Tug This.

Last week we had one of those all-company meetings on the second floor. When it was finished, I took the stairs back to the fourth floor along with a bunch of others. In this people-train, I ended up walking behind a group of three women I don't know on the way back to my desk. 

One woman was wearing a skirt. A skirt that was just a little too tight. 

How did I know? Because as she walked, it would scootch up a little with each step. 

She knew it was too tight. She was uncomfortable about it being too tight. Every few steps, she'd try to sort of nonchalantly tug it back town. When she got it tugged back down, she'd move from the skirt to her shirt. And she'd give her shirt a little tug around the middle, to pull it away from her body. 

By then, the skirt would be riding up a little and she'd go back to the skirt. Every once in a while, she'd look around a little to see if anyone was noticing. And then the whole process would start over again. 

Oh, how well I remember this motion. How well I remember that feeling. 

Every time I sat down in a conference room chair, my first movement would be to tug my shirt away from my midsection ... scared to death it got caught in an unflattering way on a lump or bump that would only call attention to a spot I didn't want anyone to notice. 

Video conference? Good God no. If I was lucky, I snagged a seat as far from the conference room's camera as possible. But regardless, I might as well have left the room because I spent the whole time trying to sneak looks at myself, looking for a position that made me look skinnier, not participating in the meeting as I should have been. And of course, I was tugging at my shirt with each shift in my chair.

It was just uncomfortable. I was uncomfortable. All the time. Physically uncomfortable in a skin that was too tight and clothes that required constant adjustment. Emotionally uncomfortable because I was afraid people would make judgements about the me they were interpreting from the outside. She's fat. She's lazy. She's stupid. She's unworthy of ... love, respect, blah, blah, blah. 

Ridiculous, huh? 

I hated feeling uncomfortable all the time. I hated that tugging. 

I don't have to tug anymore. 

Every once in a while, I catch myself starting a "reflex" tug. It's in response to the phantom uncomfortable I can't quite shake yet ... like the phantom pain of a missing leg. 

But they're getting fewer and further in between.