Okay, so.  I need that one guy that reads my blog to like… blank out for a couple of minutes because I need some girl talk time.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here… and stuff like that. Long whinging post ahead. I’m just talking it out.

If anyone is sneaky enough you’ve found my futile attempts at dropping the pounds this year. Sad to say, I’ve failed, once again. I am, once again, sitting at 20lbs over my OMFG I CAN’T EVER GET TO THAT WEIGHT point.  Essentially I need to lose 20lbs before I can even start to lose weight. Encouraging, hmmm?

I was thinking about my post last week, about what that DJ had to say about Kirstie Alley (how she should just be happy being fat) and I realized that everyone anyone says about anyone who is fat, I internalize. I automatically assume they are talking about all fat people and that includes me. When she said that about Kirstie, I also automatically take it onto myself that she is talking about me and you (if you’re fat) and everyone else.

It bothered me because it’s something I’ve really been bothered BY lately. This whole… diet thing. I’m not a big eater. I just don’t move a lot. I prefer to sit at my computer and do things rather than go take a jog somewhere. Me? Jog? You must be out of your MIND. What’s more, I have no desire to change that. I like my sedentary habits. I have online commitments to things that I love and want to keep.

I don’t mind eating healthy at all. I just don’t like cooking and a 10 piece nugget meal tastes better than a salad. I mean, it’s just that simple. Cooking everyday or every three days and carting my meals around with me and not eating what others can eat (and only having 1-2 measly lbs to show for it)… it doesn’t last long, for me.  There are things I feel better when I eat, and things I should avoid because they make me feel bad when I eat them. I’m not always successful at sticking to those guidelines.

I always say to myself  that I am a grownup. I do what I want. I eat what I want, when I want to eat it, where I want to eat it. I don’t like to exercise and I just refuse to do it. So all of these complaints should lead to the fact that I should just be happy being fat.

But I’m not. And I can’t be. I make attempts at it, but in the end I’m just not happy with the size of the clothes I have to buy and what I look like in the mirror. I’m not happy that the major reason I don’t get together when my friends travel the country is because I’m always the biggest and least attractive and I don’t like feeling like the special friend. Or the girl that watches the purses and the coats. Or the girl that gets elbowed out of the way so men can get to them. No thanks, I can feel all bottom of the totem pole at home. Not that it’s their fault at all. It’s just something I feel when I am out with others. I don’t measure up. I don’t think I can measure up.

I said a few weeks ago that I wanted to start dating. And despite all the kind words, I just don’t see what other people say they see. More to the point, I think men see what others see, but feel they’re ‘too good’ to date me. And if they were to date me, there’d be certain criteria I’d have to fulfill. And while it’s easy to say well you don’t need that guy anyway, the reality is that just about every guy is that guy. He never wants to think of  himself as that guy. He won’t admit to being that guy– but no guy is going to choose the fat virgin. He might end up with her. He might settle for her. He won’t choose her. I don’t know that I blame him.  That is my reality.

I read people’s diatribe’s and long, long, LONG and unrealistic list of demands. If that’s what they truly believe, I’m in that same place I’ve been before where I don’t think there are men out there looking for women like me. (I swear, Tex, if you come up in here with some lid for every pot I will fly to H-Town and BITE YOU! Wait, you would enjoy that…).

I realize that it’s easy to be melancholy and down on myself than it is to get up off of my ass and start doing something about the amount of space it takes up. It’s easier to sit in the dark corners and lament about how men don’t want me. It’s easier to look for the bad news before the good news. I’m kind of lazy, and so I shoot for the easy.

And when I am done with the easy, I look a little deeper and see if I can find the strength to do it one more time. Did you see Michael Jackson’s This is It? I loved it. Every moment. Especially how he was so encouraging to the band and the singers, he wanted to admonish them with love. L-O-V-E. In my head, when I say ‘one more time‘, for some reason I hear him saying it. I’m not encouraged by it, or anything, but it does make me smile.  Anyway. One More Time.

And as much as I would like it to be about me, I know in my heart that it’s not. Were it for me, I’d stay fat. For me, I am not going to get up and exercise. Nor am I going to eat healthy or grocery shop. I’m doing it so I don’t feel like the fat kid. I’m doing it so I have a fighting chance at being noticed. I’m doing it so I can walk past a mirror and like what I see in it. I’m doing it so I can take a picture and not cut it off at the neck (international sign on every dating site, ever, for This Girl is Trying to Hide How Big She Is. And NEXT.

And I know I will get some nice comments and thank you… but I listen to men and what they say when they think other people (women) aren’t listening. I watch what they do and how they react to certain people. And it’s not that I don’t just adore my personality and think I’m the greatest, ’cause I do think I am awesome. It’s that non-conformity along this particular vein has put me in a place I don’t want to be. Conforming, along this vein, might pull me out of it. I have to do something, because right now I feel like I can’t date until I can pull a glance from someone.

And right now I don’t. And I don’t blame them.

One More Time,

Anyone who’s known me for longer than five minutes will tell you that I’m a big fan of two bands: Bon Jovi and Dave Matthews Band. I’ve been a fan of Bon Jovi since I was about……God, I don’t know, TWELVE?!? New Jersey and Slippery When Wet were the anthem of my Jr High and High School years. Just the beginning strains of ‘Never Say Goodbye’ is enough to make me GO BUY a Bic Lighter so I could flip my bic and sway and sing/cry along. Gah. I love them! And Bon Jovi has just gotten so much better with age, evolving and changing with the times. LOVE their new rocky, gravelly, southern sound…grrrooowwwllll…. NUM.

DMB, on the other hand, was an acquired taste. I didn’t like them, at first. At all. Too mellow, too sleepy, I can’t understand a word that one cute guy up front says, he mumbles too much and that guy is playing an electric fiddle. COME ON. So they were a big fat NO, until I got a job working with a guy that… now when I say LOVES, that’s probably a major understatement… but he LOVES DMB. Owns everything they’ve ever thought of recording, goes to every show he can attend, and has for years. A real true-blue honest to goodness fan. One year, our company sent him, me, and one other guy (one of his besties, coincidentally) to a conference in Orlando. MOST fun I’ve ever had at a work conference. The days sucked, cause it’s just traveling from one booth to another, looking at boring things I have no intention of buying or even research when I get back to the office, but the nights? Awesome.

It was in Orlando in the spring, so it was warm. They rented a convertible and since I don’t drink much, I was nominated the Designated Driver. No big, I got to drive a convertible around Orlando and sit with these guys who put the FUN in funny. I was told I am the funnest non-drinker ever. At some point over the weekend, I was inducted into the DMB fandom. Love those guys. [Read more →]