First of all, he called me last night. Eeeeee! I feel kind of silly getting all giddy about it like that, but it really was very thoughtful. And I felt like shit, because he first called while I was working, and I was totally frazzled and had to blow him off because the phone rang four times immediately after I answered his call. I felt even worse about it when he explained that he'd thought the number was for my home phone and that he'd planned on just leaving a message to say hi.
I mean, how sweet is that? When you're thinking about someone and you call just to say hi, even when you don't think anyone's going to be there to answer? I love that shit.
Anyway, I called him back last night, and I was such a dork that I wrote down a bunch of clever things to say, so certain was I that my brain would go into basal metabolism or something and refuse to perform any of the higher functions, like upholding my end of the conversation. About five minutes in, though, and I totally relaxed. I am very encouraged by the fact that he's already stated that he finds a number of my idiosynchrasies to be endearing, which was a condition you guys may remember I stated as being pretty much imperative for any relationship I might enter into.
But I don't want to talk about it. I mean, I do, but I don't. Whatever. The point is that I also told him this story about the time I went to Paris with my arch-nemesis, Spastica. The crux of the story is that I was ridiculously ill at the time and couldn't eat, talk, or sleep, and every day Spastica forced me to go on some eight-hour march through some ancient garden or another -- which I generally love when I'm not, you know, bleeding from the mouth -- and the upshot of it all was that I lost about ten pounds.
Now when I told that story on my date with That One Guy -- and don't ask me how that story came up in both dates, cuz I just don't know -- That One Guy looked at me like he'd just realized I was a leper.
My senior year in college, I'd developed some really poor eating habits, the direct result of having zero income. I was also lazy as hell, and I put on about five pounds of extra weight. I'm not a weight freak by any means, and I have a really good metabolism (generally, though not always in my brain, as I've noted), but the weight I'd gained wasn't Healthy Weight. It was Lazy, Cholestorol-Laden Weight. However, all he heard was that I'd lost ten pounds and wasn't overly distressed about, and he immediately decided I was anorexic. Huh? Wha?
Since when does being thin automatically make one anorexic? Anorexia is not a physical condition, it's a mental illness! I do not believe I'm fat, I do not starve myself to lose weight, I do not binge and/or purge, and frankly, I wouldn't want to live in a world where I couldn't scarf down a Double Double at In-n-Out and enjoy my full tummy for the rest of the afternoon. Yes, I'm thin. I have skinny genes, I exercise regularly, and I run four miles every other day.
But you know what? I shouldn't have to say that. I shouldn't have to defend my body against people who are convinced that I look the way I do due to black magic or some kind of shameful secret. Sure, there are anorexic people in this world, and they need help, but for fuck's sake, why don't you ask first and shoot later?
I'm so sick of the weight issue. I am sick of it! Why can't we all just get the hell over it already? I'll never be built like one of those dudes on the cover of Men's Health, and I've learned to accept that. I also know that there are people out there who are much heavier than me who will also never look that way, no matter how hard they try, and I accept that, too.
I mean, for the love of all things decent, what the fuck is wrong with society? Fat people are automatically just weak and lazy, right? Because if they wanted to, they could just lose weight and exercise and look just like Brad Pitt or Sarah Michelle Gellar or whatever, right? Right? Oh, wait. I eat more garbage than a billy goat, and until a few years ago, I didn't work out ever because I just didn't feel like it, and I wasn't fat, so I guess there goes that theory.
And all thin people are bulemic, right? Because no one could possibly just BE THIN, right? I mean, people just aren't BORN LIKE THAT, right? It must be that thin people have made a pact with the Devil! Like Callista Flockhart! Witch! She's a witch!
Like, lighten the fuck up, America (and World at Large). Fat happens, and so does Skinny. Now get the hell over it, because I'm sick as shit of listening to the hate and the recriminations and the whining and the blah blah world-is-out-to-get-me-cakes.
Exercise, eat right, and take care of yourself. If you're 115 lbs at the end of the day, then you work that 115. If you're 150, 180, 200, whatever, you own it and you like it. And for the last motherfucking time, let's all stop condemning each other for not meeting up to some prepostorous standards we've each decided is The One! True! Way! To Be!
Fuckin'-A. I'm so pissed off right now.