You know, I like to talk a big game, but the truth is I’m not much different than most women. I’m irrational and overemotional. I cry during sad movies. I whine when I don’t get my way. I’m hard to please, obsessed with baby animals, and I’m a terrible driver. Most of all, I’m incredibly judgmental. Hell, put me in a room full of gossiping harpies and watch me blend in. I’d play like a chameleon with my low cut top, a mudslide in my hand, and a condescending smirk on my face. Passersby would wonder if they just witnessed a Yaz commercial.

However, there is one thing about me that sets me apart from the majority of females in this world.

I’m OK with the way I look.

I do not stress about my dumpy thighs. I don’t stare in the mirror for hours at my forehead wrinkles. I’m not afraid of short sleeved shirts that might inadvertently feature my arm fat. Leaving my house without plastering copious amounts of make-up on my face isn’t a cardinal sin. I don’t fantasize about all of the plastic surgery I would get if only I had enough money. In fact, I do have enough money for plastic surgery and nothing has ever been injected into my lips. My breasts are still real.

This is not to say I do not have flaws. I have plenty of flaws and should I ever decide to post my picture on this website, I do not doubt that you’ll all be standing in line to offer very legitimate criticisms of my physique. A lot of you women will say, “How can she possibly make fun of my ankles when her ankles are nothing to write home about?”

And I will reply, “Easy. Like this: you have ugly ankles.”

See, the difference between most of you and me is I don’t mind the fact that my ankles may not be everyone’s cup of tea. On the other hand, you are busy firing up google to see if any ankle slimming procedures even exist. One person (or even ten thousand people) finding something distasteful about my appearance doesn’t cause me to lose any sleep. Anything but the most glowing review absolutely destroys you.

I learned a long time ago that I don’t have to be the most beautiful woman in the world. I merely have to be pretty enough to attract the type of men I’m interested in. I’m a married woman and my husband thinks I’m cute. Should my husband and I ever decide to call it quits, I’m confident that I would be able to catch the eye of someone equally appealing to me. So, as far as my looks go, I’d say they’ve served me pretty well.

The thing that drives me absolutely nuts is most women can say the same. Very few women in the world remain lonely, ignored, and completely rejected by the opposite sex. Almost any woman can at least get laid. Yet, I can walk up to any married woman on the street, ask her in a roundabout way if she has body issues, and the answer would be a resounding, “YES!” I just don’t get it. Her body was good enough to attract a husband, yet she apparently still has a fucking problem. Who, exactly, is she trying to impress?

Too many women waste their lives chasing some arbitrary form of physical perfection. There is no point to it. Even the women on the cover of Playboy magazine will eventually get old someday.

While we’re all on the subject of feminine beauty in society, let me ask you all a quick question. Why is it that a woman cannot be confident about her appearance without being referred to as ‘vain?’ After my last story, I was called shallow, conceited, vain, and full of myself…all because I had to audacity to admit that I had a pretty good body when I was 14 years old.

Ignoring the fact that looking good when you’re 14 is an entirely different animal than looking good when you’re in your 30’s, does no one else see anything perversely fucked up about this? Is Angelina Jolie the only woman on this planet who isn’t required to be riddled with insecurities?

I’m OK with the way I look. What is so distasteful about that? If I tossed and turned in my bed every night worrying about the state of my waistline, would I earn my ‘Real Girl’ card?

Give me a fucking break, people. Hating your bodies because they fail to measure up to some superficial, ever changing, socially imposed ideal of beauty doesn’t make you morally superior. It makes you retarded. Sitting in circles with your equally vapid girlfriends, breathlessly lamenting your big ass doesn’t make you humble. If anything, it makes you worthy of the criticism. If you’re so easily manipulated that an offhand comment about your nose can ruin your self esteem, then you deserve to cry into your cosmopolitan. Fatty.

I’m sick of being surrounded by self loathing people who elect to change their outsides because they have not deemed their inside worth improving. I’m tired of the notion that, as a woman, I’ve either got to be perpetually unforgiving of myself or an egomaniac. When someone gives me a compliment, I want to simply say, ‘Thank you.’ I do not want to feel compelled to argue or immediately start listing my faults. I’m tired of bulimia being the new black.