the constant comparison game

(This is a delayed post from Friday 10/30...after I wrote this post I sat in the Denver airport reading an excellent book for about 2 hours and missed my flight home to Wyoming for the Halloween weekend. At least I updated my blog though!)

I just saw a man, walking off a plane in front of me. and he was a friendly, unremarkable

short older gentleman. Walking behind him I thought to myself, what a short little man. And as we proceeded slowly up the jetway and into the airport , this being Denver, I could easily read the label on the back of his Levis. 550 33 30. The little, old man getting off the same flight as

me has the same inseam and waist as me (ok mostly 30 or 32, but there are days when I need those extra inches and go 33!).

I play this game often with other women on the street. Especially when I’m in New York. The constant comparison game. I’m just as tall as her, she’s just as blond as me, I’m not nearly as fat as she is, I’m so much fatter than she is. It’s a comforting game on balance. I like the active simile in my mind connecting me to all the other women I see. It can be a harsh exercise, especially in a city like L.A. where there seem to be an infinitely larger number of young women looking particularly fabulous. But most times, the game makes me feel good. It puts me solidly in the continuum of people in my world. Not too far outside the bounds, remarkable in some ways and unremarkable in others.

But the little, old many with my jeans size is different. The same things are there insofar as I can enjoy our shared experiences—both flying this particular route, both sharing these numbers of dressing. Feeling apart from this little, old man also make me feel good. I suddenly appreciate with a calmness the lovely things about being a young women. A young woman in love looking both forward and back on my life to a great stretch of time and people and events that are full of joy.

I’m sitting in the Denver airport now, waiting for a flight that will take me home for a quick weekend visit to my childhood home. I’m drinking a Budweiser with tomato juice, just like my father taught me, and I’m looking out across the bright blue Rocky Mountain sky. Staring out at the view makes my eyes spot in the brightness of the sun and the feeling of being in the vicinity of home makes me smile.

I am comfortable with my place in the continuum of people: beautiful and not, rushed and relaxed, young and old. I take my place in line and smile.