I decided I’d come up with some sort of alternate story to spare myself the embarrassment.

For the most part, the whole situation made me feel ashamed.  Was I ugly? A bad kisser?  Generally unlovable beyond platonic? Mark and I talked spottily after that, but it was never the same.  Never in the history of my life was a friendship ruined by NOT hooking up. I didn’t spend much time mulling the whole thing over as I had more pressing boy issues at college to deal with.  However years later, an unexpected run-in would make me have to.

Around 6 years after college graduation I was living in Hoboken having the best quarter-life crisis imaginable.  I decided to go to a pop up Biergarten to meet up with some friends on the south side of town.  I walked towards a festive tent, ordered a gigantic beer that my arm could barely hold and people watched hoping my friends would arrive soon.  As I sipped, I made out a familiarly- framed man on my right.  It was Mark, bunched tightly together with a group of sporty looking twenty-somethings. Mark approached me, happy-looking but a bit jerkish-seeming as well.  He did the typical,

“Oh my gosh is it you?”

And I did the whole,

“Yes it is,” inserting my typical banter.

His other friends joined in the conversation, most likely positioning themselves to meet my friends who would arrive soon.  After our general discussion of  life basics, Mark asked, 

“When was the last time we saw each other?”

I paused, slowly remembering when that time was.  Oddly, I hadn’t thought of this right when I saw him.  I think the memory was too buried.  I didn’t want to answer, but he surely did.

“Oh I remember,” he smirked.  “I visited you at Rutgers.  We almost hooked up but I was SO NOT INTO IT!”

His friends laughed, almost as if they had already heard the story.  He laughed too.  My heart started pounding, and the scene around me went a bit dark and I felt my inner ears, my cheeks and my belly heat up.  It’s cinematic really, and it’s almost as if the moment has a taste.  It was now my turn to react.  

I’m sure you’re curious about what I said to address such a humiliating call-out.  For the purpose of suspense, I want you to guess which way I responded:

Option #1:
“Ah yes. Did you ever get your early onset ED checked out?”  

Or, more maturely, option #2:

“That’s a bit of an oversimplification and I’d prefer to discuss privately or not at all.”

OR, most immaturely, option #3:

“That’s how I felt when your dad came over last weekend.”

Sadly I didn’t respond in any of those ways.  You know what I said?

Nothing.  

Actually even worse than nothing.

I just laughed with them.  I dissociated into the melody of their laughs and fully gave into the self-mockery of the moment.  I stuck around long enough to have some more conversations that I can’t even remember.  I figured I had to stay for a bit so that when I did leave, it didn’t seem like I was offended.  When I did leave, I essentially kicked my own self in the ass on my way out.

And let me tell you-  I WAS offended. As I despondently walked home with a buzz from the german beer and the sting of humiliation, I couldn’t place exactly how I was feeling.  I ruminated on and off for a while about the interaction, and sometime after I was finally able to understand what I was feeling:

Betrayal.

And the betrayal wasn’t from Mark.  I had already lost confidence in his goodness all those years before. The betrayal I felt was towards myself.  Why did I myself be the butt of a joke?  Why did I let them feel like it was okay to air out a hook-up gone wrong from SIX YEARS BEFORE?  Why was I participating in my own group mocking session? Not only was I participating, I felt myself trying to normalize it for all of them.  I wanted to make it easy for them to make fun of me.

While youth is amazing because you’re so physically agile, it actually stinks because you are so deeply unwise.  Wisdom makes us courageous.  When Mark indicated how seemingly grotesque I was, I wanted to leave –but I froze.  I wanted to call Mark out for being crass and disgusting–but I giggled and fawned. I truly wanted to provide a competing narrative to the evening (though I wasn’t required to)–but I didn’t put up any fight.  It’s an act of bravery to be an intervening bystander.  It’s an act of self love to intervene on your own behalf, and at that age and stage of life I was simply not equipped to do so.

Sometimes I wonder why I’m remembering these stories from so long ago.  Maybe it’s my true self, rising from the rubble and reminding me that I’m so completely worthy.  I don’t want my daughters to feel like I did ever.  Most importantly, I’m too old to be so mean to myself.  Life is too short.

When processing these random memories, I wonder if I’ve changed at all.  At 42, I still find myself answering invasive questions I don’t want to, laughing off an ambiguous comment from a bitchy mom, or saying, ‘sorry,’ too quickly to repair a conflict with a loved one.  However, I catch myself sooner because it feels so bad to capitulate. And there’s no time limit on self respect.  I’ll confront someone who offended me after the fact.  I’ll tell a loved one that I’m feeling taken for granted when I feel strong enough.  I simply can’t allow for these micro-rejections to implode me from within.  I have to accept myself and I can no longer make it easier for anyone to do the opposite.

So the next time you pee a little when you laugh or  pull your neck from sneezing, I don’t want you to lose perspective.  Remember that there’s a total other part of you, one that improves as you age.  You are only becoming wiser now, and this is part of you that you have complete and utter control over. 

Embrace who you are, advocate for yourself, and tell all the Marks (at the time of offense if possible) that they’re assholes.