I’m in Macy’s, shopping for new work clothes.  I see a jersey wrap dress, pull it out, and study it.  I like it.  It’s stylish, with a splashy red poppy print. Of course, I remind myself doubtfully, to wear a wrap dress, it helps if you have a small waist-

Well, that lets YOU out, sweetcheeks.

I thrust the hanger back on the rack.  Okay, here’s another dress – very bohemian, with an empire waist and a rich, dark paisley print, very Sienna Miller-

Just say no to boho, okay?  Prints are NOT your friend.  And as for an empire waist… everyone’ll be asking you when you’re due.

All right, I decide, maybe what I need isn’t a new dress, but… a pair of new shoes.  I head determinedly over to the ladies’ shoe department.  And that’s when I see them – a cute pair of black wedge boots.

Jeez… can you say “Herman Munster?”  Why don’t you just dye your skin green and put a big bolt through your neck?

Okay, maybe not the wedge boots.  What about these adorable leopard-print flats-?

No, no, NO!  You need height, sweetie, height!  Because let’s face it – tall and willowy, you ain’t.

With a sigh, I put the flats back on the display shelf and buy what I always buy – the sensible, comfortable, boring pumps with the two-inch heels.  After all, two-inch heels give me a little height (but not too much), and I’d only kill myself in those silly wedge boots, anyway.  Besides – who am I kidding?  I’m no fashionista.

Ya think?!  Hell, I’ve seen five-year-olds with more style than you!

Ah, yes, she’s back.  My Inner Bitch is back with a vengeance.  I sent her packing a while ago; but she always returns.  She offers up a constant interior (inferior) monologue in which everything – from my appearance to my weight to what I had for lunch – comes under scrutiny.. and always falls abysmally short.

If I have cereal for breakfast, she sniffs and says I should’ve had a boiled egg.  If I take the train, she reminds me that the bus is cheaper.  She tells me my eyes are too small, my butt is too big, and that I can’t write a parking ticket, much less a novel, so why don’t I give up on the writer thing, already?  Oh, and the curt answer my boss gave me yesterday?  Well, according to her, it’s obvious – I’m destined for unemployment.

And the worst part is, instead of telling Ms. Inner Bitch to stuff it sideways – which I would absolutely do if anyone else said these things to me – I listen.  I let her reduce me from a confident, smiling woman, pleased with my appearance and ready to take on the world, into an insecure, second-guessing puddle of anxiety.

Don’t get me wrong – if it’s constructive, criticism can be a good thing.  It can be a great motivator for change.  I may not like the revision comments that come back from my agent, but I know that her changes make the story stronger.  After all, she knows the market far better than I do.  I respect her judgement, and so I take her advice and make the changes.

That’s not to say that criticism – even if it’s well-meant – isn’t sometimes just plain wrong.  Learning when to accept and act on criticism, and when to ignore it, is something that comes with time and self-knowledge.

So your mother finds fault with your single status?  Tell her you’re happy being single,  thank her for her concern, and change the subject.

So your boss criticized your presentation (after he dumped it on you at the last minute)?   Let him know that you did the absolute best you could in the short time you were given.

So your sister thinks your skirt is way too short?  Ask her – who died and made her Tim Gunn?

I’ve decided I’ll beat Ms. Inner Bitch at her own game.  The next time I hear her critical voice start gearing up for a bitchfest in my head, I’ll tell her – politely but firmly – to please keep her opinions to herself.

And then I’ll tell her to stuff it sideways.