Find your own swan.

Overheard at the dentist's office:

"Why are you scarfing down lunch now? I thought you went out for lunch. Where you been?"

"I go tanning everyday at lunch. I'm dating this new guy who says he doesn't like me pale so I tan now."


WHHHAAAAAATTTTT THE F*%#?! I almost fell out of my seat, but I feared dropping People magazine, and I really, really needed to finish reading about Reese and Jake.

Now listen here: Dump his sorry, hairy ass right now. Text him. Email him. Write it in graffiti on a city bus. Stop taking his calls. Delete his messages. And then tell the whole world about what an A-rated prick he is.

Then go take a good look in the mirror. One arm on opposite shoulder and squeeze. Self-hug, honey. Then hug those little boys of yours and realize what an amazing creature God made you. Embrace your beauty and teach your kids to value people from the inside out. I'd roll over in a bin of snakes if Bird and Deal ever made a woman feel like she needed to lie in a bed of cancer rays to be worthy. The shame.

No woman, or man for that matter, but I'm dealing solely with women's self esteem issues here, should be made to feel like she needs to change for a man. (Fellow X-chromosomes make us feel bad enough.) "He does not define your self worth!" I wanted to scream. I was seething inside. And I wish she was too rather than accepting such nonsense as fact. An order, even.

We have enough screwed up messages telling us to be thinner yet curvier, erase those pores, smooth away that cellulite, pucker those lips, whiten those teeth, lift those boobs, carve away that belly. And let's not forget the photoshopping going on to make us think our hair should be a shiny mane strong enough to tie a barbell into it. We're turning into a nation of expressionless, Botoxed, tucked, bleached, blown out Stepford Hos.

Stop the madness. We are all victims of fashion, me included. But I make my own calls. I recently bought a spring little Lilly dress for a wedding rehearsal dinner in Florida with a resort casual dress code. What's more perfect than Lilly for such an affair? Unlike Mac Daddy, the uniform of khaki pants and a collared shirt wasn't going to work for this fashion maven seeking an outfit that would never meet playground sand.

So I try on my new dress, and here's Mac Daddy's comment: "I like the dress, just not on you."

Guess what, I wore it anyway. And for the record, I got a jillion compliments. Between you and me, I think Mac Daddy didn't like the dress because it wasn't clingy enough to show me off to his buddies whose wives aren't MILFs. Had he articulated such a thing, I would have worn a burlap bag emblazoned with "I'm a hottie in my own mind."

Confidence, ladies. We've earned it. Guard it vehemently. Preach it.