I’m going on strike.
From now on, whenever I’m with a woman and she starts whining about the way she looks, I’m just going to say, “Stop it.”
I’m not talking about general discussions on hair color and pretty things to wear. I’m talking about the self-hate. You know what I mean.
Don’t tell me about how fat you are, or how you’re trying to lose the fat. Stop it.
Don’t tell me that your hair didn’t come out right, or what you did to try to make it right. Stop it.
Don’t show me every piece of evidence that you’re getting old, and then tell me every single thing you’re doing to make it look like you aren’t. Stop it!
I don’t need to hear the run down of all your unfavorite body parts.
I don’t need every single detail of how unsatisfied and unhappy you are every single time you look in the mirror.
Don’t just stop talking about it. For the love of God, please stop thinking about it. Please, please. Otherwise, what are you going to talk about when you really do get old? What would you talk about if you were in an accident (knock on wood) and lost all your limbs? And your face? And your boobs?
If you believe in immortal souls, what will your soul talk about after it’s left your body? The fact that it has a saggier butt than the other souls? The fact that it wished it’d had more time to style its soul-hair?
Stop making yourself miserable. And stop boring me, please. Because I love you and I want you to worry about better things.
