Stranded with my Cosmopolitan

There I was, in a packed pub, getting hotter and hotter in my coat, scarf, jumper etc. All my friends; all the people I wanted to talk to, were embedded deep into other clusters, like chocolate chips who had sunk to the bottom of a cheap, badly made sponge cake.  My drink was precariously balanced, I stood on the brink of an abyss. The vultures were circling - two women; women who I knew but wasn’t particularly friendly with, looked me up and down. Yes, they did! They did that scanning thing that some women subject other women to, like the Terminator doing his 1980s, computerised assessment. Age - wrong side of 40, weight - fatter/thinner than me, clothes….

Why do some women do this? It is immensely unsettling. If you are born into a gender that is constantly judged on its appearance then it is somewhat inescapable. Your weight, especially, is under constant scrutiny and because of this, you turn it (the scrutiny) on the other members of your tribe to ascertain whether they are fatter than you. It is total bullshit and I do try to avoid it at all costs. I wasn’t brought up in a bubble though and there was almost a sense, in my house, that the thinner you were, the more morally superior you were. I try to resist, at all turns, being drawn into discussions about my own or any other woman’s weight, but, I am ashamed to say, that I do notice it (I just try not to comment on it).

Anyway, there I was, undergoing the Terminator scan, neither of these women said ‘hello’ by the way, wondering what they could find to assess, as I was cloaked in my heavy winter coat and massive scarf. My scarf is hectares long and a silvery grey colour and really thick. Wearing it feels like being enveloped by a benevolent yeti. It seems extravagant to say that you love an item of clothing but I bloody love that scarf (I also love my slippers). Perhaps the Terminators were admiring my scarf?? Perhaps I’m being paranoid in imagining that I was so interesting to them (this is entirely plausible and brings back memories of changing rooms and my my mum saying - ‘no-one is looking at you!’) But, if we are being uncharitable, then perhaps we can assume that I was being assessed, (perhaps) being found wanting and trying not to spill my (expensive, ill-gotten cocktail - the barmaid had rolled her eyes when I’d ordered it). I circumvented the group of lions (so it wasn't an abyss then, more of a savannah; pick a metaphor, stick to it) went round to the other side of the massive group and a male friend of mine cheerily called, ‘Alright, how’s it going?’

Now, I don’t want to turn my back on the sisterhood here, most of my best friends are women and I fully realise that men are just as capable of doing the Terminator scan (and not just for assessing how fuckable a woman is). I know plenty of men who talk about people’s weight and appearance and plenty of women who don’t. But, if you are a man or a woman and someone comes along to join a social group, hovering uncertainly on the edges like an ungainly bison at a watering hole; don’t just do the full body scan, smile and say ‘hello’!