For the most part, I'm fairly comfortable with the way I look. I appreciate my height. My eyes are pretty. Genetics gave me good skin (thanks, Mom!) I can look at a picture of myself (when I'm polished and sparkly and fancy) and think that I look alright. But there will always be the bits that cause me angst: my extra-long torso paired with my stubby legs, my monster calves that prevent me from wearing most boots, and my ass. My robust, prominent, jiggly ass.
I am not my ass. I know this. I know that I am smart and funny and can make a mean blueberry pancake. I am kind and generous and if my friends or family ever need a mustache-on-a-stick or a shoulder to cry on, they know that I will do my best to provide both. My ass does not prevent me from being a good friend. It doesn't make me less smart. No one cares about my ass. But I do.
So when I'm walking across the street (with the walk signal, it should be noted) and a douchebag in a convertible Porsche yells at me to hurryup!fatass!, I will blush a furious shade of red and surreptitiously glance around me to confirm that yes, I am the only one in the crosswalk. Then I'll put on my sunglasses - even though it's cloudy - to hide my angry tears and hate myself for caring what some random idiot thinks about my body.
It's silly to let myself be so affected by a stranger's hateful words. I know this just like I know that I am more than my ass. But knowing that doesn't change the fact that I was affected by his words. Was affected because after I hit publish, I refuse to waste any more time or emotional energy on him. Other than to wish that the sky opens up and fills his car with rain.