I wrote, a little while ago, about how I didn’t set foot in a downtown bar for exactly six months, and why. Suddenly things are different and I have been going out more. It used to be that friends always came to me - if we were having dinner, it would be cooked at my house, if we were just hanging out watching movies, it would be done in my living room because Elise would probably be there down the hall sleeping and I couldn’t leave anyway. But ever since Alisha moved into her new house, I’ve been going to her more, enjoying the new space with her, the new times. It also bears mentioning that the weather has something serious to do with these changes - the first time I was comfortable wearing a tee-shirt outside without my good old friend, the hoodie, on, I literally have felt like a weight has lifted off of me and that the world is beautiful again. I had been thinking for a while there, particularly in those dark months of February and March, that I was really, for reals for real, slipping into depression - something that we all feel, but something that I never particularly wanted to admit to because of my loathing for depression and how people present themselves with it. (That’s a story for another time, probably next winter.) Feeling these things, though, make me just think that I have that mythic, mysterious, SEASONAL depression. SAD, as it were. I digress.
I started following my friends out to the bar. THE BAR. There is only one bar in New London we go to, does it need naming? THE BAR. First it was once, the time when every single person who I encountered there had the need to comment on how long it’s been since they’ve seen me at THE BAR. I see them all, all the time, at parties and dinners and such, but apparently it really was remarkable that I made my return to THE BAR. Then I started going a few more times, like once a week. Then I discovered the 90’s music trivia on Tuesdays, and at the moment I can’t bring myself to find a reason why I would ever choose to miss such an event. Then it was last Saturday when I got really, really drunk. Everyone thought that was pretty funny, and I thought it was really fun. Then last night. Last night was a special occasion that I asked my mom to watch Elise for - it was a surprise engagement party at THE BAR for two of my friends who have been dating for five years. It’s about damned time.
The place was beautifully decorated with streamers and banners and little baskets of flowers on the bar, and a poster that everyone was supposed to sign, like a guestbook (which I just realized I completely forgot to do, damnit.) And there was the whole hiding in the dark with the lights turned out and the big “SURPRISE!!” when they walked in the door, and it was just so great to see two people I care about share something so special and be so happy about it all. I’m glad I was able to be a part of it.
Regardless, things also happened last night that have made me think, to the point of obsession all day, about my life. Well, no. Not about my life, but how I feel about MYSELF in my own life.
Here’s the thing. Okay, actually, here is a disclaimer: I’m going to talk about girlie things now, such as being overweight and insecure. So, if you don’t feel like hearing about it, stop now, and don’t feel bad.
Here’s the thing. A couple of months ago I decided (again) that it was time to lose weight. Like, really lose weight. I did this last year also, and in the end lost almost 30lbs, but gained almost all of it back because I stopped caring about watching what I ate, and didn’t even really think about excercising. So, going into it this time, I honestly had low expectations of myself. I would love to be one of those women who lose half their body weight, which would, now that I think about it, make me, um, probably dead, but I never, ever thought that I had that in me. Those serious weight losers really have the drive to do it, they are really commited to it, and make their weight loss adventures one of the biggest parts of their lives. I just don’t see myself doing that. I can’t see myself updating my website every week, or every day, cataloging what I ate, how much I excersized, how I felt about it all, and how many pounds I lost. That would be embarassing. Or so I thought. The reality is, I have had a laissez-faire attitude about it. I haven’t been keeping up with my Weight Watcher’s points past the first three days that I signed up AGAIN, and I haven’t been excersizing as much as I have wanted to. I’ve just been buying healthier things to eat, eating less of them, limiting my fast food to about once every two weeks, because I just NEED Taco Bell sometimes, and, erm, I’ve been walking to the bar when I go. Haha. So I know how many pounds I’ve lost since I started “dieting” again. I’ve lost, as of a weigh in yesterday, 21lbs. (Side note: weighed myself this morning and gained four pounds back overnight. This is why one should only weigh oneself once a week, to not obsess.) So great, 20lbs. But guess what really matters? I went shopping last weekend, and fit into a size 16 pants at Old Navy. I thought it was a fluke so I got another pair of pants to try on: Size 16. I thought I was hallucinating, so I left the dressing room again to find yet another pair of pants, and guess what? Size 16. So what does this mean, you ask? Well, it means that for the first time since I gave birth, which was 3 and 1/4 years ago, I am not the biggest size at Old Navy. Hell, I guess that means I could even buy pants at the Gap. Holy shit. I CAN BUY PANTS AT THE GAP!
I’m not at the point yet where anyone who I know comes up to me and says “Oh my god, are you losing weight?” Because I see them all the time and the change is so gradual I barely notice it. Until this past week or so, when I noticed that the upper roll of my two belly rolls, which I prefer to call the “baby pouches”, likening myself to a kangaroo to make myself feel better about pregnancy and birth and all it’s glories, like the fourty pounds of weight I gained and never lost, but whoa, I went off there, and the whole point is that that extra roll under my boobs IS ALMOST GONE! Another side note - I got two of those bra’s at Victoria’s Secret that are aptly called “The Perfect One” and suddenly my boobs once again stick out farther than my gut, and damn, the boobs look good these days.
Well, anyway, something(s) happened at THE BAR last night.
The first: There is this cute boy that I’ve seen around town for the past year or so that works in a store I frequent. We have chatted in the store but that’s it. I just like those little chats because he is a cute boy and I like looking at cute boys. So last night, he showed up at THE BAR and we talked to each other, really talked, for the first time. For a while. Not too long, but longer than I have talked to a cute boy that I don’t know in a long time. I’m not going to say any more than that - I know that’s not much, but. A cute boy talked to me. I talked to him. He smiled a lot and he hugged me when I left. I hope that happens again soon. See, that’s all. I hope it happens again. I hope I get to talk to Cute Boy, ANY cute boy, but, um. It’s been a really long time since I have even had an interest in talking to guys. What am I going to do? Sleep with them? (Here’s where it’s really going to get nasty, fellows..)
I don’t have sex anymore. I don’t even know if I want to, sometimes. The last time I had sex was on my birthday. That was in September. And I did it with an old boyfriend who is now just a friend, and it was inconsequential and nothing, and I don’t regret it at all, it was nice (what I remember of it, hehheh DRUNK!), but I could have taken it or left it, and I chose to take it, and that was that. The reasons I don’t think about wanting to have sex are manifold right now, so let me list a few: fear of unwanted pregnancy, fear of icky disease (I’ve gone damn near 27 years with nary a herp, I’d like to keep it that way), apathy, and, erm.. embarassment. Insecurity. Dread.
I know, I know. The most unattractive thing about a person is their insecurity about their body, blah, blah, blah. But listen. There was a time in my life, way back when, way before Elise, when I would have taken my clothes off for anyone who asked nicely, and I know that doesn’t say anything great about me, and I don’t want to be that person anymore. But it’s more than that. I don’t even want to seek out people anymore. It’s not that I am afraid of rejection, I’m just afraid of what they will want from me in the very beginning.
Let’s go back in time. I used to hook up with a lot of dudes, yeah, I mentioned that, but I’ve had hardly any real boyfriends in my life. Three. Or four. Or whatever that was. Here’s a little secret: I have never once, (since high school) had a relationship of any kind with a guy who I didn’t have sex with first. There was one boyfriend in high school who I never had sex with, and you know what the reason was? Because I liked him too much. I know it sounds dumb, but with that one guy, he really meant something to me, and I wanted it to be special if it happened and it never ended up happening because I was always in love with someone else.
All these years went by with me having sex with guys, and then more sex, and then more sex, and in between we’d have fun and do things together, but none of those things, which I thought were so great at the time, ever amounted to anything at all. They are all gone now. Like it never even happened.
Why is that? I ask myself that all the time. A few weeks ago I was sitting in my apartment with some friends and we were talking about this phenomenon, and I said something that shocked and embarassed them. One of my friends made a comment, speculating about why it was that I have these insecurities about myself - my body and my weight, because obviously there are lots of guys in the world that have the potential to be attracted to me, and have been attracted to me in the past. And I was all deadpan about it, and I just said: “Yeah, I know. I’m good enough to fuck but I’m never good enough to love,” and she, my friend, just stared at me all wide-eyed looking uncomfortable, because maybe I said something that we all want to say once in a while but don’t want to admit out loud, because that’s sad. Yeah, lots of things are sad. This fact in particular. I’ve always felt like I’m squirreled away by guys. They have great fun sleeping with me and hanging out with me, but when it comes to things like, I dunno, holding hands in public and showing the world that they care about me, all but three guys in my entire life have just run the other way. ALL. BUT. THREE.
So yeah, how does that make me feel? I’ve always been everyone’s dirty little secret.
So earlier this year I made a resolution. I’m not going to do that anymore. All I want is to meet a guy, get to know him for a little while and have him take me out a few times before jumping in to bed. I just want to know, really know, that the reason a guy shows interest in being with me isn’t for what I can give him in the bedroom. I don’t ever want to be a sure thing again. I don’t want to be treated like a disposible piece of ass.
With that said, here is the other thing that happened at THE BAR last night: I was sitting there with a friend of mine that I have known for a few years but only see every so often, and he leaned over and asked me who I was seeing right now, and I told him no one. He asked why, I didn’t have an answer. He said, excuse me for being blunt, but how long has it been since you’ve gotten laid? And I told him the truth. He seemed shocked. Then he asked me what I was doing later tonight (by which point it was already half past midnight), and I told him that I was going home and going right to bed (which was not the truth, but I knew what he was getting at.) So he proceeded to tell me that any time I felt like having some fun, no-strings-attached kind of between the sheets fun - to just give him a call whenever. Now, keep in mind that he is a really nice guy, pretty cute, and I’ve heard through the grapevine that he is indeed a good time. I could have said “YES! IT’S BEEN EIGHT MONTHS, LET’S BOOGIE!” but instead, I told him: “I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to find a nice guy and get married and have more babies.”
And finally, for the first time, I really believed myself when I said it.
Considering that for all intents and purposes I fully believe that I already found my one fish in the sea, fell in love with him for ten years, then lost him… Considering that, the fact that I said it, that the words came out of my mouth - means I know it’s true. I’m ready. I’m ready to go find that guy.
PS: It was really dark in THE BAR last night, but I was seriously blushing when that whole conversation was going on, and my heart started beating way faster, and I’ll admit, it felt so good to hear straight from mouth to ear that there was a cute nice guy that wanted to have sex with me last night. Whoa. I’m awesome.
This is a picture of Alisha’s delicious Pavlova that she made… ermm… last week or the week before.