Pinterest Envy

A few scant weeks ago, one of my oldest friends sent me an invitation to Pinterest, which I am now convinced is a tool of Satan. At the time, I had heard of enough people being on it, and figured that *gasp!* I was missing out on a trend, so I signed on. And my life hasn’t been the same since. In that, I now waste more time than ever before, especially at work. And here I thought Facebook was the ultimate time-suck. Please. FB ain’t got nothin’ on Pinterest. (And for those of you who don’t know, Pinterest is just where a lot of women (and a few dudes, mainly the artsy types, and metrosexuals like my ex who is of course on there infrequently posting hipster shit) post pictures of things they want or like or ideas they have. It’s that simple.)

The truth is, Pinterest is awesome. And addicting. The problem with it is, you are literally overloaded with ideas. It’s like what would happen if your brain actually worked all the time. (Ditto with FoodGawker.com. I warn you: Don’t go there, unless you plan on being there for several hours, are prepared to plan your menu for the next 612 days, and won’t be happy until your ass is a size 32.)

(yeah, that’s a Jack and Coke slushie. you’re welcome.)

Which brings me to my quandary. I have a mad case of the wants, and Pinterest only exacerbates that. You find yourself having simultaneous NEEDS: you want to cook THAT chicken parmesan casserole in THIS gourmet kitchen wearing THOSE shoes while making THESE homemade toys for your kids (I don’t even have any fucking kids!) while your hair LOOKS just like that model’s in the picture, all while it snows outside and your doting husband is wandering around doing ingenuous home improvement projects all before he slips that PERFECT rose gold bracelet on your wrist to say thanks for just being your wonderful, sparkling self, and then offers an inspirational Bible quote.

(bullshit. but bullshit I want.)

Pinterest makes me realize what kind of person I will never be. It’s like a horrible extension of Facebook, where people routinely post the most dazzling facts and pictures of their lives. I mean, think about it: wouldn’t Facebook be a lot more palatable if people posted pictures of their post-baby cellulite and shot video of their fights with their husbands over his wandering eye? It would for me. It’d make the fucking thing a lot more human, at least for my schadenfreude-loving ass.

Pinterest just reminds me of what I am not, who I am not, and what I will never have because I lack money, a husband, kids and a great body. And good hair. And an organized, persistent spirit.

Sometimes I think I don’t have kids because I truly would be a horrible mother, and yes, Pinterest has brought this idea to my forefront. And now the reason I think I would be a horrible mother is because their nurseries wouldn’t be painted with some elaborate stencil, and I wouldn’t make my own laundry detergent, and I don’t have clever birthday party ideas, I’m not going to spend hours making Harry Potter cake balls, and I don’t make toys out of empty coffee cans. I’m creative, yes, but Christ on a cracker! I would have to wander off to the land of Bad Motherhood if Pinterest is any gauge of quality.

I’m also convinced that there are a lot of pro-ana girls on there, since there appears to be an abundance of pins featuring ridonkulously thin women in exercise clothing, Victoria Secret models with captions like, “Do you think a VS model would skip her workout today?” and then twenty some-odd comments from chimers-in below it that say, “No!!!! Glad u posted this. It’s gr8.” Whereas I have a category that features pictures of women I aspire to look/be like: Adele, Crystal Renn, Tina Fey, Christina Hendricks. Seriously, I would bust a nut if I could be a size 10/12 for all eternity. My ass is never going to look like Jillian Michaels. And that’s okay. (I guess.)

So I stay away from the Thinspiration Bitches, whose pencil-sized throats I’d love to strangle while force-feeding them one of the cupcakes I just posted a picture of. (I post a lot of really decadent recipes. Like, A LOT.) Part of me thinks I could learn from them, that I myself could use some inspiration and goal-setting, especially since I want to get FORTHEREALZ about losing weight in 2012. But there’s only so much rah-rah I can take. And it takes more than a picture for me. If I want to inspire myself to put down the fried mozzarella stick and eat an apple instead, I perhaps should take a picture of me in my current state, posed in my bra and undies, and tape that hot shit to my fridge. (Paolo, the weird fuck that he is, would probably see it and steal it.)

(This is why Lane Bryant shouldn’t make thongs.)

Anyway, my point is, Pinterest reminds me of how ideal other women’s lives are, and I’m very much in the throes of “the grass is greener” syndrome. You could argue that I just don’t appreciate a goddamned thing, and that wouldn’t be entirely off. I just feel like other people’s perfection is in my face all the time – Facebook, Pinterest, magazines, online sources – and I’m being constantly reminded of what I am not. And may never be. And what kinds of houses I will never live in, looks I will never pull off and a life I might not get to lead.

For some, as with the pro-ana stuff, it may be inspiring and motivating. It’s depressing for me. Why isn’t there a methed-out trailer park trick with 4 kids (she only knows the location of her youngest 3) posting snippets of her life on Pinterest? Here’s me with my belly shirt on! Made it myself! Or, How to con your pharmacist out of Sudafed: Top 10 tricks! Or, How not washing your hair for 10 days will let you make the chicest chignon!

 

Of course, I kid, but that chick is noticeably absent from Pinterest (and only just now making a splash on Facebook.) And such absences make me and my imperfect ass feel conspicuous.

I’ve got to shake this. (And giving up Pinterest and social media is not an option. DEAR GOD! WOMAN, ARE YOU CRAZED?) One thing I would like to start moving toward in 2012 is not giving a red hot shit about other people’s lives. I’ve got to stop coveting what other people have and live more by the mantra about being willing to let go of living the life we have planned so we can live the life that is waiting for us. There’s something nice about that sentiment, comforting. And also really lazy. But mainly, I like it.

I must stand firm in ridding myself of the notion that I’m a freak because I’m still childless and unmarried, and not living in a house with a picket fence and driving a Range Rover and sitting in front of a fire at night, as snow gently drifts to the ground, while gathering around a table and playing Scrabble and eating popcorn with my family while wearing designer jeans in a size 6 with my long, perfectly mussed hair in a low side pony. FUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKKKKK. Even typing that made me wistful.

And I need to get out of that envious mode of thinking because a) it’s counterproductive as hell. I mean, really, it gets me nowhere. If it motivated me to bring those things into my life, or make changes, then that would be one thing. Instead, for me, it’s just destructive thinking. B) I know people who really have drawn the shit end of the stick in life. Who seriously have undergone some shit that would have destroyed my ass. And I’m almost positive that they’re not crawling out from said sorrow and pain by wringing their hands and acting like jealous hussies at every turn. (They also are probably not spending 3 hours a day on Pinterest perusing articles about how to make a magnetic bulletin board out of an old cookie sheet and spray paint.)

I think so, so much of life is about acceptance. When I look back on my mistakes and epic fails, many of them came about because I couldn’t accept certain things: that so-and-so didn’t love me; that, in fact, I wasn’t old enough to handle that situation; that I can’t drink an entire bottle of tequila and be “buzzed”; that I am never going to be a size 4 with blonde hair and blue eyes, though God knows I tried with hydrogen peroxide and aqua blue contacts in high school – and consequently ended up looking like a chubby Barbie zombie. (But I was pretty cute back then, to be fair, chubby or not.)

But I think there’s a fine line between acceptance and resigning yourself, and you have to know which is which. And that, my friends, might be one of those lifelong journeys, and one I will, of course, blog about here until you bitches start throwing shit at the screen because you’re so tired of hearing it.

Do any of you guys struggle with envy and coveting what others have, be it creativity, sex appeal, money, lifestyle or opportunity?

Christmas 2011 = Fiery Politics, Flat Asses and Not Wanting Shit From Chico’s

My months-long season o’depression starts the day after Christmas.  I’ve been like this since I was a kid, never one to anticipate Spring and all its allergen-filled humid glory. While the East Coasters might actually experience an enjoyable, lengthy Spring, it’s entirely too hot here in Texas for my ass by April 1. I do not get off on warm weather, Easter, white patent leather, budding trees or anything associated with that time of year, except maybe the Cadbury Mini eggs, and even then: I nom a few and I’m done, back to being underwhelmed.

My hey-day is, basically, regular football season. Small window, my wonder months.

But back to Christmas. My teeny tiny family had a good one this year, albeit a short one. I got 3 days and 3 nights, which isn’t near what I’m used to. When I freelanced, I had languorous, Christmas vacays – filled with seeing friends, dining out, parties, last-minute shopping and sleeping in. No more. I raced to my parents’ home on Friday afternoon after fleeing Alcatraz (work) early. I was sick as a dog, and should have called in sick that day, but I didn’t (WHY WHY WHY). In fact, I spent most of my Christmas break sick, which was lovely. Nothing like going home to be with your family only to Rip Van Winkle the fuck out of it the whole time you’re there. With only 3 days to celebrate, you feel like you’re wasting time when you do that, regardless of whether or not you really needed it.

But still, it was good. The house was decorated beautifully, my childhood bed is still comfy, and Butters managed to stay in her Christmas dress I bought her and not get a turd stuck in her tail fur.

Still, at 35, I am acutely aware that my parents are…aging. As an only child, I have no one to discuss this with, and no one to rely on, so I’m still of the mindset that your parents should always know best, know everything and make brilliant points on every subject.

Back in the day my father and I used to discuss politics. I say discuss: he would offer me his thoughts and I would nod along, occasionally offering a verbal tidbit that was nothing more than a sycophantic dingleberry of what he’d just uttered. I rarely offered up thoughts of my own, mainly because I didn’t have any.

But over the past few years our political discussions, which routinely involve my mother, too, have been scaled back for a number of reasons. One, he gets entirely too worked up about it. Like, talking about the state of our nation changes his mood from quietly thoughtful to full-out hollering mad. (I can understand that.) Two, his views have gotten more simplistic, and with that, more extreme. He is not one for political discourse or theory. He couldn’t give a fuck less about either, nor does he give a shit about shades of gray. He is very intelligent – reads several newspapers daily, works several crossword puzzles daily, watches the news daily. But he’s never approached politics with a scholarly eye. Not even when it comes to business, and he’s been in the same business for over 50 years. With Dad, it either is or is not. He shoots down questioning or opposing viewpoints immediately. It’s become less a teaching discussion and more of an edict. Still fascinating, still relying heavily on common sense – and I still agree with a lot of what he says. But his presentation has eroded over the years, mainly because he is 70 years old and doesn’t give a flipping fuck what anyone thinks of him anymore. (I cannot wait to get to this point.)

For example, he no likey the Mitt Romney. (For my part, I could take or leave him.) While having a discussion with just my mother about why I didn’t *hate* Romney and musing aloud why Dad does, she cut me off: “Well, financially speaking there are a lot of reasons he doesn’t like Romney. Reasons you don’t understand and wouldn’t know anything about. He’s looking at it from a businessman’s point of view, and that’s over your head.”

She does that a lot. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” This from the woman who swore that I had the smarts to be a doctor. (I most certainly do NOT.) The “you’ll never be a business person so you wouldn’t understand the first foggy thing about money, financial politics or tax issues.” To be honest, I resent the implication. There’s a lot I don’t understand because yes, I’m a goddamned writer and not a CEO. And then there’s another part of me that zones out at the mere mention of some of that dry, boring-ass shit. But I’m no dummy, and I can usually do a pretty decent job of reading between the lines, or just teaching myself.

I don’t appreciate the knock-down, to be honest. But that’s her way. She routinely puts me in my place – which is never to be confused with adulthood. It’s always the place of the uninformed, inexperienced child.

To rub a little salt in the proverbial wound, I told her while we were playing cards that perhaps the next time she comes to The Big City, I should be the one doing the driving if we go somewhere.

“Uh, I don’t think so,” she said. “I have more experience than you do.”

“So does a 90 year old,” I said, “but I’m pretty sure insurance companies would feel much safer with me behind a wheel.”

She turned her head and raised her nose. “You’re still not driving my car,” she said.

Other things I learned while on Christmas break: apparently, I have a flat ass.

My mother, who is markedly swayback and has a rather rounded derrière, issued her proclamation after turning around and staring at my father. “Look at that,” she said to me. “He has no ass.”

“Most men don’t,” I said, not particularly wanting to look nor seeing a reason to.

“Your ass is about like his,” she said. “Flat.”

“My ass is huge,” I retorted.

“But it’s flat.”

“Great, so not only are you saying my ass is gargantuan, it’s made even worse by being flat.” I stood up and looked at my profile in the glass. “Look at that,” I said, running a hand over my clearly protruding rump. “NOT FLAT.”

She knows that to, after all these years, tell me that I have a flat ass is a glaring insult. A mutual friend of ours really truly does have no heft to her ass at all – like a pancake –  and Mother and I have long bemoaned it on her behalf. Having no ass at all is one of the worst features a body can have. I even once famously told a boy I liked in junior high that his ass looked like two golfballs rolling around in a sack. (He’s still never forgotten it, to this day. And yes, that’s how I operated back at the age of 12, commenting freely on young men’s posteriors.)

Not to act like my ass is some kind of sacrosanct thing. It’s not. I have a friend whose ass is legendary. I would *kill* to have her ass. It’s truly like a goddamned SHELF.

Mine…will do. Paolo, in fact, seems to like it very much and references it often. According to him, I have the Baby Bear of Asses: Not too big, not too small, just right. (What in the hell kind of asses has he been looking at to think that mine is within normal range?!)

It’s just…I wish no one in my family would make comments about any of my body parts. (My father never does. Never has. Okay, no, once he told me that I had small ankles. Which I do, comparatively speaking.) I feel like a Chinese buffet o’ body parts: look it all over, take what you like, nitpick what you don’t. There’s not much of myself that I’m comfortable with being up for public consumption. And that public consumption includes my mother.

Another thing I learned at Christmas: I do not prefer things from Chico’s.

I side-eyed my mother when she transitioned to wearing things from Chico’s several years ago. I had gotten used to her love affair with all things Talbots, and even dared to venture in the store myself, if only to pick up a cardigan or two. But I drew the line with Chico’s. Like, I would imagine Paula Deen wears a lot of Chico’s clothing. Nothing against Paula Deen: she’s beautiful, loves butter, and is Southern. But I ain’t a fan of her wardrobe at the ripe young age of 35. Or, fuck that, wouldn’t be at 65 either.

So when I opened a present containing an off-white jacket-y type sweater, and saw the Chico’s label, I laid it down quickly. “I don’t know about this,” I muttered, then offering the obligatory: “I’ll just have to try it on.” I was never one to hurt someone’s feelings about gifts received. I have, however, over the years, learned from Mother that it’s perfectly acceptable in our family to make confused faces, harrumph under our breath, or utter a flat “Ohhhh. Ok,” when looking at a freshly given present. In my head, I wondered what made her think that buying me anything from Chico’s – even something as innocuous as a sweater – would be a good idea. But rather than running around the room while tearing it to shreds, I simply assured her I would consider it. Even if it weren’t from Chico’s, I wouldn’t have kept it. The style was too boxy for my liking (and not a good fit on my super-curvy frame) and it was OFF WHITE. Are you serious? *I* am off white.

Some of my other cardigans I received (I literally probably own upwards of 75 fucking cardigans) were a size too big. “I usually like mine in a 14/16,” I told her.

“Well,” she shot back, “most of your sweaters are a little tight.”

“I don’t like oversized sweaters,” I shot back. “They look sloppy. Even if you’re big, sometimes it’s a good idea not to wear a tent for an outfit. A fitted cardigan can go a long way.”

She harrumphed.

What else….Dad and I learned that we love green beans, but not when they’re all fancied up with a lemon vinaigrette and panko bread crumbs. Lemon is one of my favorite flavors, but it decidedly does not belong on an emm-effing green bean. Mom was crushed. But her Dijon and Kettle Chip crusted beef tenderloin was awesome.

No desserts were fixed (put into effect by my earlier proclamation of being back on Weight Watchers and Mom’s predilection to not ever fix anything sweet if I am in the vicinity, so as not to tempt me and make that fat, flat ass of mine even larger) so I had to rummage for some frozen toffee, which I found and nommed around on.

Dad is never disappointed over receiving socks for Christmas. (Paolo received socks too.) This must be a man thing, because I would be offended. Unless they had cats on them.

Thing is, there is nowhere else I would rather be for Christmas. And I know, at their ages, Christmases as easy and fun as these are limited. Of course, they always have been, but when you’re 8, or 15, or even 20, you don’t think about that. But with age comes a creeping realization, and it won’t go away. So, lemon-soaked green beans, Chico’s sweater, flat asses and thundering politics aside, it was still a great time and I wouldn’t have wanted to spend it with two other people (or one other animal) in the whole world. I wish I could have 100 more just like it.

 

 

 

 

Love, No Thanks to Glamour Magazine

I should be busier than a one-armed paper hanger with an itchy asshole (addendum to that well-known phrase is all mine, thank you very much) at work, but I have pockets of time where I just wait. I am just about Facebooked out – mainly because I joined all these animal rescue groups and they’re forever putting out stories that frequently make me burst into tears, so Facebook’s gotten a bit exhausting lately. I’m all caught up on my gossip, the news, and pictures of fried food and baby kittens featured on TheBerry.com.

So I’m reading January’s issue of Glamour at lunch the other day (which features the Kardashian sisters on the front, therefore negating both the title and the intent of the magazine) and came across a snippet article. He Loves You; He Loves You Not: Six Ways to Tell Whether He Is Into You (Or Ever Will Be).

We have a tendency to believe what we see – and that counts things written on paper or published on the web. (This is especially true for my mother, who, every time she sees me, barrages me with clipped newspaper articles warning on everything from killer bathroom fungus to online dating scenarios gone wrong to recipes on fixing the perfect hamball.) It’s like we’ve finally just learned not to believe everything we hear, but that extension hasn’t drifted over into the “what we see and read” category.

So I’m reading the Glamour article, and naturally my thoughts turn to Paolo. Will I, I wonder, be able to tell if he really, truly loves me after reading these six things? Will this be life-altering?

1) Are you his plus-one?

According to this drivel, if he’s not taking me as a guest to dinner parties and weddings (what is he, a goddamned Vanderbilt?) then it’s a bad sign. And of course, the answer to this is NO. He does not take me around anywhere. I’d be happy if we just showed up to fucking Rite-Aid to shop for Kleenex and shampoo together. However, I doubt I’m getting an invitation to anything anytime soon, so.

2) Does he call (not just text)?

Yes. Yes, he does. He called last night actually. So, up yours, Glamour! (Or, rather, up yours, little 23 year old with a cushy position whose job it was to dig around in her brain and think of something to write. Bitch, please. I *am* a writer. I write marketing copy for a living. I know how you work.)

3) Does he listen when you talk?

Yes. In fact, he’s really good at it. He sort of amazes me with the stuff he remembers, which is probably only highlighted by my tendency to forget fucking EVERYTHING. Not only does he listen when I talk, he asks me very personal, thoughtful questions. As if he wants to really know more about me and my vajay.

4) Is he close (very close) with lots of women?

Considering that he lives with his BabyMama, I’d give that an emphatic HELL YES. But at least it’s not multiple women that he’s close with. That I know of. I had an ex who was VERY close with three women: his mother and two sisters. And Glamour makes a decent point because it doesn’t mention the relation of the women who have control over him: a vagina is a vagina. And women – family or not – know how to edge other women out if they’re perceived as threats. Period. Trust me – Mama knows. I have been hated by mothers nationwide since I was 15.

5) Is he introducing you to everyone he knows?

He introduced me to his friend Wes. Wes happened to be over at Paolo’s house when I came over one time. We all sat around and talked about politics and The Walking Dead. Wes ate some cookies that I brought over and said they were good.

6) Can you tell he’s thinking about you when you’re not around?

Since I don’t have motherfucking ESP, no, I can’t. Glamour uses the examples of, “If he brings up something he saw that he ‘knew you would love’ or he watches your shows even on nights you aren’t together, you’re on solid ground,” says some useless expert. And by “bringing up something he knew I would love” I would assume you mean his dick.  Because yes, he brings that up all the time.

So here’s the thing. Glamour, while it makes some semi-salient points, also is trying to pigeonhole love, its components and complexities, using a cute article that can be digested in 48 seconds. And as adult women, we should know that’s hard to do. Love is not always cookie-cutter, easy, wise, or sensible. (In fact, sometimes it’s best when it’s none of those things…)

I could let a thousand things dictate my feelings about Paolo’s feelings for me, but I’d like to factor in only what I think. I don’t think the guy’s madly in love with me, no; but I do think he loves me in his own way…because he’s told me so. And shown me, through his graciousness and kindness toward me.

There’s no way to really tell about love. People sometimes go into it with a blind ferocity (marriage, for example, thinking it’s forever and will never end) only to find themselves years later wondering where it went. There’s no way to know if love will increase or decrease in the future. So I just bask in the days of knowing someone cares about me now. Maybe it’s not perfect, Paolo’s love, and maybe the script doesn’t read exactly the way I would have written it. But it’s special. And it’s something I’ll always remember. And that has to count for something.

Excuse My Beauty

I’m sure all of you could guess that I’m a little touchy. About…everything.  (And with things. Like cats. Ask Butters: she gets corporal cuddled at least twice daily. And yes, you should watch the video below. It’s set up to start right when he explains — then demonstrates — corporal cuddling. Stay tuned right after for cat yodeling.)

Truth is, I long to be one of those women who isn’t intimidated by the fact (or rumored lore) of other women’s beauty. But – surprise, surprise – I am.

Just the other day, Paolo was telling a story of a girl who would sit in next to him in a music class he took in college (which was as recently as the past year). Certain details of this girl were revealed: mainly, how good looking she was and namely, that she had a killer body. Even though Paolo went on to purport that she managed to annoy the living shit out of him daily, I barely heard that part. It didn’t much register. All I heard was how sick this girl’s body was – a detail not, apparently, lost on Paolo. I half expect stories like that to end with him breezily admitting to fucking her at least once, if not for an entire year. Because he’s, just, well, banged a lot of women.

Even when I briefly dated Bobby Darin (you remember him, of the Fuckwit Without a Cause fame last spring) I remember serving him dinner, and as we sat across from each other, thoughtfully chewing, he gave me a long rundown about the former love of his life. He made sure, as I was gumming my enchilada, to tell me that she was 5’2” and weighed 105 lbs. Twice. Twice that big dumb bastard mentioned that detail. Immediately I put down my fork and stopped chewing, since I had lost my appetite. I mean, is that classic “shit you should never say on a date, especially a date with a plus sized woman” or what? Fuck me running.

Because the thing is, no one’s ever going to sit across the table from a new date and extoll the details of my anatomy. Or, if they are, it’s not going to be anything I’d want to hear. I might get a, “She had big tits,” out of someone, but that would be the extent of it.

I’ve long been the jealous type, as I’ve detailed here many times. I mean, it’s almost epic. When I was 5 – and perfectly cute, perfectly normal-sized – I had a doll someone had given me. I hated it. Frequently disavowed her existence or simply hurled her across the room…all of which came before my final act of dismissal, which was to chop all of her hair off. My reason for disliking her? She was prettier than I was. Yeah. A doll. A fucking doll. And something I somehow perceived as a threat. I’m telling you, folks: this shit is deeeeeeeply engrained with me.

The reason details of other women stick in my craw so much is because I’m just usually the one described as having a pretty face, a verbal must-experience if you’re a fat chick. And the worst part is, it’s a compliment people give out liberally. Turns out, most assholes aren’t even selective about issuing it. I’ve witnessed many a fat chick complaining of the same thing and I’ll look at her and think, “I’m sorry…was the person who told you this blind?” Because very often, the fat chicks who hear such things aren’t even that attractive. But apparently when one does not know how to give a proper back-handed compliment to a fat chick, and have simply run out of nice things to say, the “You have such a pretty face” is the first thing to bubble up in one’s brain and must therefore be used. So it almost negates the compliments that actual somewhat-pretty fat chicks (moi) get.

I’ve long said: I’m not a dog. But visually stunning I am not. I am…okay. Even my wicked grandmother, after I was born, took one look at me and said to my mother, “Well. She’s certainly no raving beauty, is she?” (And I wonder where my mother’s tendency to say inappropriately mean shit to me comes from, even though at the time, when my grandmother said it, my mother ran off in tears and wouldn’t speak to her for months, and still talks about it 35 years later.)

I’ve never, not once, gotten by on my looks. No, fuck that shit: I had to be good at something. I had to carve out a niche. I had to learn to be funny. I had to be all fucking friendly to people and shit. In other words, I had to cultivate a life and personality. And I think most women feel that way. Because most women aren’t little Lolitas in training, or running around looking like supermodels or well-kept Texas trophy wives.

Still, I know many average/slightly above average looking women, and most of them don’t foam at the mouth with jealousy like I do when beautiful women are mentioned. I think there are lots of women who embrace the way they look – faults and all – and are relatively comfortable by my age. And most of them should be – most of them are married, some to very handsome fellows, and are still a good size 8 or below after popping out litters of children. But maybe they had their day – or their month, or year – when they were younger and were fan-damn-tastic looking. I never had that. I’ve never once, ever, felt genuinely attractive, even when I was. (And this was many moons ago…but I was too fucked up at the time to even realize what I was working with.)

(I totally did.)

What never helps is seeing really facially unattractive, boring, vapid, insipid women who have managed to wrangle a man. It only furthers my theory that you can be borderline horrible, but as long as you’re not above a size 12, you’re fine. You’ll find someone. But you can look like Catherine Zeta Fucking Jones in the face but if you have a cottage cheese ass and love handles, you can forget it.

I’ve told Paolo that I feel invisible to men. And it’s true – I pass men all the time in my building, and they look right through me. I am a non-issue. I do not create boners. My mother chided me for not going to a Christmas luncheon hosted by our building today. “You could meet someone!” she hissed.

“Or I could scoop up some saucy shit out of a chafing dish and blow my Weight Watcher points all to hell,” I said back. “I’m going to Panera for a cup of soup and a half sandwich. I know how many points are in that shit. Plus you know I hate crowds.” And the truth of the matter is, I am almost positive that I am not going to meet my future husband while my ass is holding a plate with one hand and ladling ranch dressing from an economy sized tub onto my salad.

 (Even as ranch-belongs-on-everything Texan, this grosses me out quite a bit.)

And there are times when it’s tempting to want to meet someone, especially when Paolo’s no-committing ass has been virtually ignoring me for the past two days. I just imagine him dick-deep in someone else, all the while I’m sending innocent little texts trying to start up conversations by asking him how his day has been. I told him when I saw him last week that I envisioned myself in about 6 years, married to some perfectly harmless, boring CPA type, only to miss the days of sleeping with and being with him, even though he can’t (won’t) make a commitment, is touch-and-go with attention, and doesn’t even write Happy Birthday on my Facebook wall. Which reminds me, my next post will revolve around a “He Loves You, He Loves You Not” article I read in Glamour today about how you can tell if he really does…or really doesn’t. Like those hos really know. But I’ll give you a sneak peak: it doesn’t bode well for me.

I need to get some HOPE up in this bitch.

I realize I have a long way to go, emotionally speaking. Part of me would like to give myself kudos for properly assessing my demons and shortcomings in the first place. Some people have their heads so far up their own asses they never can actually name their issue. (Sounds like a great game show, doesn’t it? Name That Issue! “Ken, you’ve got 30 seconds on the clock. This poor bastard probably is unable to date women long term, since he is secretly infatuated with his mother and wants to fuck her.”  Ken: “What is an Oedipal Complex?” Host: “That’s right for $500!”)

But I still feel like a slave to it. I still have visceral reactions to people describing beautiful women, or women they find sexy (unless they’re making the case for Kathy Bates), because I feel like there’s a unstated clause: “Britney Spears…back in the day, yo! She had that tight little body!” and what I hear is, “Britney Spears…back in the day, yo! She had that tight little body, unlike you and your fat ass. You could never look like that.”

What I’m endlessly curious about is from where these issues stem. Some of them cropped up so early that it’s hard to imagine they were drummed in by anyone….anyone except that disproportionate bitch Barbie. Let’s blame her, goddammit!

Being 35 Apparently Brings Out My Road Rage & Need To Show Bountiful Cleavage

Well, it’s official: my ass is 35.

The weekend before my birthday was a swirl of activity and lack thereof. Last Friday, my parents drove up to the Big City, where they had reserved a hotel room and were going to take me to a nice dinner. The Big City is a two hour drive from where they live. So they arrived, only to discover that they had left their dress clothes at home. So they turned around, drove back 2 hours to their town, got the clothes and drove back to the Big City to take me to din-din. Now that’s love. We had a nice time and I was happy they cared enough to take me out…since my dinner plans with Paolo on Saturday fell through. It was a legitimate excuse – he just got a new job, and because it’s the holiday season, it’s going to be a lot of nights and weekends. And he can’t help that. I want him to have this job. It’s a good start for him, so I had to be understanding.

Still, in my own private musings, I was upset and disappointed not to see him. It was a gigantic reminder that he is, in fact, NOT my boyfriend. And he confirmed as much: “It’s why we’re not boyfriend-girlfriend,” he texted me after telling me he couldn’t be with me on Saturday, much to my consternation. “I made that choice on purpose to avoid having things like this happen…even though it happened anyway.”

The good news is that I had an opportunity to take a day off yesterday (I won’t say why, but it was legit), and Paolo came to see me for the afternoon!

It was heavenly. I don’t think I’ve ever been with someone who’s sweeter to me than he is. People can say what they will about him, but he truly is a kind, sweet-hearted person. And when I’m with him, I am closer to feeling the way I’ve always wanted to feel: like myself.

But, as you could probably guess, I am still in the midst of slightly tweaking over being 35, which is also known as being FUCKING OLD in my book. Paolo insists I have my whole life ahead of me – but all I can think about is the whole life I have behind me, and how little I’ve actually done with it.

What I’ve done is fail to get myself to a point where I can be genuinely happy. I am not happy with my job, my career path, my financial situation, my lack of a great husband, my lack of children, and my lack of a body that doesn’t make me want to hurl myself off a downtown skyscraper every time I catch a glimpse of myself naked.

My thinking has always been that if I could get my weight in order, the rest of it would fall in place. At the least, it might help me find a mate and start a family. But – and I’ve said this numerous times before – I resent the fuck out of the idea that I have to lose weight to land a husband. That doesn’t hurt – it pisses me off. Pissed or not, though, it might very well be a reality that I just have to accept.

Earlier this year I said that I would rather be happy than be right – and that I should stop defying all the people who have ever encouraged me to lose weight, and get healthy not to please them (or to stay fat to spite them) but for myself. And yet, I’ve let that idea lapse, managing to gain 10 lbs in the past few months instead. So now, I am at my heaviest weight in 10 years and I am NOT happy about it.  Quite simply, it’s not where I want to be.

To me, weight loss is about getting into a specific mental zone. For me, it has nothing to do with what you are or aren’t eating. Eating isn’t important to me – it would seem to be, even on the surface, even to me, but in truth, it’s not important at all. What’s important is what food has always been to me: a panacea, a comfort, a soft place to fall. And it’s that comfort I crave. I don’t know where else to derive it from.

 Um, Sex?

The truth is, I just have to do something. I can’t keep going at this pace. I don’t know what else to do except to go back on Weight Watchers, so I’ve already entered my points for today, and will, I guess, start over with gusto…even in the midst of the fucking holidays, which seems like a recipe (pardon the pun) for disaster. But I can make it work. The holidays so often turn into a time where it’s okay to gain 5 lbs and I just can’t do that. At least it means I don’t have to throw out everything in my fridge and start over. I just have to be accountable for what I shove in my hongray piehole.

Here’s my challenge, however. Here’s something I’ve never figured out: I don’t know how to unlink my weight from my worth. Sounds corny, I know, but it’s the truth. I’ve always judged my worthiness as a human being – my inherent goodness, how deserving of happiness I am – with what I look like or how much I weigh. And that’s what I have to work on, perhaps even more than anything else. And man will it be challenging. It requires a whole mind shift. It goes against everything I’ve practiced and been led to believe in my entire life.

It’s funny, but when I complain to my mother that I’ve been fat since I was 8, she’s always quick to jump in and say, “No, you certainly were not!” But here’s the thing: at the time, no one ever told me that. Not to blame my family, but my weight was always a fixture, whether I was 10 lbs overweight or 100. No one ever told me that my weight, my body, my shape, was okay as it was. In fact, fuck – I think the first person to really tell me that (and mean it) was Paolo.

Because yeah, I’ve seen pictures from when I was in middle school and I looked great. I looked like an 18 year old…but I was 12.

Unfortunately, I had the bad luck of having a lot of friends who didn’t get tits and start menstruating until they damn near got their driver’s licenses, so I was like Khloe Kardashian in a sea of Olsen twins.

I think all any of us want it is to be loved for the way we are, faults and all. And even better, to have what we perceive as faults be seen as positives by people we love. I mean, I honestly think that’s a basic human need. Even villians among us (Jerry Sandusky, Pol Pot, John Corzine, Jerry Falwell, take your fucking pick) probably just wanted to be accepted as they were. I think it’s an across-the-board thing.

So anyway. I’ll say this, to be positive: there are two things I like about getting older –  one, I’m getting saltier. Why, just this morning, I rode a guy’s ass because he was driving too slowly, and I as was finally able to pull around him (which I did in a gun-the-accelerator totally asshole kind of way) he honked at me and shook his fist. I got right in front of him, raised my hand and shot him the bird. (He was this middle aged CPA looking dude driving something like a Dodge Stratus…I wasn’t scared.) Then he decided to try and retaliate by riding my ass, so I promptly tapped my brakes at him. Ahhh, yes. Aggressive driving: something I was too much of a chickenshit to do in my 20s.

And two, I wore a new dress today, and noticed upon arriving to work that my sweater puppies are on practically full display (and sans sweater, no less). Rather than driving back to my apartment to get a scarf or one of those sold-on-TV Cami Secret thing-a-mah-roos (which, yes, my cleavage-averse mother has already purchased for me), I just let them breathe. Paolo told me yesterday that I need to walk around and act like I just own shit. I need to embrace my sexiness. So today at work, everyone gets a free show. Ta-da!

(actually me)

See, I can always find a silver lining. And now, I’m off to drink some water with lemon in it because hey, it’s 0 Weight Watcher points. (Hops big ass onto the wagon again….)