All the Way Here: A Story of the Worst and Best Moments of My Life

The Joy of Dating

 

I’ve never liked the idea that one decision or one event can change your entirely life (mostly because it would paralyze me with fear given the pressure this would put on every choice I would ever have to make).

That being said, there is one moment that changed my entire life.  Not on its own.  Not without the other decisions and events that followed.  But like a metaphorical patient zero, I can trace the current trajectory of my life back to one moment, that changed everything for the better.

I won’t bore you with tales of teenage sadness, except to say that teenage sadness bled through the majority of my years.  I was severely, desperately, blindingly depressed from the age of 12 to 26.

14 years.  (cue GnR).  14 years is a long time to be sad.

I used to think that I would never get through it.  Somewhere along the way I convinced myself that I had been born broken, that something in my brain just didn’t work right and that was the reason that I was this way.  I still very vividly remember cutting myself because at least it made sense, if you were upset because your arm was bleeding that was logical.  If life feels hopeless, when surrounded by a family that loves you and your future is (almost inherently) bright, that can seem incomprehensible.  How do you find your way out of something when nothing makes sense?

And then, one simple thing happened…followed by another…and then another…and so on and so on until now.  A string of events, where everything pointed in the right direction.  And it wasn’t just chance, but dammit if I don’t feel lucky.

_________________

It happened the year I turned 26.  I was working at Coast Mountain Bus Company call centre, a union job, making more money than I ever had before and I was absolutely miserable.  I hated answering the phones–less because the people were awful (but just to be clear they were awful) and more because I felt like management didn’t have our backs.  It was probably just a symptom of the union/management dichotomy but the point (for this story, at least) is that I was absolutely fucking miserable.  I had been moved to day shifts (which, as a night owl, sucked big time).  I remember leaving for work at 5am and getting home around 3pm.  I had started going to bed by 5pm.  I couldn’t even pretend that I wasn’t miserable.  I couldn’t hide it.

Which, as it turns out, became a much more literal truth then I was expecting.

One day in February, 2008, I was standing in my parents’ kitchen, with my back to my mother, when she asked if I had been scratching at the back of my head.  I was irritated.  I was cranky.  I was miserable.  It seemed like an insane question.  It felt like she was hassling me.

“No,” I answered sullenly.  But she wouldn’t let it go.  I thought she was just going to give me some motherly advice about how I shouldn’t wear my hair in a ponytail all the time but instead she walked over and tried to examine it.  I went to the bathroom and used the old two-mirror-hairdresser-method until I saw what had her so alarmed.

My hair had fallen out.  In a huge round patch.  Bald.  Disgusting.  Even my own hair couldn’t stand to be around me.  I’m not sure I entirely believe it, but sometimes I like to think that this was my body speaking for me when I couldn’t speak for myself.

The great irony of my life is that the worst job I ever had, turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.

I started working at Coast Mountain Bus Company.

On December 25th 2008, I had my last drink of alcohol.

A month and a half later, my hair fell out.

I was lucky enough to get to go on paid medical leave.

I started counselling (that like every other counselor/psychiatrist/etc. that I had been to since I was a preteen wasn’t great – or at the very least, I wasn’t ready to let in).

I went back to work.

It was even worse than before.

One day, on the phone, after a snafu in scheduling, I yelled at my boss (nothing crazy just a raised voice).

The next shift I was fired.

By some miracle, I wasn’t technically “fired” but actually just “let go” (reason K – other) and thus I qualified for unemployment insurance.

The counselor I had been seeing was through my job and since I didn’t work there anymore, I had to find someone else.

My counselor recommended a government-subsidized mental health centre (conveniently located 10 minutes from my house).

And that’s where I found both a psychiatrist and a counselor that would help me to change everything.

I went on anti-depressants and put the CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy) techniques I was learning to good use.

 

The way I am listing things here makes it seem so quick and easy but don’t get me wrong–it was a goddamn struggle.  I remember one time, after my psychiatrist was supposed to have upped my dosage again, returning from the drugstore and finding out he had mis-written the Rx and it was the same dose (and the pills were time release so you couldn’t just split them).  I remember flipping the fuck out, falling to the floor in sobs.  I was gutted.  The money it would cost to fill the prescription again.  The wasted pills.  The days it would take until the problem was solved.  Looking back now it seems ridiculous but I remember feeling like I had fallen overboard and just when the life raft was close enough to grasp it sunk.

I remember being so so fucking sad.  I felt like a complete failure.  A burden to my parents (would I ever be anything other than someone they had to worry about?).  I was living at home with my parents, had a degree I felt was useless, I’d been fired (in my mind) for the first time in my life and from a job I hated no less (it felt like getting rejected by someone you didn’t even want in the first place), I was overweight and in debt up to my eyeballs.  I was depressed and everything seemed worthless.  The world was terrifying.  I was ashamed and felt as if my life was meaningless, the only reason not to give up was my family who loved me so deeply (and I them) that regardless of the sad I couldn’t imagine leaving them with the kind of pain that a suicide would create.

When I started CBT, the goal was just to shower.  Just get up, and shower.  If I could do that, the day was a success.  And then it was about doing things.  Make a list.  Accomplish a thing.  Get dressed.  Go out and have a cup of coffee.  It was about not becoming overwhelmed.  It was about not seeing the world as a terrifying place (I don’t always succeed at this one).  I learned that I had to do things that I would eventually love, long before I would love them because when you’re depressed things are backwards and you can’t love anything.  So you just have to do…get out and DO…because it will get better.

And in time, I did get better.  Not quickly.  Not all at once.  But an inch of happiness here, and a moment of peace there, and life was just better.

 

And while all this was going on, I decided to go back to school.  I already had a BA in Psychology (let’s not discuss the irony), but I wanted to go grad school and revive my dream of being an English Professor and writer (something that seemed to have gotten lost along the way).

I had no idea if I could do it.  I needed to get another BA first though, so I applied to UBC and was accepted in.

I sold all the useless material things I owned and, in July and August, went on a 5 week solo trip to Europe (a similar trip I had tried but failed to complete ten years before–coming home after a week, hysterical and traumatized).

This time though, the trip was amazing.  It changed me.  I was stronger, more self-reliant, more durable.  I set out to do a thing and I did it.

September 2009, I went back to school.

I only took a few courses because, honestly, I wasn’t sure at all that I could do this (this being a second BA, this being going to grad school, this being anything but being the failure I felt like I was)

Thanksgiving (Canadian) 2009, my long-distance boyfriend of 6 years and I broke up.

January 2010, I started dating and because I didn’t want to keep telling the same story to different friends, I started the blog Something She Dated.

In the next two years:  I joined Twitter, I got a paid writing gig, I dated several boys, I lost weight, I gained some of it back (this one is still a real struggle for me), I started blogging for The Province Newspaper, I worked hard and got good grades (something I’d never really done up till now–I’d always just coasted).

In my final year, I applied to 6 graduate school programs.  In all honesty, I never really expected to get into any of them.  I got into 5.  I still remember calling my father in tears when the first letter arrived from Georgia State University saying that they wanted me.  Somebody wanted me!

I graduated with my 2nd BA (English Literature).

I ended up choosing Concordia (in Montreal) because they offered me the most funding and Montreal sounded like a great place to live, oui non?

I moved to Montreal.  The first week was brutal but now I feel like I could move anywhere, could do anything.

Grad school was great (even the times when it wasn’t great).  I became a TA in the English Department.  I did some teaching in the Engineering and Computer Science faculty.  And in this last term I even got a job teaching an English course all on my own (part time faculty, yo!).

In September 2013, I took my last anti-depressant. 

After a year in the academic stream of my degree, I decided that I’d rather do my thesis in Creative Writing.  While I have loved my time in grad school, I have realized it is unlikely that I will want to pursue a PhD in English (if anything, I’d be more likely to apply to law school but that’s another story).  I applied to the Creative stream, was accepted, and on March 26th my thesis was accepted.  I finished my courses and I will graduate with an Masters Degree in English Literature on June 9th.  

The plan is to stay in Montreal till July 31st when my lease runs out and then move back home to Vancouver to spend a few weeks (to a few months) chilling at my parents’ while I look for a job.  I’m hoping to move up north (Yukon, NWT, Nunavut)–for the adventure, for the writing inspiration, for the money.

I feel like this story explains everything, about me, entirely.  But I can’t really be sure, because I’m on the inside, I know what the puzzle looks like complete, and you guys all just have the pieces.

This is why, when it comes to dating and life, I’m always looking for the fun–the joy–the happy.

I want to date and have happiness.  I want to enjoy things just as they are.  I don’t want commitments and promises of happiness forever, I just want to enjoy the happy when it happens.  (now if only I could find a way to explain this to men that doesn’t sound like I’m using “fun” as a code word for fucking).  Because, believe you me, there are very VERY few men, that I come in contact with (online or otherwise), who can understand my desire for fun and can get on board with it.  I just want to date people and enjoy them for the time we have together.  I want to be treated like a human being, not a talking vagina.  But you’d be surprised how difficult it is to find someone who agrees.  Who can see the value in the middle ground.  Who has the ability (and desire) to care about someone generally as a person, or maybe even specifically, but doesn’t feel the need to tie their futures together.  I just want to laugh and talk and fuck and have more fun than anyone should legally be allowed to have.  

I want to date happy

Because I was so so sad for so so long and I’ve come so so far.  And I’m aware that others have definitely struggled more but this isn’t a competition, just (an abridged) story about how I got all the way here—-from way back there.

And I just hope, that if any of you are ever back there that you can hang on long enough to find your way up here because it is good.  Oh god, it is so good.  And even if I don’t always know how to help or make it better for you, just know that I’m here.  And that there is a way.  Ugh.  This is starting to sound all preachy and sappy and stuff but ya know, I’m actually a mushball (most evidence to the contrary) so whatever, I love you.

 

An Open Letter to Daughters

 

[dropcap]She stands[/dropcap] in a school yard, on a playground, at a bus stop, on the sidewalk, reflected in the wet spots of my face

Your daughter.  Her daughter.  Their daughter.  Our daughters.

This world, is breaking them.

I want to tell her, that she is innocence and potential and full of enough ink to write her message across all the days.  I want her to know she can swaddle herself in cotton candy love; that she doesn’t have to seek it outside; that she is enough, but that if she wants to, that’s just fine too.  Tell her not to hold her breath.  Tell her not to apologize for taking up space in this world.  Tell her that no matter what, in the darkest hours of her darkest days that there is someone who loves her.  Tell her that that someone should be herself.  Tell her to look inside for reassurance and outside to reassure.

I want her to know that her hands are made of glue, and that the world is hers for the taking, that she has the power to put all the pieces back together.  I want you to tell her for me.

Long before she becomes tortuous and entirely adolescent, tell her that life is a series of stages.  Tell her that sexuality is fluid and flexible, tell her that she should think with her brain and care with her heart, tell her that mistakes will happen but that shame should not be a part of her life.

“When you have shame,” you’ll say, “they have all the power.”

Teach your daughters to live without shame and no one will ever control them.

I Am Not Disgusting

Remember:  I am someone’s little sister, someone’s baby girl, someone’s friend, someone’s love.  Please don’t be mean.  My heart breaks the same as yours.

I can show you a picture, paint it on an easel, move your hand across the words in Braille but you’ll never really get it, unless you once tried to talk to someone who thought you were Disgusting. 

It’s a special kind of hurt the moment you find out you’re a sideshow Freak, a detour to chubby town, a vacation gone whale hunting, and you’re swimming for your life from men who want to mount your head on their wall.

You are an endangered species, in a world of bridges and railroad tracks and ceilings with beams not strong enough to hold you, like arms that should cradle you but hang you out to dry and then forget until they look and you’ve blown away.

This post is not in response to this awesome SO BRAVE beautifully written post because that just feels way too antagonistic or in opposition, which is not what this is.  This is an addition.  A plus(size).  An addendum.  So here goes…

When you see a picture of a woman, exposed with the flaws she thinks she hasbut you see none, you stand up and applaud.  She has value.  Her hurt should be taken away.  You think I have no say in how she should live her life.  Who am I to judge.  She has the right to feel beautiful, be beautiful, goddamn it she is beautiful (because honestly, aren’t we all?)

And to be clear, her hurt is in no way less important or worthy than mine.  But, I have to wonder if that same go grrrrl reaction happens when an actual fat person, bares their flaws for you to see.  And though I dream that it does.  I beg for it to be so.  I would give almost anything for that to be true, for this to be a world where you don’t think you have any fucking say over my body.  I have a lifetime of experience that says otherwise.

I’ve never worn a bikini.  Bikini season means nothing to me, though I’ve spent most of life swimming away from whale hunters.  No insult is ever equal when it comes to fat people.  I’m never just a bitch like all you other lucky bitches get to be.  I’m always a fat bitch.  I live in constant fear that teenage boys will spit on me (and I’m thirtyfuckingone).  When I reject a man while online dating (politely), I’m never just a girl who rejected him.  Suddenly I’m a fat bitch that no one wants anyway.

I’m not really going to go into why I’m fat (which I am).  Because the truth is it shouldn’t matter, to you.  This is my body.  I am allowed to eat (which I do).  I am allowed to fuck (which I do).  I am allowed to be happy and not harassed or stared at.  I should be able to workout and not live in fear that you think I’m disgusting.  I should be allowed to just be me, in whatever shape that comes in.

I’m not lazy.  I’m not worthless.  (though even if I was, who are you to judge?).  I have value.  I hold two BA degrees.  I’m currently getting my MA at Concordia in English Literature.  I’m kind to people.  I get choked up on phone calls with my parents because I love them so much.  I want to make the world a better place.  I want to protect young girls whose sexuality is judged and mocked and held hostage.  I want to be the naked tits on the internet that makes it so no girl ever commits suicide after she couldn’t stand being harassed and bullied for amistake.  I want to bear the burdens so other little girls never have to.  I have a family who loves me.  I have friends who love me.  I have people whose hearts break every time you hurt me.  I have no less value because I’m fat.  You don’t get a say in how I deal with my body or my issues.  I spend my days trying to make people laugh for no other reason than the world needs more joy.  MORE FUCKING JOY.  I should be allowed to sit by a pool, any pool, public or otherwise and not have you think that my grotesque form is somehow obstructing your otherwise perfect existence.

And so here I am.  At a summer BBQ.  Unaware of a photo being taken of me.  By a friend.  Who doesn’t see anything other than her friend, the one who makes her laugh and writes “about the most boring shit in the world but in a way that makes it seem sooo interesting”, making a burger (or something lol I don’t really even know what I was doing) on her thighs, on a day when we were all just so fucking happy.

HUGE Thanks to @MmeSurly and her beautiful brave post that has allowed me to be brave and bare my body and heart.

UPDATE:  In my rush to get this post out quickly yesterday, I worry that it feels unfinished, that I never actually said the thing I meant to say which is this:  That I am enough.  You are enough.  Our bodies are our own.  Life is hard enough as it is without having people tell us what we can or can’t do, what we should or shouldn’t show the world, or how much fun and happiness we are allotted.  

That being said, by the absolutely amazing left-me-near-speechless outpouring of love and support and stories from other women and men about emotions and hurt and strength and bravery and desires to be stronger (I could go on but this sentence is turning into a grammatical nightmare of love)…by what this post has inspired you all to say, I know that even without these extra words you somehow understood exactly what I was trying to say.  So thank you, you beautiful brave people.  My heart, it runneth over.

swimsuit

Saving The World, One Valentine’s Day at a Time

Hearts
[dropcap]I LOVE BEING SINGLE.[/dropcap]
No, seriously.  I really love being single.  And not in that knee-jerk-look-at-me-I’m-so-Carrie-Bradshaw type way.  And not in that I’m-so-broken-that-I-hate-men-and-relationships type way.  And not even in that he’s-just-around-the-corner-and-I’ll-hold-my-romantic-breath-until-he-gets-here type way.  But in a real, honest, I’m enough, for this very moment type way.

I’m not sure if it’s an inherent thing.  Or a way my parents raised me thing.  Or a logical because I know life takes work thing.  But somewhere along the way I figured out, you have to be enough.

“You have to be enough.  By yourself.  Just You.  Enough.  Whole.  The rest has to just be icing.  Amazing beautiful delicious icing But just icing.”

Because here’s the thing of the thing.  Nothing is guaranteed in life except that the only person who will be with you forever, has to be with you forever, will never leave your side, not for anything…is You.  As gloomy as it is to think, marriages fail, people leave, people die, and feelings fluctuate.  And I’m not saying you should spend your life alone, a hermit in a cabin, putting up walls long before anyone ever thinks of climbing them.  But if you want to have a good life, the best life, how can you neglect the one person who has the biggest starring role?

Now I’m not saying it can happen overnight and in fact, I’m a huge proponent of the fake it till you make it attitude, but you have to start somewhere.  And there are a hundred somewhere’s to start.  

 

There’s list making and goal plotting:

You could make a list of things you love about your life.  Though, don’t make the list you think everybody else has.  Because while I adore my bed, roomy and solo.  That might not be your thing.  You might just be the world’s biggest cuddle monkey and pretending doesn’t help anyone.

 

And then there’s physical strength and personal growth:

You could hit the gym to get that svelte physique and seek out a therapist to talk out your issues and get to work on that CBT (cognitive-behavioral therapy, aka change your behavior change your emotions).

 

And don’t forget finding your passions and seeking out hobbies:

Maybe you develop a love of knitting, or maybe you realize that oblivious to you all these years is a hidden talent for the back-hand badminton serve and before you know it you’ve joined a club and won a few hundred trophies.

 

 

But to be completely honest.  There is an easy two step method that supersede’s all these options.  The first is to simply accept who you are.

“Be exactly who you are, in the moment that you are it.  And in that moment, realize that you are enough.  Whole.  Complete.  Just you.  Enough.”

And the second is to change the world.  Because here’s the thing of the thing.  It’s not all about you.  I know I know, you didn’t get a box of chocolates for Valentine’s Day but guess what…the world is overpopulated.  I know I know, you’re filled with rage because Hallmark thought to capitalize and commercialize this holiday which is supposed to be about love but guess what…there are actual wars going on right now, real wars, with guns and violence and people dying.  There are big wars, little wars, oil wars, civil wars, wars of tyranny, wars on ideas, wars on women’s rights.  Pick a cause and do something.  Or at the very least learn something.

And I guarantee you’ll start to realize that the fact that you’re embarrassed to buy your own chocolate on Valentine’s Day seems pretty stupid when you consider how monumentally lucky you are to be able to get to a store that sells chocolate without fear of violence or danger and then that you indeed have money to buy yourself some chocolates.  In fact, maybe go ahead and get a box for someone else.  Your mom, a stranger, whoever.  Because #ThisJustIn the world isn’t all about you.  That being said, this diatribe isn’t about shaming you.  It’s about getting you to stand up.

So you’re sad?  Or feeling alone?  So is someone else.  There is someone else out there, feeling just like you.  Someone else in the world is feeling sad, and alone, and that’s scary.  So band together.  Find a charity.  Find a cause.  Donate your time.  Donate your money.  Donate your ideas.  Whatever you have to give, it has value.  You have value.  And I’m telling you, I promise, even if you can’t see it, somewhere within you is a person who is enough, inherently.  And it’s about time you let them shine.  Today.  Tomorrow.  Because the time you have to shine is limited, so you better make the best of it.  So go head and save the world, One Valentine’s Day at a Time.

 

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Addendum To Biggest Loser

Losing weight

So I know I can be harsh.  And my love of themes can give the wrong impression.  I thought this might happen with the post about how Until I’m the Biggest Loser I’ll Have to Settle for the Biggest Losers.  And I think it kinda did.

Sometimes.  Wait.  Scratch that.  Most of the time.  It’s hard to get your exact point, your tone, the precise meaning, across the interweb.  It’s kind of like when someone asks you to define the difference between Awesome and Rad.  I mean.  Where do you even start.  But I digress.

Sometimes I forget that you, my blog readers, aren’t my friends in everyday life.  You don’t know what I’ve been through.  You don’t know what my life is like.  You don’t know where I’m coming from.  And while a hurdle, this isn’t usually that big of a roadblock.  But.  Well.  I hate to be misunderstood.  Specificity has no bigger supporter than me.  Vague is no friend of mine.  So because the last post was already pretty long and fumbled…here is an “attempted” point form list of some of the clarifications I’d like to make.  Some are in response to comments left (which PSizzle were awesome and thank you so much for both your support and bringing up new points or things I needed to clarify…I heart you!)  and others are just things I think are important.  For clarity’s sake.

1.  Audience.    The post was about me.  Not women in general.

2.  Location.     Vancouver IS very different than Toronto and London (New York, LA).  Christ, it’s even completely different than Seattle (it’s closest major american city for ya’ll that don’t know).  Vancouver is small.  Vancouver is characterized by health, exercise, affluence, nature, etc.  (for reference all wonderful things).  In Atlanta they love me, New Orleans same thing.  Seattle is golden and Florida is a kingdom of ripe fruit (for my pickin’).  I stress, Vancouver is very different.  And even if it wasn’t for the characterizations as mentioned above…the simple size of Vancouver works against my me.  There’s a reason I use plentyoffish.com.  It’s not because the site is awesome.  It’s because it’s the only one that has a decent amount of local people on it.  Every other website can’t seem to get the same draw.

3.  Pulling.    I’ve pulled hotties.  I’ve pulled notties.  I’ve pulled averages.  I’ve pulled nice guys.  I’ve pulled pro-football players (yes, plural).  I’ve pulled regular joes.  I’ve pulled hard-workers.  I’ve pulled military guys (in more than one country).  I’ve pulled a UFC fighter (not to be confused with MMA guy).  I’ve pulled a bouncer, a promoter, a Chef.  I’ve pulled Canadians, Americans, Eurpoeans, Africans, Latin Americans.  I’ve pulled a fireman, a DJ, a Graphic Designer.  The list goes on.

But you know who I’ve never pulled.

The Smart Guy.  The Physicist.  The Professor.  The Lawyer.  The Doctor.  The Poet.  The Extreme Hacker.  The Guy who’s brain I’d like to lick.  I’ve never pulled the Funny Guy.  And I don’t mean I’ve never pulled a guy who knew how to laugh or tell a joke but I mean the really Funny Guy.  The Witty Repartee Guy.  The Sparring Words Guy.  The challenges and makes me think Guy.  I’ve never met the Changing the World Guy.  I’m thinking this might require a whole post to really get to the bottom of it.  But here’s the gist.  The hottie?  Not even close to a specification that makes someone not a “loser”.

Example.  The first date I went on with someone off of plentyoffish.com was Barbie.  He was a bartender.  He had the double shirt.  He had…an 8 pack.  I mean seriously, like fucking steel.  He was definitely a pretty boy.  But.  Dumb as bricks.  I mean honestly, borderline retarded.  Super nice guy.  Really sweet.  Absolutely no filter.  Conversation was insane.  And not in a good way.

4.  The “Like Us For Who We Are.”     Maybe it’s a difference between girls who feel they shouldn’t have to be made to feel less for not being a stick figure and girls like me, obese.  But I call bullshit.  Because I don’t want a guy to like me for being obese like that’s some indication of who I am.  That is most definitely NOT who I am.  It’s a flaw.  Something to overcome.  I am not the cheeseburger I ate when stressed for exams.  I am not the blubber it turned into.  I AM the person who sometimes lacks the ability to appropriately deal with stress.  But that’s not something I would want to be dated for.  I’d want to be liked in spite of that.  Plus trying to deny how important sexual attraction is a counterintuitive action much like the actions that made a world in which a book called “he’s just not that into you” even needs to be published.  I’m just sayin’ people.

5.  Health.    To be clear, I am not trying to get model thin.  I won’t be using diet supplements (or anything else that even has the possible potential to damage my brain, body, etc.).  I am losing weight to be healthy. Plain and simple.  People are attracted to health.

6.  Matching.    Though I get shy on first dates, at the beginning of parties, and speaking aloud in class (Christ! I don’t drink…can you really blame me?).  I have a great deal of confidence.  Sure I’m normal.  There are moments, days, the occasional week when self-esteem takes a hit.  But usually.  I think I’m pretty awesome.  Sometimes that might be obnoxious.  Mostly I think it’s just great.  I mean.  Join the party everybody.  You should think you’re pretty awesome too.  And if you don’t, well either the problem is something you can change…in which case go right ahead and become more awesome.  Or the problem is just a thinking thing, in which case…go right ahead and just start recognizing your awesomeness.

But here’s the thing of the thing.

I don’t think my body matches my self-esteem.  I can garauntee you, if I was not obese.  I’d be talking to the fellas.  I’d be flirting on beaches and coffee shops.  I’d be approaching in bars and lounges.  I’d be making buddies with the guys in the next row at the concert.  But I don’t.  Because I don’t want to be the granade in the scenario.  And I know (generalization sorry boys) that they’re not thinking…awesome maybe instead of letting me touch her perky tits and cup her firm ass, she’ll talk about books, and travelling and ask me questions about science.  So I smile.  And I’m nice and friendly.  But I hang back.  I don’t lead the pack.  And I just want to make my body match my stride.  Which would be at the front of the pack, saying….Haaaaaave you met Cindy?

7.  Bodies.    For reference ladies…I think we’re all freaking beautiful!  Go on with your bad selves.  Big boobs?  rock ’em.  Gorgeous smile?  flash it.  Amazon tall?  God your amazing and you damn well better show it off!  Batt those lashes.  Sway those hips.  Point those sexy toes.  Flat stomach? midriff it.  Juicy thighs?  Wear those tiny shorts!  I’m saying….perhaps the saying goes for you too…it’s time to get balls out!  There’s no need to be a carbon copy of Jennifer Aniston.  And my weightloss will be nothing even slightly headed in that direction.  I am not a size 8 trying to get to a size 4.  I am size don’t-want-to-die-at-50 trying to get to a buys-clothes-at-a-regular-store.  Jus sayin’

And in that spirit.  Here is a little spoken word.  About Boobs.  Since as women I don’t think we’re ever more self-concious whether they’re huge, small, different, somewhere in between.

*Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One Something at a Time*

Until I’m the Biggest Loser I’ll Have to Settle for the Biggest Losers

Losing weight
[dropcap]I am an honest person.  True Story[/dropcap]

And I know what you’re thinking.  “But didn’t you just ask all the boys of summer to white lie you, not tell you the whole truth, wrap you up in sugar coating and all that?”  And the answer is yesEmphatically YES! 

But here’s the thing of the thing.  There’s a big difference between knowing the truth and wanting to hear the truth.  Knowing the truth and sharing that truth with others who didn’t ask for it.  Sometimes the truth should just keep its damn nose to itself.  Boys.  I’m just sayin’.

But other times.  I have to shout it.  I want to shout it.  About myself.  I have to say it.  Outloud.  Because it’s the truth.  I’m okay with it.  And I kinda wish you would be too.  But I won’t force you.

I am self-aware.  True Story

I prefer terms like Chubby Bunny and Pleasantly Plump.  Hate terms like BBW and Obese.  But a spade is a spade and I could be a Biggest Loser contestant.  And before you get all, “But that’s not all you are” and “you’re beautiful and you’re smile…” it’s cool…I know.  But this isn’t that blog post.

This is about dating and it’s correlation to body size.  Specifically MY Vancouver dating pool and its kiddie pool size in relation to the wide net I wish I could cast.  While there may be plenty of fish in the sea there are very few fish swimming in my plus size online bird bath.

So why is my dating pool the size of a bird bath?  Partly it’s a numbers thing (with Vancouver being a fairly small city, not to mention one highly characterized by granola eating hippies and organic produce buying yuppies (love ya :P)) but mostly it’s a Darwinian selection thing.  When selecting a mate, it’s in your best interest to pick one that is strong and durable.  It’s a sexual attraction thing.  It’s a live-for-a-long-time kinda thing.  Sure you can’t predict the future and you’re mate could be hit by a bus tomorrow.  But it’s a hedge-your-bets type thing.

And I get it.  I’m guilty of it too.  I’ve always said I didn’t want to date somebody else who was obese.  Fuck we’d probably just bounce off of each other.  All kidding aside though.  It’s the truth.  I’m not attracted to majorly overweight guys.  And I know you’re thinking that’s cold, girl.  But here’s the thing of the thing.  It has less to do with how they look than what the weight signifies (to me).

To me, the weight reveals everything.  They have issues.  They have stuff to deal with.    And before you say something ignorant like, I know lots of happy fat people.  Think.  I mean really think.  Chris Farley.  Kirstie Alley.  Elvis.  Oprah.  Me anytime before 2 years ago and after I was twelve.  Jus sayin’.  And yes I know everybody has issues.  I had issues.  I have less issues now.  And because I’m looking for fun fun fun dating.  I don’t want boys with issues.  I want boys that have less issues.  Like how I have less issues.

The Tie In.

Okay so maybe losers is a bit harsh.  But spot me some leeway.  Call it wordsmithing and poetic license and dramatic effect and all that.  Thematic significance and we all know I love themes.  It just fits.  And for Christ sakes! I know you’ll at least cosign that the “somethings” and “potential somethings” I’ve been dating aren’t “winners”.

My theory is this…..

Sidebar:  Okay so I’ve written and rewritten the end of that sentence like 20 times and nothing feels…well…like something I could write and not be judged for being a totally politically incorrect asshole.  So I’m just going to be a politically incorrect HONEST asshole.

My theory is this…until I’m the biggest loser (read: not obese) I’ll have to settle for the biggest losers (read: not physicist smart, not highly educated, not super confident/manly/ballsy, not always tall, sometimes no dates at all).  Now don’t get all, Oh SSD?!? (hands on your hips and disapproving pout) on me.  Because frankly I know I deserve to spend time with wonderful awesome guys.  I think I’m awesome.  It’s not a self-esteem thing.  It’s a reality thing.  And I’m okay with that.  most of the time.

I am university educated.  I have big boobs and a nice smile.  Some boys have said nice eyes.  My friends appear to like me.  At parties I’m sociable and said to be funny (people have been known to laugh).  I’m adventurous and I’ve been out in the world (read: I have things to talk about).  I’m independent (read: have lots of my own interests).  I’m a dynamo in bed. (okay that one I’m just hoping is true and if not a girl can always learn with enough enthusiasm right?)

So why wouldn’t the dates be pouring in?  Why aren’t I being bombarded online and courted offline.

I have one theory.  It has something to do with where the men are. The ones with balls of steel and Chuck Norris swagger…Read More Here

For another perspective on this topic there are some amazingly wonderful and lovely ladies who have weighed in on this topic: Cece @ The Big Girl Blog, Lucky Girl @ How Very Lucky, and KB @ KB In NYC. They all make some really awesome points.

Unfortunately unlike Lucky Girl, I haven’t been all sorts of different body sizes.  I’ve just been the one.  Big.  I haven’t been a normal weight since before I had hips (which ironically occurred late though I had boobs by grade four).  So I don’t have anything to compare my current dating life to.

But that’s all about to change.  Because you all know me and science.  I can’t simply accept an idea, a notion, a claim.  I have to test it.  And I’m not going to get into but my life is the peachiest it’s ever been in my entire life.  Except this one last thing.  My weight.  So not only is this the summer of boys.  But it’s also the summer I become the biggest loser.  So wish me luck.  I’ll keep you posted on any inverse correlational details.  And for reference…the tally thus far.

Weeks Since the Summer of Boys Began:  5
Total “Somethings” Dated During the Summer of Boys:  3
Total “Somethings” Dated:  5
Total “Pounds” Shed During the Summer of Boys:  12

 

*Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One Something at a Time*