Okay, so. In the not-so-distant-past, I had words with someone and the argument culminated, as they tend to do, in a very nasty exchange on our opinions of one another. The final volley being that I “Could stand to miss a meal” and that I needed to “Take a look at myself” thus implying I was, well, fat.
Y’all, I am 5’8′ and wear a size 10. I gave birth to 3 kids, none of which weighed under 8 pounds and I used every single pregnancy as an excuse to eat everydamnthing. All the time.
So no, I’m not tiny. I’m not built to be tiny. None of the women in my family are. It is what it is.
But this…. This stung. I actually moped for a few days. I wore all my big, shapeless clothes. I toned down my makeup and flattened my hair.
I tried to be invisible.
What. The. Fuck!?!?!
Here’s the thing. I am NOT the number on the scale. I am NOT the number on the tag in my pants. I forgot that for a minute and let some hateful bitch who is miserable in her own skin make me feel like less.
Then… THEN I got pissed off. And it all came back.
The fitted tops. The big hair. The crazy eyeliner. The bright red lipstick. The heels and patterned Converse. I brought it ALL back.
Because I’ll be damned if I let some hateful twat dictate who I am or make me feel like less.
To paraphrase Kasey Jones. “I can always get skinny but you’ll never not be a bitch”.
Will someone else say something hateful and hurt my feelings?? Probably. It happens.
Will I shake that shit off like an ugly blazer?? You’re damn right I will.
Because let’s face it. Life is pretty damn sweet and not everyone has to approve.