I'm a troll and a hater — but only to myself.
It's really thanks to Lori Goldstein and a little interview snippet that QVC shared during commercial breaks that I started to realize that maybe I needed to rethink the way I talk about myself.
In the commercial, she's wearing several different funky outfits, all her style. Almost none of the pieces are anything I would ever wear, but I still think, "Damn, she's rocking it." Put me in those clothes and people would be all, "Oh, are you letting your toddler dress you for the week?"
The more I saw the commercial though, the harder I thought about it. "I actually like that vest," I'd say to myself. "I love the color of her pants... But it would never work on me."
Jumpers. Skinny jeans. Fluorescent colors. Red lipstick. Shin-length skirts. None of those things can be incorporated into my wardrobe.
As much as I love them, they look too weird on me. Out of place. They work on these people I see on TV, but they're pioneers. They're leading the charge in what it means to have style and a sense of fashion.
Lori, meanwhile, says, "Make these clothes your own. Buy one piece, or 100 pieces; whatever works for you. What's so exciting is that everyone is really making it their own." And she means it.
This week I've been trying something. I've been wearing outfits I put together in my head when I buy new clothes or shoes. High-heeled ankle booties with my skinny jeans. Long maxi dresses and oversized shrugs.
The suckiest part in all of this is that I see others like me who don't fit the average mold and I think they're amazing. More than that, I cheer them on to break the made-up rules we have for ourselves left and right with their style, their voice, their lifestyles.
Case in point: Women in bikinis. I want to wear a bikini so badly, but I can't. Because stretch marks. Because jiggly thighs. Because weird armpit-fat side boob things. I will rip my physical appearance in a bikini apart up so hard that there are barely shreds of myself left to shove into the top skirted one piece I always fall back on.
I can, however, see a women with a body identical to mine, blemishes and cellulite included, and think, "Whoa, look at her rocking that bikini! Way to go, mama!" WHY?!
Why does an anonymous stranger who I don't even KNOW deserve celebration more than I do? Why am I holding myself up to insane standards while cheering her on for just being the way she is? Why can I applaud her self-confidence but bitch-slap myself for thinking I'm vain for feeling good about myself?
I'm a troll. I'm a hater. I say the worst things about myself. Whatever horrible thing you may think about me, I promise I've thought it 1,000 times and worse.
No more, though.
Starting now, I'm just going for it. I will be one of those women I admire for owning themselves. Their style. Their voice. Their path. Their destiny.
Their f*cking red lipstick.
This article was originally published at domesticpirate.com. Reprinted with permission from the author.