Chapter Fourteen
My nerves churn through my belly, set to extra high, and my forehead prickles with sweat beneath the blazing gymnasium lights.
It’s hard to know whether to chalk up this evening’s attendance to the change in topic or my allyship with the Cronies, but whatever the reason, we’ve got a full house.
Sadly, there are hardly any gentlemen in the mix—all genders would be better off learning to love themselves—but I’m not sure if they’re MIA due to the topic; the Cronies not having male connections; or if there are as few available men around here as they say.
Clusters of younger women are also scattered throughout, which I’m taking full credit for. I didn’t start small, I went huge, canvassing this neighborhood and the ones next to it, as well as posting on social media about our featured speaker.
Then I called up Claudia Caldwell, the journalist Jan turned away—the one who wouldn’t stop writing slam pieces on us—and invited her inside to see what we’re up to these days at Lakeview. I’m equally anxious and thrilled she’s taken me up on the offer.
“Welcome,” I say, scolding myself for the accompanying wince. While it’s a myth bears attack when they sense fear, these silver-haired devils absolutely did.
But I’ve put a ton of knowledge in my head on this subject, and there’s not a doubt in my mind that our guest speaker will be absolutely phenomenal.
All I’ve got to do is make it through the introduction and mini presentation I put together myself, no accompanying Images of Doom.
“Welcome to a night of rejecting societal beauty standards and learning to love and accept our bodies exactly as they are.”
At least I feel more on top of my game, my belief in the topic carrying me through, although I’d hardly call myself an expert. When it comes to self-talk, I tend to be pretty rough on me.
“It’s so incredible looking out at this audience and seeing so much wisdom and beauty,” I continue, regaining a sliver of my battered confidence. I’m the best at convincing others how amazing and gorgeous and perfect they are.
I grip the mic and pace off to the side of my first slide and ask what they notice about the pictures of diverse people from this century.
No one rushes to answer, and I don’t have any social life left to barter away for their participation. Since the reporter is also watching, the lack of participation squeezes like a vise.
The statistics are what keeps me forging ahead, even more motivating than my job. Not only do 91 percent of women report body image dissatisfaction, but it also leads to unhealthy habits, risky sexual behavior, chronic disease, and an overall worse quality of life.
It’s the giant snowball gathering speed and taking out so many of us before we even face the world, and combatting it starts within. I discuss objectification in the media, impossible beauty standards, and who profits and benefits from us hating our own bodies. “Little hint, it’s not us.”
A pair of grannies near the front loudly grouses they don’t “give a hoot” about any of this stuff. “Why’d they send in a millennial to tell us looks don’t matter?” one asks the other. “They don’t think anything matters until they’re mad about it.”
Now I am mad, and on several levels, the least of which being I am not a Millennial.
Not that it matters, except it does, so sayeth countless memes and diatribes that pit us all against each other.
Zoomers to Boomers, we know what’s wrong with every generation but ours.
There are so many ways to split us and pit us that distract from the overall wellbeing of every single person on this planet, particularly when it comes to women.
That’s why everything we love is dismissed as silly. Adorable and insignificant.
Self-centered.
Success really went to her head.
What a bitch.
That’s how quickly it goes from fun to pitchforks, but if I launch into that lecture, they’ll only use it as proof I’m whatever they’re claiming me to be while I throw up my hands and say “See? These boomers are fucking impossible.”
I know, because it’s what I’ve done for the past four weeks.
“This is a topic I’ve studied and practiced for a year”—although I haven’t done very well since the month before playoffs, when life had kicked into hyperdrive and I couldn’t keep up with anything—“and dismissing one another’s struggles is why we’re finding it so hard to work together.”
Half inspiration, half realization, I put a pin in that thought to ponder over later, as the pair of disruptive grannies have resumed their chatter.
The beats of my heart steadily increase, the fast throbs echoing through my limbs and at my temples. I hate having to call people out and request they be quiet. I’m far better at figuring out what to say and how from behind the scenes.
I inhale and exhale, assuring myself I can make it through anything for a couple of hours, save maybe a gunshot wound. Which yes, I have researched how to treat, as my intrusive thoughts often tiptoed into paranoia.
My lips part, and I grapple for a good hold on the podium, gripping the edge hard enough it digs into my palm and sharpens my resolve. You can do it. Speak firmly and with authority so everyone sees that tonight, you’re in control.
They’re the ones being rude, so it shouldn’t be such a struggle, but as I wet my dry lips to speak, there’s a clattering of chair legs and exaggerated clearing of several throats.
Grandma Helen and the gang glare until the rabble-rousers zip their lips, and I thank the universe I negotiated them onto my team.
Over the next ten minutes, I fly through the part of the seminar I prepared, with participation from the fairly rapt audience.
We discuss what a better body image would mean to them, as well as the people they love, run through a list of compliments based on personality traits and not physical attributes, and end with ways to be kinder to ourselves and improve our inner self-talk.
One last slide, and I’ll turn the rest of the evening over to our special guest—I just want to drive home that humans are so much more than our outer shells.
A significant number of our residents have additional health challenges and mobility limitations, and that hardly makes them or the shape they come in any less amazing.
To reduce incredibly talented, inherently emotional beings to their size and physical attributes is a tragedy, and shame on diet culture and the weight-loss industry for constantly doing that.
Nonna Sophia, who prides herself on being the same weight as in her thirties, frowns as though unable to accept what I’m saying.
I’m not surprised, as she places such high regard on looks and status, but she doesn’t dare contradict me aloud—probably so I’ll still live out an experience or regret or whatever on her behalf, which I’d do anyway.
I connect to Netflix and play a short clip from the Miss Americana documentary on Taylor Swift.
Even through the screen she manages to enliven a crowd who protests in their rocking chairs.
At the end of the clip discussing her eating disorder, the screen goes blank, and I gently shut my laptop.
“Whenever you’re criticizing your appearance or mistakes you’ve made or just failing to recognize your talent and worth, I want you to remember, in the great words of Taylor Swift, ‘We don’t do that anymore. ’”
There are a couple of snoozing or inattentive elderly individuals, and the chatty grannies up front have had arms crossed and scowls on their faces the entire time, so it’s not like I’ve won everybody over.
But the group of younger women who’ve been engaged since the beginning gives me a round of extremely scattered applause.
Greatly appreciated, but did I miss my intended demographic entirely?
No matter. Since we happen to have an expert their age in our very village, I’ve called in a favor. Or more of a quid pro quo, as I’ll definitely be paying for it later.
I lift the microphone closer to my lips and let my excitement shine through.
“I’m so honored to introduce you to this powerhouse of a woman who felt like a friend even before she moved next door to my grandmother.
” I pivot and beam at the wise owl spectacles, fabulous copper-toned curls, and familiar, infectious smile—she’s just got the best energy.
“Vonetta Harris-Wagner, founder of SoulEssence Elixir.”
Vonetta gets a full round of applause, the slumbering members of our audience jolting enough at the roar to join in, and I flash her an appreciative smile for doing something she so rarely does anymore—public speaking.
As self-assured and happy as she is since selling her company for an inordinate amount, I suspect she occasionally misses running her own business. It’s almost as though she no longer feels qualified now that she’s retired, when nothing could be further from the truth.
I swear I see a sparkle in her eye as I pass the microphone, that potent combination of passion and drive that also compels me to get out of bed and give my job my all.
“Vonetta! Omigod, hi! I’ve so been looking forward to meeting you.
” It comes from the middle row, and a person with bronze skin, angular features, and an androgynous sense of style pops to their feet and waves.
“To all the entrepreneurs who want to follow in your footsteps, what’s your biggest piece of advice? ”
Quickly pivoting on my heel, I say, “Oh, it’s not time for questions yet,” my voice small and ineffective without the microphone.
I’m more worried about it flustering Vonetta than anything, but proving she’s still razor sharp—as well as made for the stage—Vonetta doesn’t miss a beat.
“To be hungry when you’re starting, happy when your plate is full, and to know when it can’t hold any more.
For most of my life, I prioritized work over everything else, and I lost out on many life experiences, particularly in my mid-twenties and thirties. ”
Right when I’m wondering if that was directed at me, she takes a giant step backward and snags hold of my hand, so yes. Guess that’s what I get for not sitting down in time.
As I settle into a creaky folding chair off to the side of the stage, Vonetta launches into an impassioned speech on her original vision, the adversity she encountered along the way as a Black, female CEO in a male-dominated field, and how she kept believing and investing in herself when no one else would.
Claudia Caldwell from the Herald Sun is furiously scribbling notes, and I can see the two-page spread now.
About how much good the Lakeview residents do, not only within their community, but also in those around them.
Perhaps if I go over and do a little ego fluffing afterward, I could also plant the idea in her head of mentioning in her next article how many improvements we’ve made.
“So many people are afraid to fail,” Vonetta continues, “when it’s merely another steppingstone to success.
Recognition of your hard work is wonderful, and yes, financial security vastly improves a person’s quality of life, yet it’s not enough to satisfy the human condition.
” Vonetta clutches a hand to her bosom. “We think, we feel, we experience, we love—it’s wonderful. ”
Again, not how I’d describe this long con called adulthood, but shiny optimism seems to spread from person to person in the audience. I’m so thrilled Vonetta’s speech is inspiring the crowd that it gives me a contact-happy-high, which is honestly the closest I get to feeling relaxed.
Any knowledge the attendees take home is a win, and Vonetta’s confidence radiates from her and fills the room as she winds down her speech.
“Our bodies and souls are inextricably intertwined,” she continues, passion ringing through her voice, “and yet, we treat a fever without hesitation while continually neglecting the fire in our souls.”
Vonetta lets that statement hang in the air for an extra beat or two, and I find myself scooting to the edge of the chair, hungry for whatever advice she’s about to dole out.
“After five decades spent in the cutthroat, ever-changing business world, I’ve come to understand that true success is a constant interplay of yin and yang, work and play, action and rest.” Vonetta beams, her smile as luminescent as her dewy skin, and her confidence cranked to the next level.
“My challenge for all of you is to go home tonight, look at yourself in the mirror, and ask your body and your soul what they each want for you. Then honor both of them more often going forward.”
Vonetta slowly lowers the mic to her side and bobs her head, a mini bow of sorts, and there’s nothing scattered about the resounding applause she receives. She waves and blows kisses at the crowd, eating up the attention, and a tingly sense of accomplishment pumps through me.
Hope even crooks a finger and calls to me, my lofty goals suddenly not feeling so unattainable after all.
I stand and announce we have fifteen minutes for Q&A, pleasantly surprised when I catch movement from the corner of my eye—an arm has shot up. In even more miraculous news, one of the few men in attendance wants to ask a question.
He stands, and the corners of my mouth quiver and fall as I catch what’s emblazoned in white across his navy T-shirt. hand sanitizer, with a large arrow pointing down, directly at his crotch.
“Yeah, I’ve got a question,” he says, as I don’t think about the shirt, don’t think about the shirt, don’t think about the shirt. “Why won’t your friend Sophia go out with me anymore?”