Too fat to fuck

I need to get this out of my drafts pile as I need to get back into proper real-time quickly.

I thought about re-activating and updating my online dating account to sniff around for a new distraction, but my pants were too tight.

When I first created the profile, I stalled on the ‘very attractive, attractive, average, cuddly, large, bog ugly’ etc self rating check box. The developer hadn’t thought to include an option of ‘I don’t know, attractiveness is subjective and that’s up to prospects to decide’ for pig-headed individuals who like to think they’re beyond categorisation. I was feeling fit, looking okay and had no qualms about presenting my naked form to a new partner, so I checked the ‘attractive’ box and left it to members to sort it out for themselves.

Last night I demoted myself to average and logged off without searching. I can’t be arsed being defensive with new people about the winter kilos I have been ignoring for the last couple of months — denial and complacency hit home rudely the other day when I saw and prodded the muffin top rising from the waistband of my favourite jeans. Argh. I know when I’m not comfortable with my appearance and the bell has ding-ding-dinged to eat less and move more (all-or-nothing seems to be my approach to all areas of life — moderation is for sensible, sane people who don’t secretly dislike themselves).

I got over most of society’s emphasis on physical ideals after years of visiting the dietician’s office being callipered and weighed and lectured and told what to eat to complement the national-level sport I was competing in. Those years fucked my self image beyond belief because my bodyfat percentage was in the elite athlete category, I had fat-free, bee-sting A cup tits and not a cell jiggled when I jumped up and down, yet I never left the sports science clinic with ego unscathed. The snarling beasts of insecurity and attitude that nothing less than perfection is good enough took a long time to vanquish. I’m a lot more relaxed and sensible now but the beasts return to stab my pride and pierce my self esteem as soon as I’m not comfortable within my frame.

I’m going for a run. Tune in next time for more distracting posts to conceal I’m not sexually active at present. I started a blog to help bring the mysteries of my sexuality and identity to the surface, toss them into the wide world to gain meaning and skip towards the sun as a more evolved and wise soul – somehow I keep finding new items to add to the catalogue of quirks.

A turbulent kind of calm

The planets are lining up auspiciously for a bout of joyful and carefree trouble: it’s the last commitment-free weekend before Christmas, The Drummer will be working and sleeping much of the time, the go forth and fuck hormones of ovulation are bubbling and a decent night’s sleep might provide the energy to run riot.

The downside is that I’m tired and brain-dulled from work and nude wranglers are thin on the ground. Jekyll is elsewhere, Hyde could be anywhere with anyone, I daren’t upset the hiatus with ArmyDude for both our sakes and I’m too lazy to get on the web and hunt for a back-up man or two (and risk romanticising ArmyDude even more if I have a less-than-spiritual experience with someone else). Instead, I could exercise more, tidy the house, buy Christmas presents and stock up on vibrator batteries.

We will see.