After sharing a compilation of South of France photos, I received a nasty comment. Now I am not naive to the internet and the much scarier, no-longer-under-the-bridge trolls. I know that the downside of putting myself out there as a blogger is the opportunity for keyboard warriors to stretch their fingers and type away. I am lucky enough to admit that I have experienced very little of this negativity and online bullying. I am grateful that my corner of the internet and social media pages remain a positive and fulfilling place for me (and I hope others). Lots of people take the time to comment wonderful words that truly brighten my day, and I am immensely thankful. It’s unfortunate that with so many lovely interactions, the negative ones stick up like giant rose thorns. Sadly, I, like most people, can ignore the brilliantly-colored petals only to be pricked and injured by one rogue thorn. Such was my experience recently.
I received a comment that called me an “American cow” and told me that I needed a diet. It was from an account with no picture, of course, and it was accompanied by a couple of emojis. Surprisingly, not even one of the two available cow emojis. What a missed opportunity, right? Now I would love to say that I saw this comment, deleted it, and thought nothing more of it. I know deep down that this miserable, anonymous troll account shouldn’t matter in the slightest to me. I don’t believe satisfied or successful people take the time to tear others down and purposefully flame insecurities. Alas, I saw the comment and immediately went to view the photos again. Did I miss something? Did I look fat? Had I gained weight?
My mind instantly went to the fact that I was enjoying my trip. I was indulging in pasta, baguettes, and pizza. I was sipping on the occasional glass of wine or Aperol spritz. Although I was walking more, I wasn’t strength training like I normally did, and, to be honest, I didn’t really care. I knew that I’d be back to my usual routine in the States at some point, but until then, I wanted to soak in every moment of our time in France. I knew that if I deprived myself, I would look back and think, “You fool! Try the gelato! Eat the fresh croissant! Dip the bread in the leftover pasta sauce!” I’ll probably never live abroad for this long again, so why hold back? Why worry if I gained a couple of pounds or lost some muscle?
I really surprised even myself with how many fucks (zero) I had given about this. Zero concerns about celebrating my Betsy-in-France lifestyle to the fullest, and I am proud of myself for that. In a world that constantly tells women to be less-than, smaller-than, more-reserved-than they really are, I’m glad that I’ve reached a point where I can, for the most part, unapologetically block that useless noise out. Unfortunately, this mean-spirited comment burst my bubble and snapped that confidence away from me for a split second.
It sped me right into the fast lane of self doubt. Maybe I did need to restrict myself more? Maybe I did need to start working out again? I know French clothing runs smaller, but maybe I was just huge? Maybe I was a fat American? Maybe I did need a diet? Was this faceless account with a screen name composed of random letters and numbers correct? I showed my husband the comment. I prepared myself for some sweet words and tender assurances. However, my husband surprised me by laughing. Loud, deep-belly-formed laughter. Like any wife, I thought, “Seriously? You’re getting a kick out of this?” My eyes narrowed at him disapprovingly, and I felt embarrassed for even showing him the rude comment in the first place. I asked if he wanted to look at the photos that I had posted. Would he see something that I missed? My husband declined and looked at me incredulously.
He (quickly) explained that he was laughing because it was so ridiculous. Why would I ever care about this? Why would I ever let such a stupid comment bother me even for a second? I didn’t need to second-guess myself over one moronic opinion. I realized that he was right, and then I joined in laughing. I decided not to waste another moment on those asinine five words. Until reading them, I wasn’t worried about my body, and I wasn’t obsessing over how I looked in those photos.
Days later, Patrick and I went to the beach in Saint-Tropez. We ate lunch at a beautiful beach club with incredible Italian food. I ordered pasta, dunked bread, and washed it all down with a couple of cocktails. I cleaned my plate because I was hungry and because the meal was absolutely delicious. We went to the beach after, and I read and lounged in the sun like a carefree cat. We listened to DJ beats carried on the breeze from the numerous beach clubs. I swam in the clear blue water in a newly purchased purple swimsuit that I felt marvelous in. It was a picture-perfect day, and I had Patrick snap a photo.
I didn’t prepare for this photo. I didn’t faux tan, starve myself, or work out harder (or even at all) that day. I didn’t worry about the full meal that I had just savored. I didn’t edit this photo – no filter, no lighting adjustments, and no changes to my body. That’s exactly how I looked at the beach at that moment in time. Sure, I could look at this photo and start picking myself apart. I could let my mind fill with insecurities about what others may see when they view it themselves. However, what I notice about this photo is that I’m smiling and relishing a day that I will always remember. I think I look joyful and relaxed, and I think that I look like me. What moooooore could I ever ask for?
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