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.

The village idiot went to lunch

I remember the lung-shaking sigh of relief after replying to the final respondent from my online ad (I used my daily message quota to say ‘thanks but no thanks’ to people who made more than a trifling effort to construct a whole sentence). I wrote the last one an ‘I’m overwhelmed and won’t be back in touch but thank you’ message, made my user account invisible, did a little jig and collapsed on the floor.

More than two months later he responded saying thank you for the thank you. Did I let things be? No, of course not. Only a well-adjusted, sensible person who can control her curiosity would do that.

He saw a sliver of light through the door and wedged his foot inside. I didn’t stomp on it.

I can’t kiss a man with a beard. Just can’t. Nor can I look a man in the eye who squints and winks after saying something risqué, as if I’m already a co-conspirator. I tried to imagine him naked, once, and couldn’t do it again.

I loathe my lack of forthrightness in trying to pay for my share of lunch. He waved my cash aside, with the oft-used lead-in for a second meeting by saying it was my turn next time. Sure, I said, regretting the word as soon as it sailed carelessly from my lips.

I have no issues asking for what I want, but I clam up when it’s time to state what I don’t want. I don’t want this sense of fucking obligation. I want those moments back so I can say thanks but no thanks and stop working out how I’m going to say it next time.