I Hate Everyone, Except You(13)
Something tells me you want to know a little about my relationship with Stacy. What can I tell you about Ms. London, my cohost of ten years? She and I got along like . . . what’s the expression? . . . a house on fire, from my first day on the job. And as the years wore on, I often wished that house would have burned down to the ground.
We had an interesting relationship. Interesting to me, anyway, in the extremes I felt. For the first five years we worked together, I either adored her or despised her, and never anything in between, probably because we spent nearly sixty hours a week in captivity, rarely more than an arm’s length away from each other. Trust me when I tell you that is just too much time to spend with any other human being you didn’t choose of your own free will. And even then, it might be too much. We would occasionally joke that we were like a brother and sister trapped in the backseat during an excruciatingly long car trip. One minute wanting to play a game, the next wanting to kill the other for breathing. The last five years of the show, we settled into being “friends at work,” which was considerably more peaceful.
Why did I love and loathe Stacy? I loved her, I think, because she’s charming as hell. I’ve met few people so good as she at making others feel decidedly special. Also, she’s got an amazing sense of humor. She cracked me up daily, even when I could barely stand the sight of her. Plus, she knows all the words to A Chorus Line. I mean, how could I not adore someone who wants to sing “Dance Ten, Looks Three” with me upward of thirty times a day? We were two well-intentioned warriors, traveling the country attempting to convince women, one at a time, that perhaps, despite everything they had been told by abusive ex-boyfriends, bullying classmates, even well-intentioned mothers, they did deserve to feel pretty. Some believed us. Some were damaged enough to know that a good bra and platform pumps would not come close to repairing their souls.
I loathed Stacy because . . . well . . . maybe there was some jealousy on my part. She really seemed to enjoy, nay, need the attention of others, and I felt that she was almost constantly jockeying for it. For that reason, and perhaps others, she received more attention than I did. Even though I rarely wanted attention—that’s the truth if you care to believe it—I found myself continually annoyed that she did. I was perfectly content with our own little system of two. Us against them! But she needed more, and then I grew to want more too.
Oh, there’s more to our relationship than that, Fanny, but I’m getting a headache just unpacking it. I’ll say this, though, before I move on: there’s a part of me that will love Stacy London forever, and a part of me that would be just fine if I never saw her again for the rest of my life. We had great chemistry, for sure. But just like when you combine baking soda and vinegar, after the fun part fizzles out, you’re left with a puddle of nothing in particular.
The show made me rich, so that’s nice. Not filthy rich, but I’m doing okay. I doubt I would have made as much money had I continued chugging along in my magazine editing career. I’m thankful for that, and for having a job that makes some people smile or think or both. And for the people who came into my life because of the show. Out of the three-hundred-plus “contributors” as we called them, the people who agreed to televised makeovers, I still keep in touch with about a hundred of them, some more than others, of course, and probably another fifty people who worked on the series—various producers, crew members, wardrobe assistants, makeup artists. Sometimes I can’t believe I’m the same painfully shy guy who had a total of seven friends, give or take a few based on the collective mood, in high school. Life sure is fucking weird, Fanny.
When What Not to Wear ended a few years ago, many reporters asked me about my favorite and least favorite makeovers and the worst fashion faux pas I had ever witnessed. But not a single one asked me what I had learned about women over ten years of listening to their concerns about their bodies and their clothes. I’ll tell you what has stuck with me the most, Fanny, because I think you of all people might actually be curious.
Women want to feel beautiful. I’ve never met one who said she didn’t, and believe me, I’ve asked around. (I sometimes wonder if, similarly, all men yearn to be handsome, but I’ll admit to being far less intrigued by what’s going on between the ears of the males of our species.) To my point, American society has clearly learned how to capitalize on the desire of women to be desired, with billions of dollars spent each year on diet books, cosmetics, hair products, apparel, plastic surgery, the whole shebang. I certainly don’t think any of those categories is inherently evil—not evil at all, actually. In fact, I’m a big fan.
The problem, as far as I can tell, is that women spend infinitely more time than men paying attention to, competing with, worrying about, everyone other than themselves.
Sometimes I just want to shake you by the shoulders, Fanny, and tell you to stop surrendering your power, because that’s what you’re doing. Every single time you set up a comparison between yourself and someone else, YOU LOSE, NO ONE WINS. Chrissy Teigen has beautiful hair . . . that has nothing whatsoever to do with you. Jennifer Lawrence has perfect skin . . . that does not involve you. Kim Kardashian’s ass . . . should arouse absolutely no feelings in you concerning your own ass!
And the more you keep comparing, the less your own beauty becomes self-evident. Just because you’re not a supermodel, movie star, or Instagram celebrity does not mean that your beauty is any less important than anyone else’s. Sure, it’s OK to look, even admire, just be careful when comparing apples to oranges. (Apple: You getting yourself ready for work in the morning. Orange: Woman who has paid a stylist, personal chef, trainer, lighting director, and photo editor to help her post “selfies.”)