Today, I came across a sentence in a blog that I read, which stopped me just about dead. The author was talking about a very cool strapless dress that she had just bought, which she loves, and which made her very happy, sexy and hot and lickable and delicious. She said it wasn’t perfect–a little tight in the belly, a little loose in the bust, and a little low in back, which exposed her back fat. But so what, she continued on:
“Nobody really cares about my back fat except me and people who hate me, anyway, and who cares about the people who hate me?”
And I was gobsmacked, taken aback, startled and amazed by the absolute, simple genius of that statement, and a little irritated (not to mention kind of embarrassed) that the thought hadn’t occurred to me before, that I hadn’t thought of it myself. I mean, we hear that all the time, right? How people are too busy worrying about themselves and their own perceived flaws to spend any time thinking about yours.
But that sentence, right up there, nails down the suspicion that we have and that we can’t ever really let go of, because we are not stupid, we are realistic, and we might have even done it ourselves–people do talk about our flaws, and mock them, and all the happy hippy la la stuff we tell ourselves isn’t going to make the bitchy, judgmental assholes go away.
But the beautiful thing about that is the pithy, to-the-point, brilliantly simple shrug-off. Who cares about the bitchy, judgmental assholes? Who cares what a cowardly jerk thinks? Seriously.
is this such a difficult-to-grasp concept? Why do we spend so much time
worrying about the opinions of people who, in the end, do not matter
even a little bit? When we feel absolutely eat-me-up, outrageously
sexy, when we feel tough and strong and amazing, when we know that we
could conquer the world with a swing of our luscious hips and have
anyone we want with just a tiny upturn of our lip and the crook of our
littlest finger, we have the only opinion that matters, and the haters
can just fuck off.