I’m Not A Bitch Just Because I Like The Way I Look


If I’m being completely upfront, most of the time I consider myself attractive.

Maybe hot in a specific way. In a muted way. In my way. I don’t have big boobs and my hair isn’t blonde. My skin is freckled and far, faaaar from perfect. I’m not sure I even know how to properly blow dry my bangs and thanks to the wine habit I’ve picked up, my tummy isn’t as Marisa Cooper as it once was. I’m older and my under eye bags are more resistant to cover up than they used to be. I’m probably getting age lines and should keep an eye out that none of my freckles turn to worrisome moles.

But most days, despite every imperfection the internet tells me I have, I think I’m cute. I think I’m worthy and nice and pleasant enough to look at.

And when the perfect storm hits, when I’m rocking ass hugging jeans and my lips are striking the right note with some knock off Kylie Jenner lipstick, I feel hot. I feel sexy.

There’s a shame society likes to cast on women who consider themselves attractive.

It’s disguised under a flimsy ‘you should be humble’ act. You know what that means? Humility is a low view of one’s own importance. It’s stuffing yourself down smaller. It’s quieting your voice. It’s never verbalizing your needs or wants because, remember? You need to be humble. You need to be less. You need to be quieter. Smaller. You are not that important.

But I think I am important. I don’t think I’m Queen of the World or Rihanna or even the hot bartender everyone is in love with down the street. I’m not confused on my identity or my importance. I don’t think I come before anyone else. I want people to be happy. I want people to be satisfied and okay and I’ll step aside for others in a heartbeat. I like to think I hit a balance between selflessness and self-care.

So, am I not humble just because I think I’m cute?

Am I a bitch because I’ve decided I like what I see in the mirror?

The personal relationship I have with my body, with my face, with what I am forced to see every single day has no bearing on how I treat other people. It’s a separate relationship.

As a teenager, like most teenagers, I was riddled with insecurity. In middle school, I wouldn’t take off my jacket because exposing my arms made me feel uncomfortable. The first time I wore shorts to school, I went to the bathroom and cried during lunch. I felt awkward, exposed, like everyone else could see all the things I hated about myself. Like those were the only things they saw when they looked at me.

That’s not a fun way to live. It’s not a fun feeling to be consumed with.

Now, in my mid-twenties, I’m fairly confident. Yes, I’ve got my issues and things I wish didn’t exist. We all do. But I don’t feel the need to hide like I used to. I recognize flaws and somehow still like who I am, and that includes what I look like.

It’s not self-absorbed to snap a selfie. It’s not arrogant to think, “Damn, I look good.”

We’ve just decided it should be.

So, let’s stop? Let people be happy. Let people love themselves in whatever capacity they can. We already have so many obstacles convincing us we’re not worthy, that we don’t look good enough, that we’re not enough. So if someone, despite all odds, has decided they like themselves, let them. It’s so much better that way.

Give it a try some time. I highly recommend it.