This is the first entry in a number I want to do about things I wish were simpler and/or wishing I'd lived in a previous era.
Back in the days before the internet and before one would be considered "desperate" enough to need to place an ad in the local singles section of the classifieds, there was a thing called "every day life." You'd go about your business, go to school, go to work, partake in the activities that brought you enjoyment, and somewhere within this life stuff, you'd cross paths with someone who tickled your fancy. Maybe it was that cute boy who came through your checkout line at the supermarket where you worked. Or maybe it was that attractive classmate who liked the short story you wrote in Advanced Writing Seminar. It might have even been that guy with the prematurely receding hairline who started showing up at the bar you frequented every Friday.
Whoever it was, you felt a certain "something" when they'd come around. Maybe it was the way they smiled at you when you looked at them, or maybe it was the way their eyes lit up when they saw you. Whatever it was, it made you both a little weak in the knees and wish you'd put on a nicer shirt that day.
From there you'd go out on a date, then another, and then another. A period of time would pass and you'd suddenly realize you'd spent quite a lot of that time together, and then you'd think, "hey, I really like this person!"
During this time you'd have learned about their hobbies, their habits, their quirks, and their warts. And for some reason, you stuck around. And the next thing you know, you're in a relationship. What level the relationship ascended to and how long the relationship would run its course would, naturally, depend on your level of tolerance for this person's snoring, or their secret stash of porn, or their dreadful taste in magazines, and equally on how tolerant this person was of your personality makeup...and of course it all balanced on each other's accommodation of the other's tolerance.
Eventually the relationship would blow up, die a slow, painful death, fizzle and fade, crash and burn, whatever; it would simply cease to be for one reason or another. Aaaaand then you'd bury your sorrows in a pint of ice cream and some bad movies, get back out and live your life, and sooner or later the guy who came in to fix your computer at work would strike up a conversation, and you'd discover that you both really like flea markets and B-movies, and away you'd go...
Now? It's like "designer dates." Like designer babies, where parents pick and choose their baby's traits like one might custom order a car's trim level, people can now plug in their desired traits and find someone who "fits" perfectly. Only trouble is, you can only learn so much from a profile. You can look at a photo and think, "ew, s/he's fat," or, "ugh, he likes Bruce Springsteen. FAIL!" But what you don't see is the way his eyes dance when he laughs, or the endearing way her nose crinkles in disgust at the mention of tomatoes. You can't study the grace of her hands as they flutter around a conversation, or watch as he becomes a caricature of himself while recounting his favorite funny story. You can't get a sense of nuance, of idiosyncrasies, of animation, of the lilt in her laugh, the resonance of his voice.
In other words, I'm NOT a fan of the instant partner, and fully believe in developing a friendship first, regardless of where it may end up. Some people are meant to be in your life, others are not. But you never know until you try, and what online dating does is it makes people expect others to be everything they want or it's no dice. The level of expectation has gone so high that people just brush off those who are less than perfect, who don't complete the laundry list of height, weight, eye color, and interests. And that sucks.
Whatever happened to "Boy Meets Girl" and courtship? Is it truly dead?
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
One week in...
11.6 pounds out. Woo-hoo!
I suddenly feel like nothing can stop me now. I know you always lose more in the beginning, and I understand that this will slow down significantly, but what a great kick-start!
More later. The week of insanity rolls on...
I suddenly feel like nothing can stop me now. I know you always lose more in the beginning, and I understand that this will slow down significantly, but what a great kick-start!
More later. The week of insanity rolls on...
Monday, February 08, 2010
Why I'm doing this
Okay, so I know I said I wasn't going to turn this into a diet blog, and I promise I'm really not. It's just, well, it's fresh and it's on the front of my mind, and I have thoughts running through my brain that need to come out somewhere. And when that happens I have a couple of choices. I can talk to someone about it either directly or through some type of electronic text communication, or I can broadcast it in my blog. Seeing as it's 2:30 in the morning and even Christopher has probably hit the sack, I'm going to go with door number two on this one.
Why am I doing this? I outlined it a couple entries ago, about not wanting to die of a heart attack or some other obesity-related malady, but it's way more than that. Singer Alison Moyet recently lost over 100 pounds, and when she was interviewed and asked about it, she said that it had come down to her greatest fear: loss of independence. I thought, "man, you know, that's MY biggest fear, too!"
I live alone. I've lived alone now for just over 14 years. February 1, 1996 was the day I moved into my first solo apartment, and I've never once regretted it. It took some getting used to initially, but that had more to do with the reason behind the move (the dissolution of a 4-year live-in relationship) than it did the actual living solo part. If you recall, I really dig my privacy. For me, privacy and independence go hand-in-hand. And what does all this have to do with my weight?
Everything.
I live in my own little world, a messy little microcosm full of clutter and pets and dirty clothes on the floor and soap scum on the tub faucet, with only my thoughts, my music, pet noise, and my self-engaging conversations to fill the air. To some this may sound lonely. To me, it is paradise. The thought of succumbing to some disease or illness or injury that renders me incapable of living like this sends me into a panic. The idea that someone would have to come in here, occupy my space, and touch my stuff practically gives me an anxiety attack. And the thought that I might not be able to feed, bathe, or dress myself? Call Kevorkian. There's no way.
But even before it comes to that, there's the other stuff that has crept up on me along with the number on the scale. I can't kneel for very long. My joints hurt and my knee aches constantly. My back, which sucked even when I was thin, is buckling under the weight of the abdominal mass tugging on it. My feet hurt all the time, and something that used to give me great pleasure - feeding my shoe habit - is a chore because even my feet are fat. It's a struggle to tie my own shoes, let alone try any on in a store. My chest hurts a lot, and my asthma is poorly controlled. That's a big one, and it's kind of a catch-22 and a cruel irony; the medicine I take for my asthma promotes weight gain. I get out of bed in the morning and I feel like I'm 80 years old. All of this stuff is pointing toward the direction of eventual dependence.
And this, my friends, is what is going to keep me focused on the prize this time. Sure, the cute clothes will be a bonus, but I'm more concerned with keeping myself out of a hospital gown. Or at least not have to wear two of them to completely cover up.
Why am I doing this? I outlined it a couple entries ago, about not wanting to die of a heart attack or some other obesity-related malady, but it's way more than that. Singer Alison Moyet recently lost over 100 pounds, and when she was interviewed and asked about it, she said that it had come down to her greatest fear: loss of independence. I thought, "man, you know, that's MY biggest fear, too!"
I live alone. I've lived alone now for just over 14 years. February 1, 1996 was the day I moved into my first solo apartment, and I've never once regretted it. It took some getting used to initially, but that had more to do with the reason behind the move (the dissolution of a 4-year live-in relationship) than it did the actual living solo part. If you recall, I really dig my privacy. For me, privacy and independence go hand-in-hand. And what does all this have to do with my weight?
Everything.
I live in my own little world, a messy little microcosm full of clutter and pets and dirty clothes on the floor and soap scum on the tub faucet, with only my thoughts, my music, pet noise, and my self-engaging conversations to fill the air. To some this may sound lonely. To me, it is paradise. The thought of succumbing to some disease or illness or injury that renders me incapable of living like this sends me into a panic. The idea that someone would have to come in here, occupy my space, and touch my stuff practically gives me an anxiety attack. And the thought that I might not be able to feed, bathe, or dress myself? Call Kevorkian. There's no way.
But even before it comes to that, there's the other stuff that has crept up on me along with the number on the scale. I can't kneel for very long. My joints hurt and my knee aches constantly. My back, which sucked even when I was thin, is buckling under the weight of the abdominal mass tugging on it. My feet hurt all the time, and something that used to give me great pleasure - feeding my shoe habit - is a chore because even my feet are fat. It's a struggle to tie my own shoes, let alone try any on in a store. My chest hurts a lot, and my asthma is poorly controlled. That's a big one, and it's kind of a catch-22 and a cruel irony; the medicine I take for my asthma promotes weight gain. I get out of bed in the morning and I feel like I'm 80 years old. All of this stuff is pointing toward the direction of eventual dependence.
And this, my friends, is what is going to keep me focused on the prize this time. Sure, the cute clothes will be a bonus, but I'm more concerned with keeping myself out of a hospital gown. Or at least not have to wear two of them to completely cover up.
Friday, February 05, 2010
Wristwatch
I have freakishly fat wrists.
Actually, I don't think it's technically the wrists, but rather the ends of my forearms. But regardless, they're bizarre. When I went to visit Chris this past summer, he was intrigued by them. It was like he couldn't help himself, and I'd catch him out of the corner of my eye reaching over to touch them. He continually and compulsively poked, prodded, and pinched my wrist fat, and when I protested he answered, "but...they're just so puffy and...I mean, well...do they hurt?"
They don't hurt, but they are kind of painful to look at. I mean, they're very puffy and swollen-looking. My whole life has been a battle with my weight, and I always have little markers to indicate that I'm gaining. The button on the jeans starts to strain, or my thighs start to look like overstuffed sausages in the casings of my pant legs, or my bra starts digging into my back. Then there's the whole tight underwear problem (and ain't nothin' right when your underwear is tight). But then years ago I figured out that I could tell I was really crossing a line on the scale when my wrists would get fat.
The first time I noticed it I'd thought it was a side effect of medication, or simple water retention, but then I noticed it wasn't going away. A friend of mine remarked shortly before I moved back to Buffalo that I looked "swollen," to which she added, "oh my god, look at your wrists!" She meant it in the nicest way, of course, concerned that perhaps there was something wrong with me. She, too, thought it was a fluid retention issue. But seven years later, they're still fat. Only fatter. I have wrist rolls. Who the fuck gets rolls of fat on their forearms? Seriously? What a freak!
Forget pounds. I'm gonna keep track of my wrist measurements instead.
Actually, I don't think it's technically the wrists, but rather the ends of my forearms. But regardless, they're bizarre. When I went to visit Chris this past summer, he was intrigued by them. It was like he couldn't help himself, and I'd catch him out of the corner of my eye reaching over to touch them. He continually and compulsively poked, prodded, and pinched my wrist fat, and when I protested he answered, "but...they're just so puffy and...I mean, well...do they hurt?"
They don't hurt, but they are kind of painful to look at. I mean, they're very puffy and swollen-looking. My whole life has been a battle with my weight, and I always have little markers to indicate that I'm gaining. The button on the jeans starts to strain, or my thighs start to look like overstuffed sausages in the casings of my pant legs, or my bra starts digging into my back. Then there's the whole tight underwear problem (and ain't nothin' right when your underwear is tight). But then years ago I figured out that I could tell I was really crossing a line on the scale when my wrists would get fat.
The first time I noticed it I'd thought it was a side effect of medication, or simple water retention, but then I noticed it wasn't going away. A friend of mine remarked shortly before I moved back to Buffalo that I looked "swollen," to which she added, "oh my god, look at your wrists!" She meant it in the nicest way, of course, concerned that perhaps there was something wrong with me. She, too, thought it was a fluid retention issue. But seven years later, they're still fat. Only fatter. I have wrist rolls. Who the fuck gets rolls of fat on their forearms? Seriously? What a freak!
Forget pounds. I'm gonna keep track of my wrist measurements instead.
Point(s) of No Return
I did it. I took the plunge. Realizing that my life was never going to improve until I got a handle on my weight, and fearing my anxiety about turning 40 would be moot if I ended up dropping dead of a heart attack before I even get there, I joined Weight Watchers.
Some of you know that I had been going through the preparatory process for Lap-Band surgery and that I was initially pretty excited about it. However after the first few steps it became evident that the money was going to be an issue. Between that and the fact that it stopped being an exciting prospect and turned instead into a terrifying one (the whole internally-placed foreign object thing was really starting to weird me out), I ultimately decided to not go through with it. This did not, of course, change the fact that I still needed to lose weight, regardless of by what method. I assuaged my doubt by reminding myself that band or no band, I was going to have to follow a strict diet and exercise regimen to achieve my goals. The only difference between what I'm doing now and what I would have done is that I won't have a piece of plastic clamped around my stomach, and I won't be going every 6 weeks to have a needle stuck in my gut. Oh, and I'll be saving myself about $5000, too.
So, yeah. I'm a Weight Watcher. Points. Meetings. Weigh-ins. Portion control. And all the fun, emotional-rollercoaster-y stuff that goes with that.
But here it is, folks. Some of you might remember my old diet blog (that I have since dissolved into the internet ether) where I talked all the dramatic crap about not wanting to die, wanting to be healthier, and wanting to fit into normal sized clothes. You might remember that I made great progress for a while, losing close to 60 pounds on the Pure Weight Loss program. Then my dog died, the holidays rolled around, Pure closed and ran off with my $700, and then I got sick. All that weight came back in no time. And then some.
In the last couple of years, it's really become apparent that, more than ever, I need to get a handle on this. This is not a matter of no longer fitting into my jeans, but rather a matter of fitting into life like a normal human being. I'm at a size now where I've become that person I always wondered about....that woman that has to squeeze through turnstiles, who waddles when she walks, who pants and wheezes going up one flight of stairs, whose ass takes up the whole seat and then some, that woman whose neck is so fat her necklaces look tight. I'm her now.
But not for long if I have anything to say about it. I'm not going to turn this into a diet blog, but I'll warn you - this whole Weight Watchers thing is kind of amusing, and I fully plan on making fun of it every chance I get. All in good humor, of course.
With that, I must go research the activity point value of blogging.
Some of you know that I had been going through the preparatory process for Lap-Band surgery and that I was initially pretty excited about it. However after the first few steps it became evident that the money was going to be an issue. Between that and the fact that it stopped being an exciting prospect and turned instead into a terrifying one (the whole internally-placed foreign object thing was really starting to weird me out), I ultimately decided to not go through with it. This did not, of course, change the fact that I still needed to lose weight, regardless of by what method. I assuaged my doubt by reminding myself that band or no band, I was going to have to follow a strict diet and exercise regimen to achieve my goals. The only difference between what I'm doing now and what I would have done is that I won't have a piece of plastic clamped around my stomach, and I won't be going every 6 weeks to have a needle stuck in my gut. Oh, and I'll be saving myself about $5000, too.
So, yeah. I'm a Weight Watcher. Points. Meetings. Weigh-ins. Portion control. And all the fun, emotional-rollercoaster-y stuff that goes with that.
But here it is, folks. Some of you might remember my old diet blog (that I have since dissolved into the internet ether) where I talked all the dramatic crap about not wanting to die, wanting to be healthier, and wanting to fit into normal sized clothes. You might remember that I made great progress for a while, losing close to 60 pounds on the Pure Weight Loss program. Then my dog died, the holidays rolled around, Pure closed and ran off with my $700, and then I got sick. All that weight came back in no time. And then some.
In the last couple of years, it's really become apparent that, more than ever, I need to get a handle on this. This is not a matter of no longer fitting into my jeans, but rather a matter of fitting into life like a normal human being. I'm at a size now where I've become that person I always wondered about....that woman that has to squeeze through turnstiles, who waddles when she walks, who pants and wheezes going up one flight of stairs, whose ass takes up the whole seat and then some, that woman whose neck is so fat her necklaces look tight. I'm her now.
But not for long if I have anything to say about it. I'm not going to turn this into a diet blog, but I'll warn you - this whole Weight Watchers thing is kind of amusing, and I fully plan on making fun of it every chance I get. All in good humor, of course.
With that, I must go research the activity point value of blogging.
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