Feeling jealous of other women’s bodies

I have sometimes noticed a woman’s body before I noticed her face.

It can happen almost anywhere. In a shop, on television, walking down the street, sitting near somebody in a restaurant. Years ago, it happened with women I worked with. Now that I work from home, the general public has kindly continued supplying opportunities.

A woman appears and, before I have registered whether she looks friendly, tired, interesting or likely to know where the toilets are, I have noticed that she is thin.

Then the comparisons begin.

She can probably wear whatever she wants.

She does not have to keep checking whether her top has ridden up at the back. She does not worry about her arms, her stomach, her bum or the rolls showing through her clothes. She can buy something because she likes it, rather than because it successfully conceals the greatest number of regions.

I imagine that she gets dressed and then simply continues with her day.

No strategic cardigan. No checking herself from six angles. No wondering whether everybody else has noticed the exact area she has spent the morning trying to disguise.

In my head, she is free.

The imaginary life I give her

The woman does not even have to be extraordinarily beautiful.

That feels important to admit.

I may not think she has the most beautiful face I have ever seen. I may not particularly like her clothes. She may simply be thin, and that is enough for my mind to hand her an entire superior existence.

I assume people do not judge her by her size.

I assume her body does not enter the room before she does.

I assume she is free to be funny, quiet, clever, awkward, stylish or completely unremarkable without anybody privately attaching her size to the description.

Most of all, I assume her mind is not full of fat noise.

She is not thinking about how she looks from behind. She is not calculating whether the chair will feel too small. She is not wondering whether somebody saw what she ate and silently added it to the evidence.

Perhaps none of this is true.

She may dislike her body. She may have worries I know nothing about. She may have spent twenty minutes that morning hating her knees.

But jealousy is not known for its careful research standards.

Then comes the character assassination

Once I have decided that another woman has been granted the bodily freedom I want, my mind may begin looking for a way to reduce her advantage.

It is an impressively fast inspection for somebody who would consider herself a decent person.

The woman has done nothing to me. She has not insulted me, blocked the aisle with her trolley or taken the last parking space. She has merely existed nearby while being thinner than I am, and apparently this requires a small internal prosecution.

I do not say these things aloud. I do not treat her badly. But I cannot pretend the thoughts are harmless simply because I keep them inside my own head.

For a few seconds, finding fault with her makes the comparison hurt less.

If she is thin but unattractive, badly dressed or somehow deficient, perhaps the universe has not been completely unreasonable after all.

It is not admirable. It is also not especially mysterious.

What am I actually jealous of?

When I look more closely, I am rarely jealous of the woman herself.

I am jealous of what I have decided her body means.

Ease.

Clothes without negotiations.

Being seen as a person before being seen as a size.

Taking photographs without immediately examining them for structural damage.

Walking into a room without wondering whether I am the largest woman there.

Having enough mental space left for thoughts that are not about my body.

That does not make the jealous thoughts kind. It does make them useful.

The criticism tells me where the wound is.

If I am immediately thinking about what she can wear, perhaps I am tired of feeling restricted by clothes. If I imagine that nobody judges her, perhaps I feel painfully watched. If I resent the confidence I think she has, perhaps I am grieving how much of my own confidence has been handed over to my size.

None of that is her fault.

That is the part I have to keep returning to.

The feeling is real. The verdict is not.

I do not think shame is particularly helpful here.

Shame tends to make me hide the thought, then continue having it in exactly the same form.

I would rather admit it.

Yes, I have looked at another woman and felt jealous.

Yes, I have searched for imperfections because her body made me feel worse about mine.

Yes, I have invented an easier life for her based on information gathered during a three-second glance near the frozen peas.

But I do not have to feed the feeling until it becomes dislike.

I can notice the thought and ask what I believe she has been given.

Then I can bring the answer back to my own life.

Perhaps I want greater freedom in clothes. Perhaps I want to feel less visible. Perhaps I want my body to stop occupying so much of my attention. Those are real desires, even when they arrive wearing a rather ugly disguise.

I am not going to end by claiming that I now look at every woman and see only a radiant fellow soul beyond the oppressive boundaries of appearance.

Sometimes I still see the waist first.

I am simply trying not to punish her for having it.

And if the jealousy has shown me something I genuinely want for myself, I can take that information, turn it into useful petty motivation and aim for the prize.

She is not a different species of woman.

I do not need to become her. I need to stop being the person who keeps blocking my own way towards becoming someone who feels that free too.