I’ve held off on writing this post for over a week now, just because I’m not sure exactly how to say what I want and need to say.
So bear with me. As usual 🙂
Last weekend was oodles of fun. My friend Stephanie and I headed over to 612Brew to join my aunt and uncle for a brewery tour and beer tasting. They were also filming Food Network’s Great Food Truck Race–pretty cool! It was a gorgeous day, which around these parts lately means it wasn’t raining. So we sat outside on the patio sampling the different beers (for you locals, the ginger beer is delish), sampling the underwhelming food, and laughing our butts off for most of the day. Good times.
I should also mention that I finally fit into a pair of colored jeans–a material that is usually quite unforgiving for those of us with dimpley cellulite. And while I regret the top I chose to wear with those pants, I love those pants. And they looked good on me. It’s nice to feel confident in yourself once in awhile! Shocking!The pants confidence fed into me making good choices the rest of the day: I didn’t drink all of my beer–they gave us a flight of four plus a pint! I had most of the pint and sipped a bit on the rest. I also didn’t make poor food choices. I had a few bites of this and that, but I mostly stuck to my trusty bottle of water.
I was feeling pretty good about my day and choices. And then it happened.
As we were walking back to our car, there were two boys (definitely not men) sitting on the corner, drumming on some plastic buckets for money. Whatever. Do your thing, I guess.
And then, in reference to me as I passed, the a-holes say, “Looking good in those pink pants!”
Excuse me? Are we in junior high?
A comment like this from boys like that would normally have destroyed me, as pathetic as it sounds. I would have cried, questioned who and what I am, what I’m doing, and on and on and on. It would have set me back days, if not weeks.
But new Manda Kay didn’t crumble. I flinched, yes. I was upset for a few minutes, but then I got angry.
Who did they think they are? Where do people get off making comments like this? I don’t know if it was meant to be complimentary (probably not) or a rude comment on me (probably), but regardless: shut up!
You don’t know me, you don’t know my life. You don’t know the steps I’m taking to actually look good in those pink pants. You don’t know the hard work I’ve put in to actually have the confidence and body to fit into and rock those damn pants.
I didn’t judge you, sitting on the corner, drumming on plastic buckets, hoping to score a quarter from a wealthy passerby. Everyone has issues, everyone has their something in life. Do you, be you. And let me be me.
Like I said, I got angry. So I called the cops–something I’ve never done. But I reported those dummies for public nuisance. I don’t know that they figured out it was me, I doubt it changed anything, but it gave me my power back.
I won’t allow anyone to tell me how, when, or where I can live. I decide how I feel, I decide my life. You have the same rights to yours and your metaphorical plastic bucket drums.
After I called the po-po, we went to the movie. I enjoyed it. I didn’t dwell on the comment or them. I got up the next morning and knocked out a great workout. And then I made good food choices, worked out all this week, felt great about myself, and lost two pounds.
So, suck it Drummer Boy. I look damn good in those pink pants. In any “pants”, for that matter. Any day, every day.