By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
This past week, I’ve been playing a dangerous game. I didn’t intend to join in, but somehow, I’ve been all in — and the effects have been deep, reaching into the core of who I am. I shouldn’t be playing this game at all, yet here I am, reaping the consequences of my participation. The game, of course, is comparison — and it’s treacherous.
My beloved brother has been visiting, and his company — along with the special experiences his visit has brought — has stirred something in me that I did not see coming. He’s treated my husband and I to moments we wouldn’t normally have: events filled with new faces, grand venues, and opportunities most people never encounter. These moments are thrilling, yes, but they’ve revealed more than I expected.
At these events — and others like them — there are endless chances to see and be seen. Now, before any assumptions are made, let me clarify: being seen is the very last thing I desire. I like to look nice, as most people do, but I find the idea of drawing attention to myself about as appealing as eating off the floor of a pigpen. I’m already self-conscious enough, convinced that everyone who looks my way does so with disdain (thank you, ridiculous brain). So, it’s not the being seen that lingers — it’s the seeing.
I do enjoy people-watching, and recent crowds have given me ample opportunity. But I’ve learned that standing in the background, quietly observing, carries its own cost. I mostly find myself watching other women. The college girls, with their youthful flair, I can dismiss as their own separate species. It’s the women near my age — or a bit on either side — that I study like an overly attentive hawk. And that’s where the slippery slope of comparison begins.
I see women whose every accessory bears a designer logo, whose tailgates look like they were curated by Southern Living. I tell myself I’m just observing — until I realize I’m measuring my life against theirs.
Should I really be comparing myself to women I don’t know from Adam’s housecat? Should I compare myself to anyone at all? Recently, I found myself beside one such woman — “Miss Designer Shoes and Shades” — whose game-day spread belonged in a magazine for the old-money elite. I am not that woman. And yet, standing next to her, I felt myself shrink. I don’t have the designer accessories. I’m average in every sense of the word — and I’ve always been fine with that. But in that moment, I cowered and felt so much less than.
That’s not okay. And I’m saying that as much to myself as anyone else. I have no business comparing myself to another soul — especially someone I know nothing about. She may have her designer whatnots — good for her. But is she kind? Is she welcoming? Does she make others feel at ease? I can answer at least that last question. No, she doesn’t. When my daughter — bless her, looking like a penguin in the Sahara — stared longingly at this woman’s extravagant food, it took her an absurdly long time to offer us any of her abundance. Friendly? Hardly. Hospitable? Not a bit. Maybe I’m being dramatic — it’s been known to happen — but if I can look you in the eye and feel like an intrusion, that doesn’t exactly scream “warm and gracious.”
I don’t need to compare myself to others. I was never meant to be them. I was created to be me — and called to be known by my love for others. As long as I’m kind, hospitable, and caring to those around me, I’m living into that calling. Whether I do it wearing Gucci or Goodwill couldn’t possibly matter less.
Prose and Possibilities 