In which I reference an embarrassing amount of pop music.

After I laid out a self-deprecating zinger the other night, my buddy seriously questioned my level of self-esteem. I laughed it off because, hey, I babble incoherently on the internets all about me, me, me and—and this is the kicker—I actually think people will be interested in what I have to say. I have deluded myself into thinking you’re all out there in web-land hanging onto my every word.

Me? Self-esteem issues? Don’t be ridiculous.

But as much as I claim to be happy with myself, I have sometimes wondered, "Am I really good enough? Do I truly measure up?" And, folks, up until a couple days ago I probably couldn’t give you a straight answer. (Mostly because I really dislike talking about my feelings so if you’d asked me, I would’ve dodged the question and cracked a joke. ‘Cause that’s how I roll.) But Tuesday morning was my epiphany.

There I was jumping on my bed before work, singing Kelly Clarkson, and I finally got it. Finally understood. My grand realization:

I AM FABULOUS

Seriously. At the risk of sounding horribly arrogant I just have to say, guys, I am awesome. I think I have a really great attitude and I'm fun and I'm smart and I'm a little bit pretty and I'm generally a nice person and, dang it, I'm just fabulous!*

And you know what else? The people who've hurt me don't matter. Ya heard that? YOU DON'T MATTER TO ME ANYMORE. You can never make me feel worthless ever again. You can never hurt me again. Because I don't deserve that. I deserve something better than what you were offering me. I deserve better than you. So suck. on. that.

So that's why, in the throws of self-actualization, I was standing on my bed in the middle of last night in boxers and a tank top making this out of my bedroom wall . . .

. . . and listening to this song.

I'm telling ya, you've got to get on the Empowerment Train. It's a helluva ride.

*Also, I have cellulite. And I'm flighty and irresponsible. And often quite snarky. But I'm still fabulous.