Obviously, I have begun a blog. Friends of mine have expressed surprise that blogging did not come earlier. Every time I have felt writing was inevitable, and I was on the brink of something entertaining and refreshing, my inner shy gal would pop up. This evil, wildebeest of an inner shy gal fears rejection more than terminal illness. This fear is deep seeded and applies to a smorgasbord of situations.
I am vowing to fake out the wildebeest and feign emotional ennui on the wildebeest’s behalf. I’m sure no one will hate me on behalf of anything I write, but the thought is there. Truth be told, I have larger scale problems than my shyness and the possibility of someone having hurt feelings. Much larger, like the size of a pair of jeans or one size-D breast sort of large. We’ll return to these tales of woe shortly.
Hindered by shyness, I have always been cautiously behind in life. I’m sure I was the last of my friends to lose her virginity, though I never compared notes out of absolute mortification. The only alcohol I consumed in high school consisted of two post-prom wine coolers in the basement of the valedictorian’s house, while her parents were busy running their carryout Chinese restaurant. My high school prom date was a good friend I played arcade games with and walked home from school with on the few days I didn’t stay late to work on the high school newspaper, attend swim team practice with, or participate in theatre shenanigans. When I sauntered into the house during the early morning hours, as a junior in high school, it was because I had lost track of time while playing Disney Trivial Pursuit in a friend’s basement. My mother never questioned these things, and I never had a curfew. I never had a blood alcohol level above the legal driving level until I was 22, tried pot for the first time at 24, and never moved onto harsher substances, or developed unfortunate chemical dependencies.
Flirting haphazardly with dating
I never dated in high school and I haphazardly flirted my way through college. I remember my first kiss with too much detail, because it could have happened on two occasions, depending on criteria. The first time I smooched a lad, I was in the first grade. It was the local bad boy with all the spiked hair 1989 had to offer. After that, I was seventeen before any hardcore smoochery happened. A guy I found unattractive and thought was ridiculously full of himself had a thing for me. I decided he would be my practice smooching pal, since I was so behind the learning curve. He even bought me dinner at the Ram’s Horn once, where he worked as a busser. Smoochin’ lessons hardly lasted long, as I grew tired of doing anything other than kissing his pretentious, know-it-all self.
I am now 27 years old, and still behind the learning curve. Friends of mine are married and have children. Everyone I know has been in some sort of committed, long-term relationship – with the exception of my weird third cousin, Claude. My problem is that I will not accept just anyone. I would much rather be single than date someone I do not feel strongly about. This has resulted in lots of first dates, a few second dates, and very, very few third dates. The shy card has also been a problem.
A few years ago, I tried to nab a coworker. A mutual friend had slipped up, and let me know that this big, hunky fella was interested in both me, and another gal. I never made my intentions properly known. I hoped he would pick up on all of my grandiose gestures of adoration, like saying “hi” to him and other social wonders. Needless to say, he picked the other girl. They lived together for a bit, he bought her an engagement ring, and she cheated on him and broke his heart. I never would have done such a thing. Of course, she was thinner than I, and as a result of another pseudo rejection, I hated my paunchy body even more. I had hated my body since the age of nine; I also continued to pack on the pounds, because really, who cared? This has been my body issue for as long as I can remember.
What happened to my boob?
Within the last six months, I have refrained from gaining weight. I am healthier, currently, than I have been in quite some time. Unfortunately, improved health does not instantly mean one turns into some sort of toned, sexy blond with a tan. I am still pasty, and somewhat Jewish/Mediterranean looking, with pounds and pounds of excess flub. A renewed commitment to health does not mean that men are coming flying out of the woodwork, offering to spot me at the gym, and telling me their favorite salad joint. I’m still a big, single gal.
Age has done a few crappy things, as well.
The first shift was noticeable a month ago. Despite having lost three pounds, according to my bathroom scale, my jeans looked a little odd. They looked snug, but not in their normal “put down the pint/pints” sort of snugness. The second shift occurred yesterday. Something looked off kilter - something that used to be a C, and at some point morphed into a D, and left its pal in the dust.
I’ll tackle the pants first. Something in my abdominal fat shifted. It’s sitting differently than it did before, and my pants look strange when I wear a few of my favorite shirts. These shirts were essential pieces of the “look as thin as you possibly can” shirt and pants combos. Without the pants, none of it works. With my current waistline, which I fear will be the waistline of my future, there is a problem.
Problem number two, to be quite frank, is my left boob. At home, I can be a bit of a slob. I wander around the house in a bathrobe and pajama pants far too often. If it’s slightly warm, I trade in the robe for a t-shirt. While wandering in the t-shirt and pajama combo, I walked past a mirror. Lefty was way out to the left and looked too long. WAY too long. A fat girl’s best friends, her (hopefully) gigantic breasts, were starting to let me down; no pun intended. If nothing else, I occasionally hoped that if I hiked the twins far enough up, and tossed on the right top, my knockers would distract a guy long enough to forget my waistline, and he would fall hopelessly in lust with me. This was not going to work if lefty continued her pursuit downward. Action was needed.
After ransacking my wardrobe and coming up with new clothing accommodations, I sat my single-self down, dog resting on my feet, and powered up the laptop. It was time to crop some pictures, making myself look as thin as could possibly be feigned, and make myself available. I’m tired of being single, and this should probably be remedied before Righty joins Lefty in her travels south, and before my abdominal fat gets any weirder. Therefore, I put myself online. I signed up for a few free websites, and then plunked down $144 in exchange for six month’s access to a paid dating website, which promised to match me via “dimensions of compatibility” to several someone’s that I could potentially find long term happiness with. So, here I am. I’m largely dating and dating largely. I’m also blogging. While working on toning up and slimming down, I’ll continue throwing my tubby butt to the masses. I’m going to aggressively find out “what’s up” with the world of dating online, and there’s going to be (what I hope) a pretty entertaining blog as a result of these endeavors. Having gone out with a few people already let me tell ya, I think there will be no shortage of material.
Thanks for visiting, please come back soon.