Are Those Girls Laughing At Me?

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There was a time, many years ago, when I had a particularly severe struggle with insecurities, it was likely related to a recent romantic rejection and this mess of anxieties being part of the aftermath.  I had walked into a youth volleyball event and, observed, a couple of girls across the room laughing. 

I had known how cruel young women could be about guys who didn’t meet their standards, overheard their giggles and comments related to that slightly awkward and unfashionable older guy who was the constant butt of their jokes.  So my fears of this sort of ridicule were not entirely unfounded.

But, after a quick self-assessment, making sure I wasn’t wearing my underwear on the outside or anything too obviously wrong, I did my best to ignore that nagging voice and find another explanation.  They could have been laughing about anything, there was absolutely no reason to conclude it related to me and yet the unpleasant knot remained in my stomach.

Had I run with this conclusion, based upon my hallucination of their reason for laughing and not reality, this incident would be added to my existing grievance with the female gender.  I was already aware that many girls have a 5′-10″ cutoff for guys they will date, the guy that did end up dating the one I had asked was a six-footer, it could be that they were laughing at my expense?

However, had I went with that, even if I didn’t match across the room and command them, “do better!”  Something that most definitely would have branded me as a weirdo even if they were guilty and did apologize.  Even if I had simply allowed my own explanation of their actions to metastasize, it would be the root of a very toxic attitude which would further marginalize me.

My initial interpretation, born of my anxieties, not their laughter across the room, was the real problem.  Even if we banned all laughter or every snickering teenager girl were reprimanded for their feeding of male insecurities, had a plan been devised to force all girls to date short men as reparations for discrimination and height privilege be excoriated by leaders, the actual issue would never be solved.

No, I’m not saying that genuine acceptance doesn’t go a long way towards healing old wounds.  Becoming part of the Orthodox world, where I didn’t have a reputation to proceed (and limit) me, where it was possible to talk to the opposite gender comfortably, did certainly help.  And there’s no denying that my being in a relationship has lowered the stakes and helped me to relax around other women.

Still, all that only happened once I stopped caring what other people thought and subsequently became comfortable in my own skin.  Today, unless it was a really bad day, I would be more likely to laugh with those laughing and then ask them what they were laughing about.  Slinking around, making accusations, might gain you a following on social media and earn the meaningless sympathies of those only hearing one side.  But it will do nothing to improve self-image.

Painful as it was, I’m glad that things didn’t work out for me because someone swooped in for the rescue.  Had this happened I may never have found my internal spiritual footing and, after briefly appreciating the charitable effort, remained as lacking in confidence.  Pity the woman who marries a man looking for her to bolster his self-image and mend his brokenness, that relationship is probably going to be hell in a few years.

My physical stature hasn’t changed since my days of paralyzing approach anxieties and there remains plenty of reason that one may laugh in my direction.  But my life improved vastly when those voices of self-pity and doubt were muted.  At this point it would not matter if those girls had been truly laughing at me, I wouldn’t take them so seriously anymore. I’m a different man.

When Words Fail and Love Prevails

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I forget the exact circumstances.  I do, however, remember the feeling of humiliation and embarrassment. 

I had made a crossword puzzle for my 5th grade classmates.  I was moderately proud of my creation and, as copies were distributed to my peers, ready to savor the accomplishment.

But, I did not expect what came next…

 As the class began to solve the puzzle there started a bit of a ruckus.  There was laughter and an absurd allegation that I had misspelled one of my words.

Impossible! 

I thought as my face flushed. 

How could I have made a mistake so basic? 

They had to be wrong…

But, as I examined the evidence, my initial denial was soon replaced by dismay, and my heart sank weighted down by the reality: I had misspelled a word. The entire puzzle was irreconcilable for those who knew correct spelling and I was an imbecile.

It was something awful.  My lack of proper editing (still a weakness) had made me a laughingstock and I was absolutely devastated.  I wanted to crawl under a rock to get away from the cackling in the room.  But there was no escape and no recourse.

What I had hoped to be a moment of satisfaction was now a nightmarish reality of abject failure.  I couldn’t hold it in.  Emotions overcame me in the study hall period after and I began to cry.

Mr Berger, the shop teacher, was my comfort that day as I sobbed my pain and disappointment.  I’m not sure if he said much, but I know that I felt his empathy and understanding. 

My terrible mistake probably mattered very little to him.  The condemnation and ridicule faded in importance. His love remained.