Daily Journal, May 16, 2009

Insecurity is one of the most unattractive qualities a woman can posses. This is something I’ve been hearing since I was a teenager. No man wants to deal with an insecure, needy woman. The amazing thing is that the men who most despise this quality, are the men most likely to enhance it.

Insecurity can come in many forms: Fear. Low self esteem. Neediness. Clinginess. Little self worth. My first bout with insecurity came when I was sixteen years old, and it came in the form of raging jealousy. By tenth grade Scott and I were still dating, and I suppose I should have been secure in that simple fact, but I wasn’t. We had broken up three times in as many years. Once because I had second thoughts, and twice because he did. The imbalance of this didn’t do a whole lot for a teenage girl’s self esteem.

Anyway, in tenth grade Scott joined a school-run organization that aided in the acquiring of wilderness skills. I tried to be supportive, and not to make fun of it, but I saw it as a co-ed version of the boy scouts, and thought it was ridiculous. But it made him happy, and it made him feel like he finally belonged somewhere.

You see, while I had managed to keep an even keel of popularity – not part of the popular crowd, but not a downright loser – Scott had struggled with conformity and acceptance from the day he walked through the front doors of the high school. He didn’t play sports, he was extremely good at art, he wore his hair long and hung out with the underdogs. There was even a rumor that he was gay, and that I was simply his beard. So while I became a cheerleader, Scott became one of the earliest Survivors. It turned out to be pretty easy to support the group, listen to stories about it, and put it in the back of my mind when Scott and I were together. Until Jen.

Jen Robinson, whom Scott met through his wilderness group, became the bane of my existence for the next four years. Jen was somewhat of an outcast, like Scott. Jen was an artist, like Scott. Jen listened to the same music, read the same books, shopped in the same stores. Jen was adorable, Jen was funny. Jen got him.

Scott started spending time with Jen outside of Wilderness 101. They would shop together, see movies together, and just hang out together. Many times Jen infiltrated the inner circle that I had gotten used to containing only Scott and I, and occasionally my girl friends and his guy friends, but never the other way around. For starters, I didn’t have any guy friends. I firmly believed in the code set by When Harry Met Sally: Men and women can’t be friends, because the sex part always gets in the way. In the past, any guy that I had attempted to be friends with either wanted to sleep with me, or I had developed a crush on him. Yes, even while I was dating Scott. I never said I was perfect.

And although Scott had seen the movie, and was well aware of my adopted credo, he didn’t subscribe to it himself, and continued to iterate that he and Jen were friends and nothing more. No, he did not find her attractive and no, she did not have the hots for him.

I never believed a single word of it. And for the next four years Jen would come in between Scott and I in a myriad of ways, the best being that Jen and I shared a birthday. Starting with my sixteenth birthday, my birthday would never be mine ever again. Scott also had to shop for Jen, give Jen a present, go to Jen’s party, see Jen.

And so it went all the way through senior year when, at Scott and Jen’s senior prom (because we went to separate high schools so it wasn’t my prom) Scott danced the last dance of the night with Jen. I cried alone at our table, and was finally rescued by one of the guys in Scott’s class that I never could have been friends with, because he was hotter than a pottery kiln.

I lost count of all the times Scott and I screamed, yelled, cried, and broke up because of Jen Robinson. His argument was always that I should just be more secure, and my argument was always that he should be a man and just let her go. Pick me. Choose me. Love me.

I never understood their friendship, he never understood my jealousy. I was never necessarily worried that Scott was going to leave me for Jen; it boiled my blood that someone was closer to him than I was. Jen is not the ultimate reason that Scott and I did not make it, even though I would like to be able to blame her for it. Blaming her would be much easier than blaming myself. But the truth was that Jen was only a symptom of a bigger problem: I needed to be with a man who put me first, above everyone, above all else. I would walk barefoot and backwards over hot coals for a man; all he had to do was make me his first priority. Scott was never going to be that man.

Well, after many years, and many Jen Robinson’s, I finally found that man. Not only did I find him, I fell in love with him and married him. I am absolutely his first priority, and he is mine. He’s my best friend. There’s no one I’d rather spend time with. I would do anything for him. He makes me feel safe, secure, loved, wanted and admired. But here’s the hysterical part: every once in a while my perfect husband has to remind me of something: Insecurity is one of the most unattractive qualities a woman can posses.

Because while I was able to escape the cycle of being with a man who always wanted to be with someone, or something, else, I never escaped my innate insecurity. Now, instead of being jealous of another woman and questioning loyalty, I have manifested self esteem issues.

Am I fat? Is she prettier than me? Do you still love me? Will you still love me if I gain fifteen pounds? What about when I’m old and wrinkly? Are you happy? Am I the best sex you’ve ever had? Are you mad at me? Do you regret marrying me?

These are routine questions in my house, and my loving husband puts up with them most of the time. But on occasion he will let out a low growl, and fire will light in his eyes, and I know I need to let it rest.

Maybe someday - who knows when - I will gather enough self assurance to be secure in the fact that my husband loves me, finds me attractive, and doesn’t spend his spare time looking for and admiring better looking women. Maybe someday I will be comfortable in my own skin, no matter what size it wears. I’m really good at being in love. I’ve been really good at it since I was twelve years old. Maybe someday I’ll learn to love me with as much fervor and desperation as I have loved the amazing, and not so amazing, men in my life.