5 Things I Will Never Do Again

 I will never again accept love that doesn't honor and cherish.

I was raised to believe that love doesn't keep score--doesn't look out for its own interests, doesn't draw the line at giving 50%, doesn't count the cost. And these things are true, when love is healthy and reciprocal and safe. However, my commitment to them in the absence of any other concerns has led me to put my own needs and well-being, not just on the back burner, but completely off the stove.

I was lucky enough to get a second chance, with a love that gave and gave and gave. I got something that many people never get, the opportunity to be loved by someone who wanted my best above all else, who rejoiced over my success, who gave me a safe space to live and learn and grow. The fact of the matter is, I'm not looking for love again at all. I've been so fortunate, I've had love like so many people only dream of, and I couldn't ask for anything more. But one thing I can say without hesitation is that if love ever comes into my life again, I will never, ever again settle for less than I've had.

 I will never again fail to stand up for my kids. 

There were a lot of years during which my top priority was to make my family work. In order to do this, I believed, it was necessary for everyone to give and to forgive. I still believe that, and in healthy relationships this dynamic of reciprocal grace is a key foundation. However, like most wise principles for working relationships, this can morph into something dysfunctional and damaging if it doesn't exist within healthy and appropriate limits.

I expected my kids to give and forgive in ways that were harmful to them. I allowed them to experience mistreatment as part of a relationship, when they had no ability or power to knowingly consent to a sacrifice like that. They were too young to understand how or where to set their own boundaries, and it was my responsibility to teach this to them, model it for them, and set healthy and protective boundaries for them in the meantime, and I failed at this. 

One time--once--and only when I felt there was nothing left to lose, I gathered my resolve and stood between my child and his attacker, not caring about the consequences. It was good, and scary, and I felt brave and dangerous and right. But it was long overdue. My kids deserved better from me, and there won't be another time when they don't get it.

 I will never again consider my mental and emotional well-being an unnecessary luxury.

I used to evaluate everything in life based on one simple question--"Do I need it?" By this I meant, can I live without this thing? If whatever was in question was not something I needed to physically live, it pretty much failed the test. I would not invest time and energy, or especially spend money, on anything that wasn't necessary. I wouldn't grant myself margin or give myself any slack for any needs that weren't unavoidable.

A lot of things have changed my perspective on this. For one thing, as a parent, I realized I regarded my children's needs completely differently than my own. This raised the question of why my own wellness would be of less value than theirs. On top of that, being loved by someone who cares for your total well-being makes you start to suspect that your well-being is worth caring for. Having cancer also makes you take a look at your life with a different perspective. And frankly, some of the shift is probably just getting old, and hopefully gaining some wisdom to go with it.

So the older I get, the more I've changed my idea of what it means to need something. If my kids asked for a mental health day off school, they got it, and if I needed one, I took it. I've re-evaluated my priorities. I do cut myself some slack. I work a lot harder to take care of myself and the people around me in ways that are about more than survival, and I'll never go back.

I will never again judge my body by toxic cultural standards around weight and attractiveness.

Wow, guys. This is a big one. And to be honest, it's hard. I haven't mastered it. I still slip. But it is so, so important.

Something major had to happen for me to get to this place. The messages of fat-shaming and the cultural pressures around women's standards of attractiveness came home to live with me. And in order to survive this, I had to completely detox myself from any form of buy-in. So here's where I'm at today. I don't shame myself around food. I don't ever eat anything because of feelings of guilt or obligation. I choose food that's good for my body, that tastes good, that makes me feel good. I eat in ways that support my relationships and my larger life priorities. I participate and I celebrate and I nourish myself. I'm not afraid of the scale--I weigh myself. I'm not afraid to lose weight if there's a reason--I had a medical issue this last year that I knew I could improve by taking off a little, so I lost 15 pounds. But I reject the idea that losing weight is automatically good and something to be congratulated about. Losing weight is neutral. Gaining weight is neutral. Weight is morally neutral. No matter what that number says on the scale, I can be healthy, happy, beautiful, and worthy of love. And I'll remind myself of that as many times as I need to.

I will never again measure my worth by my productivity.

OK, well, that's a lie. I totally will. But this one is aspirational.

Several years ago, in a blazing hot early September, while camping on my parents' property, my mom asked the group of us if we would pick one of my parents' apple trees. She'd done it herself the year before, she said, but just wasn't feeling into it this year. We quickly agreed and set to it. I will readily admit that I was the first one to quit and go inside for a few minutes' break in the air conditioning. I came back out to find the rest of the crew dropping off as well. Rick was the only one who worked the whole time, completely harvesting every usable apple on the tree. Understand, my mother, in her 70's, had previously done this task herself.

If you know my parents, this doesn't surprise you, because you already know that they're an unstoppable machine. Both in their late 70's now, they are starting to slow down, but the two of them can still outwork people half their age. All my life, I've planned for their visits by compiling a task list of things that would take me weeks to accomplish, because they come, they see, and they conquer. They are really a marvel.

What has also taken me all my life, though, is to learn to view this as my parents' unique gift, rather than the basic standard for all human life. It was great to grow up in a family that attacked life like the Incredibles every day and always came out on top. And to be honest, most of my life I've had a pretty high capacity myself, at least compared to most people, if not to my mom and dad. But since 2019, I've slowed down a lot, and that's brought on a lot of uncomfortable confrontations with guilt, shame, depression, inadequacy, and all the feelings associated with not living up to my own expectations (and what I imagine the expectations of others to be).

I don't know what the future holds for me in this area. Maybe I'll go back to kicking life's ass, and maybe I won't. But either way, I hope I'll make peace with the fact that I don't have to in order to be a worthwhile human, and maybe even be able to know that I'm actually still doing a good job.

Beautiful

Beautiful (adj.) beau·ti·ful \ˈbyü-ti-fəl\: 

Having a quality or aggregate of qualities

 that gives pleasure to the senses or 

pleasurably exalts the mind or spirit

In case you didn't know, I'm a cancer survivor. Every cancer is different, but the particular kind of breast cancer that was discovered at my (fortunately) very early diagnosis almost 10 years ago now is aggressive, destructive, and fast-growing. As a result, treatment for me was comprehensive. Surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, drug treatments--whatever we had, we threw at it. I'm luckier than many; my prognosis was good, and my chances of recurrence are low. But my body still bears the marks of the battle.

I've graduated now, finally, to annual follow-up mammograms. It's nice to go less often, but even so, I have been there so much that the routine is familiar. You put on the gown, and answer all the same questions. And then, before the 20 minutes of freezing cold and pain and pressure and holding your breath first because you're told and then because you can't breathe and then again until you hear someone say cheerily from behind the screen of images "Looks good!", there is the moment when you will mark your scar. To clearly identify your scar tissue on the scan, lest it be mistaken for something more ominous, a tiny wire will be shaped and taped along the length of your surgical scar, marking it out for the techs and doctors who will view the films.

At my latest appointment, not that many weeks ago, after the gown and the questions and the rest, the nurse who was prepping me finished her notes, packed up her paperwork, and said briskly, "All right, now let's see your scar."  I lifted the gown in the now-familiar motion, turned and gestured so that she could see, and her businesslike bustle came to an abrupt halt as she drew in her breath and just stared for a moment. "Oh my god," she said. "That's beautiful."

It isn't the first time someone has had that response to my scar. Actually, it's never once been shown to a nurse, doctor, lab tech, or any other medical professional without getting that response, and it's because they know what they are looking at. But if you are not a scar professional, if you don't know what you're seeing when you look at my scar, or at any scar, you might be tempted to look at it as just the opposite of beautiful. Scars are just one of the many things that we often view as physical faults or imperfections--things that destroy beauty.

In my past, I was given that message--that the scar was a flaw, a blemish, something to be ashamed of, something that ruined me. That it made me unlovable. That it destroyed my value. But I am learning, slowly, over time, that it is a thing of beauty. I have had great love and care given to me in my life, have walked through deep valleys, have experienced enormous good fortune. The scar tells all those stories. If I foolishly wished it away, I would erase with it all the power and love its story holds.

I know this is true, because it is true for others besides me. I think of the little one dear to me, and the birthmark that is simply a testimony to the miracle of her existence. Of my own two boys, and all the bumps and scars and faded marks that are the witness to the adventures of their childhood. Of the partner in my life now, and those deep, crinkly laugh lines around his eyes, which cannot come overnight, but tell the story of a life lived oriented toward joy. The marks on our bodies are the marks of our lives. All these things we view negatively, and too often, we can begin to view ourselves negatively because of them, yet all the imperfections that we believe mar us, mark us, are actually the things that illuminate us.

Once upon a time, I was often told that to find me beautiful would require changing the definition of the word; and this, unknowingly, was a profound truth. There is a distortion running deep in our society, a stunted definition of beauty that revolves around an artificial, superficial flawlessness. But if we cannot see beauty in those around us, we are using a faulty definition. A true beauty is found in the stretch marks that tell the story of the birth of our children, the calluses and bruises of hard work done well, and even the generous waistlines that speak of good food, warm hospitality, and time well spent with family and friends. It's found in scars, those stories of battles that have been fought and won, and of those who carried us through them, of things greatly dared and bravely endured, of adventures that have changed us and that define us. These are moments and memories that could not be traded for a superficial snapshot or a slimmer silhouette. These are the beauty marks, the marks of all that matter. This is beautiful.

Just Like the Baby Jesus

I recently took a spiritual development class which culminated in a day-long silent retreat. We spent an entire day in silence, including eating our meal together without speaking, only exchanging glances as we chose our seats, ate our fill, and cleared our places to return to our work. It might surprise those of you who know me well, but in a full day of silence, refraining from talk was not the most difficult part for me. Lunch actually provided the greatest challenge, with all the sounds of eating, so conspicuous in silence--the clinking of forks against teeth and plates, the chewing and swallowing, the parting of lips to take another drink or bite. None of these things bother me in others, but because of my own personal history, it's very easy for them to trigger self-consciousness, embarrassment, and shame in myself. (This is one of the reasons why, if you have a lunch meeting with me, you might notice that I don't eat much. Well, that and I'm probably talking too much.) But at a silent meal, there was no place to hide. I simply had to be present for the experience of my own eating, in the company of others.

However, it made me think about the purpose, the propriety, of food and eating. How we are actually made for this, messy and earthy process though it is, and it is made for us. And how it's nothing but pretense and self-deception for someone to act or believe as though they are somehow above it, or it is below them, because eating is one of the common identifiers that marks the human experience, part of our shared identity and mortality, along with the other functions of our physical human bodies.  As a result, we can know that shame is an inappropriate reaction.

In fact, on Christmas, we celebrate the fact that even the very God of the Universe took on this human frame--the vulnerable, messy, real, imperfect, and amazing body that eats, sleeps, drools, bleeds, and that he himself created. He not only thought us up, put us together, and graced our humble, fleshly selves with his blessing, but dignified our human carriage with his divine soul for the years of his earthly walk among us. The Incarnation is nothing more and nothing less than the eternal Creator, "robed in flesh", as the old hymn says.

And the markers of our flesh are so much more than this, than the bodily functions that make up our life. The Psalms tell us that this Creator, this infant Jesus, "knows our frame"--he understands that we are only made from dust. His expectations for us, and his acceptance of us, never hinge on more than that.

In my preschool teaching days, when someone expected one of my students to be able to sit still, or know when to shout and when to whisper, or not to pick their nose, my work was to help people understand that these expectations are not developmentally appropriate. They will learn these things in time, of course, as we all grow to maturity when the time is right. But for the time being, no child--no person--should ever feel that what is expected of them in order to be accepted, or to be acceptable, is something beyond what is appropriate for the body they are in.  Little children should never feel shame for their preschool-ness. No more then should we for our humanness, from making sounds when we chew, to sometimes forgetting to pick our noses in private, to laughing when it turned out not to be a joke, to spouting off angry before counting to ten, to not knowing when to speak and when to SHUT UP.

We are not who we will be, it's true, when we reach our destination someday; and that day is coming. But for the time being, this imperfect world is made for us, and we are made for it--us and the bodies we are in--imperfect but loved, exactly and appropriately as we are.

How's That Working For You?

I am not a morning person.  And by "morning", I actually mean "before noon".  If I'm going to get up and get going in the morning, I need something, as my friend and director Julie used to say, "to take the sting out", and that usually means food. Fortunately, one of our regular receptionists subscribes to this same theory of mornings, and whenever she's in the building before noon, she comes bearing donuts.  LOTS of donuts.

In my workplace, many people do not regard the donuts as a positive development.  I am surrounded by co-workers who meticulously track their weight, body measurements, miles run and walked, calorie intake and burn rate, and various metrics of food ingestion.  People monitor their daily grams of protein or sugar, eat "meals" of carefully measured amounts of cottage cheese and peanut butter, and replace food altogether by drinking mad-scientist-looking concoctions that they create in the break room blender or bring from home in a Mason jar.  One of my co-workers appears to subsist completely on a diet of popcorn and grapefruit--when I asked him if he eats anything else, he said, "Lettuce?"

This, as you can imagine, leaves me alone with a lot of donuts.

It's a problem.

A couple of weeks ago, I was in the break room with my friend Victoria, contemplating the vast array of fried sugary goodness.  She was saying that she had been really disciplined and hadn't eaten one.  I was saying that I had eaten one, and that the last thing I needed was another.  Victoria laughed.  She said, "You skinny people. Small people always want to be smaller.  I'd be happy if I was your size."

All I can say in my own defense, is that at least I had the grace to be embarrassed about it.  I told Victoria, "I'm sorry.  I do get the problem. I actually wrote a whole blog post about it. But it's hard, when it's yourself."  Victoria, always gracious, agreed.  "It is."

And I walked away kicking myself, but even then, even then, here's what I was thinking.  I was thinking about how many times I have told myself exactly what Victoria said.  That there are people who would be happy to be my size, who would consider themselves skinny and beautiful, who would accept and love themselves in my body, so why isn't that enough for me?  If so many other people would be happy with what I have, I should be happy with it myself.

I thought about it, off and on, for the rest of the day, and until now.  And I'm happy to say that at some point along the way, my thoughts about it changed, when I suddenly realized something.  If being my size would really make people happy, then why doesn't it work for me??

I know.  You think I already said that, right?  You think I'm just repeating myself.  But listen.  Just hang in there with me for a minute.  The words are almost the same, but follow me--think.  Think about it differently.  Victoria said she would be happy if she was my size, and I believed her.  We both believed her.  But let me ask you a really important question: would she??  Would any of the people I was thinking of earlier--if they became my size, would they really be happy with it?  Because I think that if being my size (or any size) is really what makes people happy, then it would be working for me. And not just me, but all the small, skinny people Victoria is talking about who always want to be smaller.  It would be working for every woman I wrote about in that blog post who is 25 pounds lighter than me but still thinks she needs to lose 10 pounds.  And for every woman I see at the gym and think, "I'd be happy if I was her size," but she's still frowning later when I see her on the scale. I have been thinking of it backward.  It's not that if other people would be happy being my size, that's proof that I should be happy with it.  Instead, it's that if I'm not happy being my size, it's proof that no one else would be either--at least not if size is what they were depending on for that happiness.

And the people I am really envying?  The people who are at peace with themselves, body and all?  If they are happy, it's not because they are smaller than me. It's because they are smarter than me. Because at that moment, I see, in a blinding flash, AGAIN, the lie that has crept in yet another crack and obscured this truth:  If being any certain size would really make us happy, make us love ourselves, accept ourselves, become witnesses to our own beauty and power, then it would already be working for all of us.  This lie--that skinniness equals happiness, or worthiness, or lovableness, or even beauty--has so deeply pervaded our cultural and individual consciousness that even when we have seen the falsehood in it, even when we are vigilant in our attempts to combat it, it still lurks there, just under the surface, secreting itself in the hidden places we will not see, camouflaging itself in the cleverest disguises, manipulating even our attempts to diminish it into mind-bending tricks that unknowingly grow its power.  It is evil. And I am not exaggerating.  If being the Beloved is indeed the core truth of our existence , the sacred truth on which everything rests, then this is its true unholy opposite, this lie that says we can never be perfect enough, pretty enough, small enough to be loved.

Almost every morning when I eat breakfast, I see this tagline on the back of my cereal box:  "More whole grains, less you!"  Let me ask you this, what kind of a message is that?  Whose voice is it, that we still, in spite of everything, are allowing to say to us, "You know what would really be great here?  Less you.  If you could just kind of shrink down a bit.  Just keep getting smaller. The closer you are to non-existent, the better that will be. We'll all like that.  You'll be happy then.  Trust me."

Make no mistake, people.  It's not the donut that is our enemy.

Dear Woman at the Gym: A Love Letter

Dear Woman at the Gym,

Every day I see you, and I wonder why you are here.  I don't know you--we never talk, except maybe to say hello in passing, or to give a little nod of acknowledgement as we move briefly through our shared space.  Then we move on, occupied with our own thoughts, spinning through our own orbit.  So it might seem strange that I notice you, or even more strange that I care, but I do.  I have no idea what brings you here.  But every day, I wonder, and every day I also hope.

I see you lifting weights, or on the treadmill, or in the pool, and I hope it's not because you think you have to.  I hope it's not one more thing on your endless to-do list.  I hope you came because this is your time.  I hope it's something wonderful and healing and indulgent that you are doing for yourself, right out in the midst of all the busyness and the chaos and the pull and tug of obligation, and the million and a half things you do every day that are not for you but for others.  I hope you know you have a right to it, that you have a right to be good to yourself, and this is what that looks like for you.

I see the fierce energy and endless effort you put forth, and I hope you aren't working so hard for anyone else--not because you think you need to, if you are to earn the approval or affection of someone close to you, or because you are afraid of losing it.  I hope the person you are working for is you.  I hope you are filled with the absolute certainty that here, as well as everywhere in your life, you are surrounded by people who both care for you as you are, and are invested in your well-being, and that's what lights the fire I see inside you.

I see you in your cute yoga pants and your headband, and your workout tank that says, "Too hot to warm up", and I hope you believe it.  I hope your perseverance here isn't driven by a heart or mind that's filled with shame or criticism for yourself.  I hope when you look around, what you don't see is people thinner than you, happier than you, better than you, people that make you think you don't measure up, people that you doubt you'll ever become.  I hope you see that you are already there.  I hope you don't come because you hope it will make you feel like you are amazing, but because you are already amazing and you know it.

I hope that being here is the best part of your day.

But if it's not.  If everything I hope for you is not true.  Tomorrow, please do me a favor.  Please try to take a step back, and look around at all the rest of us.  Try to take a look through my eyes, the way I see you every day.  Every day I see you, and you are so beautiful and so strong and you fill me with admiration, and every day I know that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that can hurt you or stop you or stand in your way, and that it is very important for you to be as good to yourself as the good that other people want for you.

We don't know each other, but you can take my word for it, because who would know better than me, the person who sees you every day?

Every day, I see you.  I hope you do too.

The Prettiest Us in the World

I have read lately, over and over, this blog post by Michigan writer, mom, and wife Nicole Jankowski.  It is an old post, but a new discovery of mine.  To me, it is so important, and I have some things I'd like to say about it, but first, we will all need to read it.  Go on, take a minute and do that right now.  I'll wait.

Seriously.  Read it.

****************

OK, now that you're back (maybe with tissues), let's talk about it for a bit.

Some of what Nicole has to say, we have heard before.  She addresses again the way we (and by "we", I mean women) see ourselves, and how that is often a reflection of the way society has narrowly defined beauty--by a standard that is unrealistic, unrepresentative, and arguably unattainable.  It probably isn't the first time you have heard someone advocate for a broader societal definition of beauty; this often includes not only a call for an allowance of many different body types, but for a recognition that there is more that is beautiful about women than their bodies.

That is old news.

The thing that is, to me, so arresting about this post, is her own story, of how her husband sees her, and how it is his voice in her ear that tells her what she needs to hear about herself.

This, I think, is a thing that every woman longs for--that one person who truly finds her beautiful.  And let me be clear here, I am not talking about being "a beautiful person", the way people mean you are beautiful apart from your appearance, although that is also a real thing, but it's a different thing.  I think all of us (and women, I apologize for generalizing, and admit to the possibility of exceptions), while understanding beauty as encompassing more than physical appearance, still deeply long to be found physically beautiful and desirable by someone we love, and feel that we are incredibly fortunate if we are.  I have a friend who sometimes says that she is lucky, because her husband "doesn't care" about weight, appearances, or that sort of thing, and every time she says it, I know it is not true.  He cares, I promise you.  He just thinks she is beautiful.  Maybe this feeling of improbable good fortune comes from the fact that, in a world where our appearance is judged so harshly in every arena, the knowledge that men who truly love us see us differently is hard to accept or understand.  We are all full of things we are told are not supposed to be there--stretch marks, scars, jiggling, sagging, wrinkles, hair--and it can seem fortunate just to find someone who doesn't mind, who can "get past it" to love us anyway.  Someone who would actually see the beauty in it all seems wildly miraculous.

But some of you have this miraculous voice in your ear, the one that tells you that you are beautiful, that you are pretty, that you are exactly right.  If you are one of these fortunate women, how wonderful--and please know, I am so happy for you, truly.  However, I know things are still hard for you, and the voices outside are still strong, and I think there is something for you in the rest of what I have to say.  Also, I'd like you to consider that, as difficult as it can still feel for you, even with such a loving touchstone, how much more so must it be for those who are without.  What if there is no voice that sings in your ear each morning?  What if you are no one's prettiest anything in the world?  Or maybe worse, what if the voice in your ear is the same as the voice in your head?  What if the voice next to you tells you that you are not beautiful, not desirable, not enough?  For all of those, all of us, here is what I want to say.

First, I believe that this miracle is out there.  It is out there for all of us.  There is no magic number we have to reach, or person we have to become to earn it.  Skinny, magazine-perfect doesn't equal being someone's one-and-only beautiful one.  (After all, don't all those size-2 models and actresses, whose whole jobs are their appearances, get divorced more often and have less success finding love than the average size-12 housewife?)  This miracle is out there for anyone, and I know it for a fact.  I believe it because I see it.  I see them in the grocery store, women of every shape and size, women I know are heavier, or older, or less well-dressed than me, walking together with men whose arms are around their shoulders, who hold their hands, whose faces beam with love and pride, and who look at them like the most beautiful things to walk the earth.  I believe it because I know it.  I know so many amazing, beautiful women--normal, regular women--with husbands and boyfriends who adore them, who cannot take their eyes off these lovely creatures that they are so fortunate to share their lives with.  I believe it because it happens.  Because I am told.  Because Nicole says so.  Because Nicole is the prettiest wife in the world.  It is out there, and it can be found--it can find you.

But second.  In the meantime.  The meantime may be long.  Truthfully, I don't know how long.  Maybe a very long time.  And in that meantime of uncertain length, I have come to this conclusion.  We will have to be this miracle for each other.  There is no other solution.  Believe me, I understand.  I know it's not the same.  I know the time seems long.  But this is both the least and the best we can do.  So, ladies, with that in mind, may I just ask you, can we please just STOP?  Can we stop?  Can we just have NOT ONE MORE conversation that is about fat?  Or weight?  Or calories, or working out or not working out or gaining weight or not gaining weight or muffin tops or thighs or bellies or jeans sizes or food guilt?  PLEASE?  I know it's a lot to ask, but hear me out.  Maybe you've never thought about it this way, but when you start putting yourself down, or talking about how chubby your legs are, or outlining your plan to lose 30 pounds, and I am 20 pounds heavier than you, do you realize you are saying I'm obese?  When you are talking about how you just can't shake that last 5 pounds no matter how hard you work out, maybe you don't see the look on the face of the sister next to you, but I do.  Think of someone you love, your sister, your daughter, your friend.  Is she fat to you?  Obese, repulsive, ugly?  Or do you think she's beautiful, and if someone said those other things about her, would you find them and beat them down?  And do you understand that when you are saying them about yourself, you are saying them to her?  That you are saying them to all of us?  Really think, for just a second, about the question Nicole posed to us up there.  Who is telling us that our bodies aren't the ideal?  People who don't know us, who aren't invested in us.  People who don't love us.  So starting now, can that please, please stop being us?  Whether or not we have found that one special someone to whom we are the prettiest, we can all still see each other through those same eyes of love.  This is our chance, our time, to add our voices to the song, "Your body is exactly right".  We can do this, dear ones.  We are all built just right.

Do I Look Fat in This?

Yesterday, when I was having lunch with a friend, he complimented me on my recent haircut.  Well, actually, he said he knew there was something different about my hair, but he didn't know what it was.  After we both jokingly agreed that he should at least get credit for noticing something, we talked for a little bit about that infamous stumbling block of communication between men and women, the subject of women's appearance. 

Despite the ubiquitous nature of this relationship problem, I think the solution is actually quite simple, and it comes down to this.  Men, in general, are wired to be problem-solvers.  They search for problems, focus on problems, address problems, and then put the solved problems behind them.  To women, this problem-focused approach can often seem very negative.  We often wonder why it seems that our husbands, boyfriends, or significant others can find something that needs to be changed, fixed, or improved in everything we do.  Yet the corresponding positives seem strangely absent--why doesn't he even seem to notice when something is done perfectly?  The reason is that problems require attention.  Lack of problems means he can turn his attention elsewhere.  After all, if everything is great, why does he need to think about it?  If something goes wrong, he'll let you know--otherwise, you can assume that all is well.

I suspect that all this means that when women ask, "How do I look?," here's the question that men are hearing: "Can you find any problems with the way I look?"  He believes that he's being asked to perform a valuable service--identify problems that you want to know about and address.  It's the response he expects from you too, when he asks you how he looks (if he ever does).  He doesn't want to walk around with his fly unzipped or his hair looking funny, or maybe even in an outfit that's not appropriate to the occasion.  He assumes you don't either.  So he looks you over, scanning for problems.  If he doesn't see any, he gives the answer expressing approval appropriate to the situation.  You know what it is.  He says, "You look fine."  (This is actually the best-case scenario.  Worst-case scenario is that he finds a problem.  In which case, he won't say, "You look fine."  He'll say, "I don't think those shoes go with that outfit.)

Man or woman, I don't need to tell you that women are rarely thrilled with the answer, "You look fine." And my observation is that this can be not only frustrating, but also confusing for a man. After all, "fine" is pretty high praise, actually, in his book, since it means he's actively searched for some needed improvement, and wasn't able to find anything.  But he quickly sees that, for some reason, we're not happy with his response.  If he concludes that we're frustrated because he is not being helpful enough in solving the problem, and he tries offering some suggestions for improvement, just to please us, he will find this strategy even less well-received.

The conclusion that men often come to, after ending up in this situation a few times, is that women don't want an honest answer when we ask how we look. Therefore, it's best not to put in any honest effort, since they can't please us anyway.  Look her over if you must, but if you see any problems, lie and say she looks fine anyway.  And really, if you can get away without even looking, that's fine too, since you're only going to give the same answer no matter what she looks like.

Let me clear this one up right here.  Women DO NOT want men to give a dishonest or insincere answer to this question.  So what do we want?  We want an honest answer to something completely different.  When women ask any variation of the question, "How do I look," here's what we're asking:  "Do you like the way I look?"  We're not asking for problem-solving, or analysis of our hair, clothes, makeup, accessories, body, or weight.  (Really.  Even if we specifically ask if we look fat, we're still not asking you to comment on our weight.)  For that, we've got Cosmo, TV, low-fat ice cream, Carmen Electra, and virtually every commercial product and form of media in existence.  From you, we're asking, "Do I still do it for you?  Do you think I'm pretty?  Am I still the one?"  And we're hoping that you can honestly say "You rock my world."  "Fine" just doesn't have the same ring to it.