Just stop it.

Drinking: Blackstone Cabernet (eh…it was there)

Listening to: Nothing, but what’s playing in my head is R. Kelly – “A Woman’s Threat”

I stepped on a scale before and I didn’t like the number. And I know it’s just a number. Age is just a number too, but it doesn’t stop me liking birthday candles less each year.

This is a brief blog detailing  my intermittent, utter hatred with being a girl. It takes quite a bit of work to flip the switch from feeling ugly to feeling beautiful, even though I’m not sure I ever come close to either end of the spectrum.

Being a girl certainly seems to comes with its own special sort of cash prizes — drinks on the house, a free lunch “just because,” cover charges waived, etc. — “kindnesses” you know aren’t extended to everyone. But for every friendly bartender, there’s a low-life on every corner leering at you with a depravity that makes you want to retch. There’s the fear of walking anywhere alone. There’s the general mistrust you are taught — unfortunately, you come to learn, for good reason.

But those are the more serious things you endure as a female.

What I hate on a micro level that eats away at me in insidious fashion is never feeling like I’m enough. Like I’m doing enough… Like I’m keeping up…

At any given moment, I’m disappointed with myself for something purely superficial. Horrible skin that I make worse with picking. Messy fingernails. Needing to shave my stupid legs. Wanting to work out, but skipping to eat bad food and drink beer. Forever needing a haircut. Feeling like I have to go tanning because this pallor just does not suit me, then sitting there with those ridiculous goggles on wondering what the method is doing to my body. Eyebrows needing plucking. Finding it impossible to wash my face before I go to bed, to ensure that I wake up hating myself. Never drinking enough water. Retaining water. Cellulite. My staggering metabolism.

It’s just this constant feeling of never being able to keep up. never having enough discipline. The feeling that there’s always someone doing it better. The feeling that it’s only going to get harder, get worse. The wonder if, when the compliments stop, when the cash prizes cease, will I still be able to feel good about myself when I already feel this consumed?

For the record, I know there are way worse things to worry about, and I thank God life is so good otherwise that I can even sit here and ruminate about such trivial shit. It’s not a unique problem. It’s not profound. It’s just what’s weighing heavily on me at the moment — no pun intended.

“If you don’t stop,
Someone’s gonna lay in your bed.
And someone’s gonna eat your food.
And someone’s gonna wear your clothes.
And someone’s gonna fit your shoes.
And someone’s gonna get your keys.
And someone’s gonna open your door.
Someone’s gonna get your check.
This is a woman’s threat.”