I wear Polo Ralph Lauren shirts and relaxed-fit Levi’s with fitted caps and sneakers. Yet, I absorb GQ each month without insecurity, without the agony of suffering an inadequate wardrobe lacking Michael Bastian shirts and Bottega Veneta denim; I know Glenn O’Brien doesn’t have me in mind when he advises about lapels and complementary ties. That’s fine. I appreciate the glimpse into a lifestyle that doesn’t suit me because I appreciate experiences beyond my own. (I also read because there’s a good chance Drew Magary will put together a great piece, and he always shows good hustle.)

But the “Am I Overhearing You Correctly?” editor letter that Jim Nelson penned for GQ‘s May 2013 issue marks the first time I felt marginally insulted by the fashion industry’s relentless judgment and all its vitriolic smugness. This portion in particular, where Nelson poetically obliterates a vapid, short-but-confident man with the expected Napoleon trope, resonated longest:

At a sushi bar recently, I sat two stools away from a stunningly gorgeous woman. She was soon joined by a small, stocky dude I recognized from my gym–and also from the dictionary entry for “Napoleonic complex.” Nobody likes him, because he throws the dumbbells around, and worse, he sweats like a sperm whale, leaving an unctuous, marine-like residue on the weights.

Actually, maybe I wasn’t even really insulted. It’s not like Nelson was talking about me. I was more stunned that the exclusivity sentiments fostered in these pages of high-fashion and lifestyle guidelines for men reared its head so aggressively. It takes a lot more than that to inspire any internal inadequacy for failing to meet the magazine’s unspoken-but-insinuated ideals, but it manages to shatter the illusion I regarded for GQ as a publication deemed to make all men better rather than a specific.

I heard Stanley Tucci’s voice from The Devil Wears Prada in my head while writing that last graph: “Yes, because that’s really what this whole multibillion-dollar industry is about, isn’t it? Inner beauty.” Again, my willful concessions.

And then I wondered if all of Nelson’s contempt stems from disappointment that the “stunningly gorgeous woman” was there to meet with Nelson’s Napoleon of the Nearest Equinox that “nobody likes.” It sounded personal for Nelson. Personal in the way  self-absorbed teenagers don’t like the funny-looking kid because the funny-looking kid doesn’t like what they like–the kind of snap judgment that I worked hard to eliminate after adolescence, as soon as I realized people aren’t books to judge by covers.

Maybe it hit home for me. I’m a short, stocky guy with a tall, slim fiancée who’d be out of my league in a Hollywood flick. But here I am, and there she is, and even if my conversation isn’t always enthralling, I shouldn’t be concerned that the guy at the next table is chewing silently to decide my worthiness when the decision was never his to make.

The letter stuck with me as I scrolled through the rest of the FOB, unable to shake the feeling that Nelson decided it was time to start editing his reader’s lives, too. Magazine content is no longer enough–he’s ready to trim our fat by any means, including eavesdropping on unsuspecting conversations to evaluate their merit.

It was more arrogant than I’d learned to expect.