It's a shameful thing to admit, isn't it? Validation, our tendencies to chase after it, and that we all need it in one way or another.
Bars, clubs, lounges, corners,
Makeup, heels,
those jeans that lift your booty like THAT;
Every cleavage-enhancing top in your wardrobe,
every pair of fuck-me-pumps in your closet,
every clinging skirt that falls off of your ass
JUST so…
It’s okay. You can admit it now. You need it as much as we do. I’ll be your support group, shhhh, it’s okay.
We know how to make our curves scream. We know how to make your eyes draw. We work it because we are our own canvas, and we know how to make you – subconsciously or blatantly -- admire our art.
Where do you think our confidence comes from? Shit.
The majority of us don’t look in the mirror every morning, hands flat, elbows locked, forcefully chanting, “Yes Girl, You are Beautiful. Yes Girl, he is a FOOL for leaving you. Yes Girl, you are a Strong, Amazing Woman.” For weeks we can survive on merely giving our reflections silent nods of approval, turning to the side, cocking that hip, and admiring our figures to walk out that door completely aware of the fact that we are stunning. Our validation comes in steady waves, at least in a city like New York. The men are very open with their gazes and compliments here. They may step disrespectful more often than not, but they will let you know in one way or another that they appreciate your beauty and, in bolder cases, would like to obtain it. On a particularly good day, you will have every man passing by sizing you up in greeting. Any attractive New York City female will consider the glance-over a daily part of her routine.
I do not search the eyes of every man I pass for a sign of approval or a glance filled with lust, I honestly don’t. That kind of need for validation is glaringly obvious in the way a woman dresses, walks, and carries herself. I know that there is nothing but confidence usually emanating from my strut, my attire, and my air; I don't need to see my reflection on your face to confirm any of that. Half the time, I’m completely oblivious to the looks men give me, but my peripheral always catches a turning head or a visual undressing. I’m not stupid, I’m fly as hell. I put care into the way I look, so I rarely doubt my fire.
The validation I’m talking about is SO different from the one insecure girls seek. I’m not talking about the I-Need-Your-Penis-To-Harden-In-My-Presence-So-Ima-Play-Games-With-Your-Soul type of validation. The self-assured girl’s validation is different. Let me digress for like, two seconds, and then I’ll come right back to that.
Call me conceited, like I give a fuck. My type of pretty is not effortless. It’s not subtle, it’s not born into me, it’s not universal at the core. My type of pretty is in your face, and that’s because I pay attention to myself much more than you do. I do not have the type of attractive that will drive a man wild while I lounge in a sweatshirt and ponytail. I do not have the type of attractive that can pass off Capri pants and ballet flats. I do not own, nor will I ever be able to claim, Casual Cute. I make what I have work by knowing what doesn’t, and I apply it every day, everywhere I go.
”There is no such thing as an ugly woman, just a lazy one.
-Helena Rubenstein
Other women will be quick to say that I do it all for the attention of men. Perhaps, but get that it’s more of an added bonus, rather than a goal. I am an artist, and I am picky about the lines I create. (Son, do you not realize that the eye automatically groups like shapes and patterns together? If you have a round face, do you not see that round glasses or earrings will enhance that? It’s so subconscious, but buy you a pair of soft-edged rectangular frames and see the difference it makes. Invest in some visually vertical earrings. Do you not see that parallel laces -vs crossed- and a simple choker across your throat can make a striped shirt pop, because the eye travels all around you, and you maintain a balance with neck and foot?) I like to pay attention to the subtle things.
Ok, let me turn around and pick up where I left off. I had a couple of points to make in this post.
The street verification that keeps us steady is kind of like the confidence level, to a woman, of a man at a bar – we are only aware of its presence when there is a LACK of it, like white noise, and sudden walls of silence. People who are used to getting admired on a regular basis will suddenly realize that they haven’t gotten any looks one particular day, and suddenly feel out of place and inadequate. It’s the oddest thing. We don’t mean for it to happen, it just… kind of does.
And I know it’s not just women. My last ex had his days where his outfits were ON. POINT -- and he knew it. He’d go to work in a bravely shaded getup, his tie and his button-down the perfect pumpkin to his fitted pinstripe dress pants, hips narrow and shoulders all broad looking and stuff. He’d leave the house knowing he looked good that day. He admitted to walking down the street and being slightly confused when some of the women he passed didn’t blatantly run their eyes over his physique, because he had already grown accustomed to that kind of attention after a half hour of pedestrian traffic (yes, us city girls are eye-rapists too). The withdrawal of it shifts things into an indescribable emptiness, which The Girls and I have established as a dip in self-esteem, more often than not occurring under the radar.
For weeks we can survive on nothing but aforementioned street verification and pride. However – and every single woman has experienced this at various points of their lives – one insecure day will ruin the whole thing. A fat day, a blemish day, an acne day, a bad hair day. Getting dumped, even if it’s by someone you didn’t like. Losing your job. Getting rejected. Something will tip the scale, and the secret remedy to this heavy blanket of inadequacy is a nice, hard shot of validation. If they don’t receive it early, it will expand and grow into something much worse, much more desperate… frankly, it will turn into A Rut.
We mostly see using validation to cure insecurity woes as a disdainful, immature thing to do – but I’m not talking about acts that fuel adages like “The best way to get over someone old is to get under someone new.” No, that rarely works, at least not for the woman. We are the receivers, we end up feeling whorish and raped at the end of the day should we follow that path in some angry burst of determination. You don’t need to seal the deal with the deed in order to get what you need from the situation. You just have to be reminded that, kicks heels, yes you still got it.
All people need, in the end, is to be coveted. Admired. Wanted. Anonymously.
My girl called me a few weeks ago, and pouted into the phone. “Dynasty, I feel ugly today.” She already knows that I’m not one to lift my voice a few octaves and insist that she is beautiful, she is gorgeous, there are so many men in the world that would die to touch her, women who would kill to be her. I don’t need to tell her any of that shit, because it’s something that she should already know. She is hot as fuck. I don’t give false and unnecessary compliments, nor do I tolerate people fishing for them -- but I knew that wasn’t it, she wouldn't have called me for that. I crooned into the phone, “Let’s go get validated”; she laughed, but we never followed up. Little by little, she started feeling worse and worse about herself. All it would have taken was a smooth walk past a strip of idling dancers at a club, most likely on our way to the exit door, or the bar, or the bathroom. It’s almost guaranteed that as a female (much more as an attractive female) you’ll get welcomed hungrily by their eyes, their words, and in few unavoidable cases, their hands. It might not solve worlds of problems, but it would make you feel good about yourself without having to really give any of yourself away.
Even if it’s not that deep, just think about how groups of friends – both male and female -- get together to take a member of the fam out to a club or bar or other social scene post-breakup. Not only is it to ease the wounded back into the game, if successful it’s a way to ease him/her out of the insecurity that usually follows after getting dumped.
Women will spend hours on their hair, indulge in shopping sprees, change their outfits 6 times at least in order to achieve the most flattering figure, all so that they can go out that weekend, and turn down the men they’ve been accepting drinks from all night. It’s kind of fucked up, isn’t it – but I must say, it’s a hell of a remedy.
Another subtle form of validation is one I unfortunately find myself participating in regularly – retail therapy. Ohhh, nothing feels better than looking in that fitting room mirror triumphantly, contemplating a new piece to add to your wardrobe, because damn that shirt makes your waist look fly. Damn, that waist makes this ass look fly. Damn, those stripes lead you right to the good parts. Metal-backed stilettos and eye-catching scarves and deep v-neck sweaters that hug your breasts like air. The makeup industry – MAC, Sephora, entire stores dedicated to “enhancing” your beauty, aka “tapping into your deepest insecurities”… they’re there to make us feel better when we need them. There’s no other reason a woman could get coerced into purchasing a $40 tube of lip-gloss. If you saw her lips the way she saw them when she tried it on… whoo, you’d drop money for it too. Bet she would have thought twice about it though, if she was having a great self esteem day.
Especially in the wintertime, I find a lot of my girls stuck in these Ruts. I myself often slip in and out of self-esteem levels because this is when I get real lazy and stop being creative with my outfits. Black sweater, dark denim skinny jeans, faded brown wraparound boots and on a bad hair day, the everpresent brown houndstooth hat. My outfits vary based on accessories and hairstyles. None of it matters anyway, because the public only sees your coat and your shoes LOL.
This is also the same time I start getting extremely tired of my gear, and -- *rubs belly -- I always allow a decent amount of softness this season because my sweaters can cover it up. However, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m too vain to be this “shapeless.” I will admit to pulling out the off-the-shoulder tops and stiletto suede knee-highs to strut into a lounge with my bodyguard boys in tow. I dance with my eyes closed, and I dance well; it’s a comfort knowing that my fam will protect me if anyone gets too touchy, so I allow myself to really release. I get the attention I desire from afar, and a number will make its way into my pocket a time or two. Even if I don’t follow through, I know that I’ll be grinning at my reflection again, at least for the next few weeks. On those days, I might try something new with my style.
I’m not ashamed to admit any of this. It’s just what we do. Why make it a sin?
