For the past year, every Sunday at 2 has been Fight Day. A bunch of my friends and I go out to a field and have Dagorhir fight days for about four hours. Dagorhir, for all you normal people, is a full-contact melee and ranged fighting battle game. Fighters generally use foamed-covered PVC or fiberglass pipes to represent our weapons.

It's sweaty, it's exhausting, and it's awesome.

This is my usual workout getup for practice in the colder months. The goofiness, however, is a year round quality.

However, for the first time since I've been going, it was unspeakably hot last Sunday. No problem, I thought. I threw on some short Under Armour shorts and a light work out top and I was on my way.

Well, after about 20 minutes into fighting, I was sweating and miserably hot. Two of my male friends had already discarded their shirts, I was wearing a sports bra underneath my workout top, I thought, hell, I'll join the club. I tossed my workout top into the pile.

The breeze hitting my abdomen was an almost ecstasy-inducing relief.

For about 20 seconds. Then I felt like I had to constantly justify my actions.

My little geek group of workout friends encompasses about eight to 12 guys and three other girls.

Two of the girls made small passing comments at me. One joked that I was "literally wearing nothing." The other told me that the less clothing I wear, the more people are going to try and hit me.

None of the guys made any comments.

The other one? Well she's never liked me, so.

I laughed the two comments off, because I honestly don't think my friends meant any harm with them. They talk smack to my male friend who takes his shirt like he's Fabio every single Sunday that's warm enough for his nipples to not frost over.

I'm 5'5, blonde, and well, I have curves. I feel like I always have to watch the way I dress, even when I'm getting sweaty and bruised, because I don't want to be "that blonde girl." You know the one. The one in every movie or TV show that the camera does a slow-mo of when she takes off her jacket, but she's either a bitch or bimbo? Yeah, that one.

I feel like, as soon as I dress for my own comfort, no one cares that I'm a dedicated workout junkie or video gamer or that I presented a research project at a psychological conference. I'm just a busty blonde bimbo.

I wasn't self-conscious because I wasn't proud of my body: I was questioning whether other people were judging me for being comfortable with my body.

And you know what? I realized I need to stop caring. I need to stop apologizing for dressing in an appropriate way that makes me comfortable.

I was wearing shorts and a sports bra. To work out. On a soccer field. In May.

If the sight of my thighs and belly buttons offends you, that's your problem.

If you think I'm "flaunting" my body for attention, stop being judgmental.

And even if I was, who cares? I work hard to stay in shape, not just to look good, but because I love running, being outdoors, and beating the hell out of my friends with dag weapons. Let me be proud of myself.

I wasn't born into perfect, eat my body weight in chocolate and still have washboard abs, genes like some of my very lucky friends. I've run until I puked. I've done squats until my legs felt like jelly. I have callouses on my hands from lifting weights. There were days when walking up my stairs was a struggle because my entire body was sore. I have earned every muscle on my body.

I became so absorbed in the thoughts about what other people thought about what I was wearing that it actually affected the way I fought. I was slower and broadcasting rookie mistakes that I got punished for time and time again with painful blows to my shoulders and stomach. Not to mention a bruise the size of my fist on my knee.

I was letting other people's opinions (whether real or imagined), ruin my fun. It wasn't until the drive back home that a quote popped into my head:

"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." - Eleanor Roosevelt

She's right. I'm confident in what I wear. Other people can think what they want about me, I just won't let it phase me anymore. I was comfortable in the outfit so I will continue to wear that outfit. It's as simple as that.

And the same can be said for really anyone. Maybe you don't have a "beach bod" but you want to wear a bikini? Or you don't have the flattest stomach but you want to rock a crop top?

Are you comfortable wearing those outfits? If you are, rock it. Everyone will always have opinions, it makes us human, but they don't define you.

Stop apologizing for what you want to wear. You don't need to make excuses. You don't need to justify why you chose to wear something. As long as what you're wearing is legal and appropriate (I'm not advocating wearing bikinis in church people), screw what everyone says.

Be in love with you. You put effort into your outfits. Be proud of them.

Next week, if it's hot again, I promise myself, I will go out there in the same style of workout clothes I wore last Sunday, but I won't care.

Because I'm the badass chick with a sword. I go to fight. I go to have fun. I go to beat my friends with foam-covered death sticks.