What a ridiculous conversation! Most people would have forgotten about a conversation like that by now, but it keeps haunting me years later because the whole time I was mocking Schmina and her hairy toes, I was totally shaving my own! To this day, hand to God, whenever I look down at my big toe and see that it’s looking a little shaggy, I think about what a jerk my teenage self was.
Rach flaw number one? Hairy digits.
Rach flaw number two? Hypocrisy.
A story about hairy toes, a girl named Schmina, and the adolescent angst I really should have worked through with a licensed therapist years ago may seem like the most frivolous topic ever. But then, I daresay that tearing down other women is usually based on something no less frivolous than the insecurities of our fourteen-year-old selves.
Why do we do it, ladies? Why do we gossip? Why do we rag on each other? Why do we say hello on Sunday mornings with the same tongues we use to lash others behind their backs a few days later? Does it make us feel better about ourselves? Does it make us feel safer to mock someone who has stepped outside of the parameters we deem acceptable? If we can point out their flaws, does doing so diminish our own?
Of course it doesn’t. In fact, the stones we most often try and fling at others are the ones that have been thrown at us.
Have you ever shaved your toes?
And what I really mean by that is, have you ever made fun of someone else? Have you ever pointed your finger in their direction and ignored the three other fingers on your hand pointing back at you? We’ve all been there, but that doesn’t make it okay. Bringing others down won’t elevate you. Recognizing that all words have power—even the ones whispered behind someone’s back—is how you adjust your behavior.
A few weeks ago there was a woman on my plane from LA to Chicago. She and her husband were traveling with two boys, the youngest of whom was about four. He was also the worst-behaved child I’ve ever seen. Before we’d even pulled back from the gate, he was screaming—and I don’t mean a whine or a protest. I mean screaming bloody murder about having to sit in a seat when he wanted to run around. His mother had to forcibly hold him in the chair for at least half an hour while he hollered to be released. Everyone on the plane, myself included, was miserable until he stopped. But a little while later, when I got up to go to the restroom, I saw why he’d finally quieted: he’d been given a big bag of gummy worms to happily eat his way through.
Friends, I will be honest with you. I was disgusted.
First of all, as a strict parent who was raised by strict parents, listening to him screaming, I thought, Oh, heck no! All through takeoff I was thinking about his mom. I was thinking about how she needed to discipline him better, have boundaries, get support from her spouse. And when I saw that she’d rewarded his bad behavior? And with sugar? Keep me near the cross, Lord Jesus! I kept thinking, This woman doesn’t have a clue.
Later at the baggage claim, I saw the family again. The four-year-old was wild—jumping up on a stopped luggage belt, hitting his brother, and running around in circles while everyone stared. What is wrong with his mother? I kept thinking, Why doesn’t she get a handle on him?!
Then I saw her standing next to the luggage carousel . . . utterly exhausted. When I really looked at her, I saw she was near tears, looking bewildered and totally overwhelmed. Her husband wore the same shell-shocked expression as their son ran in circles around them.
And a gentle voice reminded me, Rachel, you don’t know their story.
I was so humbled in my ignorance. Maybe this little boy had special needs that made it hard for him to control his impulses. Maybe this little boy was a new adoptive child who had struggled in foster homes for most of his young life—something I should be graceful about, given what we’ve been through. Maybe this little boy was just badly behaved and his parents were struggling to discipline him because their older son had been easy to manage at this age. Whatever the reason, I will never know—because instead of asking or offering the benefit of the doubt, I cast my judgment on her before I even asked myself why things might be this way.
Women judging other women. It’s been on my heart for a while. It’s something I’ve tried to wrap my brain around fully so I could put it into words. I see it all around me in so many different ways, and that poor, tired mama on the flight to Chicago reminded me of what I want to say.
What I want to say is that we all judge each other, but even though we all do it, that’s not an excuse. Judging is still one of the most hurtful, spiteful impulses we own, and our judgments keep us from building a stronger tribe . . . or from having a tribe in the first place. Our judgment prohibits us from beautiful, life-affirming friendships. Our judgment keeps us from connecting in deeper, richer ways because we’re too stuck on the surface-level assumptions we’ve made.
Ladies, our judging has to stop.
So does our compulsion to compete with everyone around us.
Let me give an example of that too. When I heard that some of my girlfriends were going to run the Nike Women’s Half Marathon in San Francisco, I was excited. For some of them, it was their first race. I was also overjoyed because it would involve a weekend trip somewhere. I promptly invited myself along for the ride. The plan was for us to leave on Friday, drive the five-ish hours between LA and SF, hang out in town on Saturday, then run the race and drive home on Sunday. Wait. Scratch that. They would run the race . . . I would stand on the side of the road and clap for them while they jogged by. This felt especially interesting because I am a runner . . . and more than that, I am competitive about running. I like to challenge myself. I like to try bigger and better races. I like to beat my personal record and push myself to be the best. What I do not like—what I had never actually done—is cheering for others while they do something I am fully capable of doing right along with them. I kept thinking, What if I didn’t need to prove myself in this situation? What if making myself into someone better has more to do with my willingness to be of service than my willingness to compete?
So I went to San Francisco. In fact, I drove everyone to San Francisco because I figured the last thing I’d want if I were about to run thirteen miles would be to drive four hundred miles.
It’s worth saying that while I did all of this and had so much stinking fun with the ladies, I didn’t always have a good attitude about my willingness to be a cheerleader. On Sunday morning when everyone headed out bright and early to the starting line, I got myself together and headed in the other direction, to the five-mile marker. About twenty minutes into my journey, I realized it was unlikely that I would get a cab at six a.m. on a Sunday morning. Around this time I realized that walking alone in the dark in downtown SF might be one of the dumbest things I’ve ever done. I legitimately thought at one point, See, this is what happens when you try and do something nice: you get murdered on the streets of an unknown city!
I get pretty dramatic when I am in fear for my life and haven’t had any coffee.
Anyway, at that point I decided to turn around and head for the finish line since walking there felt safer than walking to mile five. Turns out, walking to the finish line meant walking up approximately thirty-two hills that were taller than some mountains I know. I was sweaty and grouchy by the time I arrived, grumbling under my breath about the whole ordeal, and thinking, Why on earth did I agree to do this?