I know, I know. It's overcommercialized, and corny. You shouldn't have to be reminded to love someone once a year. It creates ridiculous pressure for people to impress one another, rather than connect in a meaningful way. We all know this about Valentine's Day, and we celebrate it anyway. Well most of us. I know I do, or at least make an attempt, when I am dating someone.
Speaking of, last V-day with R was the first time in my entire life that a boy has made even HALF of an effort to celebrate with me. It wasn't anything fancy! I lay in wait, for a week beforehand, with it not coming up in conversation, simply terrified to bring it up. Every single guy I had been with up until that point had given the argument that they hated what a commercial "hallmark" holiday it was, and that they did not need to be reminded to show their love, or to go out and spend money just because it was expected of them. I may have taken their argument as valid, if they had been of the character to randomly offer me romantic tokens or sentimental gestures throughout the year just because. Let's just say that in my early and mid twenties, I dated a succession of guys who seemed to tolerate my presence in their lives, rather than cherish it.
I had assumed that that was the way it always was, but everything about R was different from the men I had dated previously. First of all, he was very adult in his manners and priorities - he had a good job. A nice car. He wasn't afraid to tell me that he thought that I was beautiful. He wasn't afraid to hold my hand in public. Our relationship was full of random indulgences, renting hotel rooms and spending 12+ hours in bed at a time. Or lavish dinners at fancy restaurants. Our upbringings and value systems were so very different, but I was still drawn to him and felt a spark of possibility in our future. So When V-day started to creep up, several months after we had started dating, I started tucking things away to put together a gift for him. Chocolates. A dvd or two. Edible chocolate paint. A book. Silk boxers. So cliche is my romantic pallette, I swear. I waited with bated breath, for him to bring it up. I was terrified of springing my gifts on him and them being accepted with awkward confusion.
The day before Valentine's day R called me and admitted that he had forgotten that it was coming up. I honestly don't know if this was the case or not... he was a very busy man, his job a very demanding one. He could have forgotten. But if you are even remotely close to having some sort of emotional entanglement around mid february, it's very difficult to not be reminded of it about a dozen times a day. He told me that he didn't think he would be able to get reservations at a restaurant on such short notice, and that the movies would likely be packed. Would pizza and a dvd after he got off work be okay?
It was okay, obviously. I would have loved to have made him a giant dinner, but being 28 years old and living in your parent's basement definitely can have some inhibiting effects on your love life. It wasn't exactly much of a stretch from what we normally did together, there was a lot of movie-watching and eating in our relationship. But he brought candy, and chocolates, and movies, and a giant stuffed gorilla holding a satin heart with a rose in its teeth. A fabric attrocity so hideous that I felt guilty placing him on my cedar chest with the rest of my gaggle of animals, each one carefully selected for its cuteness factor and relevance to my personality. And we made love, and he made me feel beautiful, just like he always did.
This year I feel lonelier than ever before. Bitter, even. And I know that it isn't justified! And that I'm being silly! And that my bra-burning mother would be rolling over in her grave if she knew that her daughter was spending Valentine's day lolling about in a pit of despair, eating yam fries and wishing she had somebody warm to cuddle with and watch bad movies with and eat pizza with. Although technically, both of my dogs fit that bill.
Valentine's day? I'm glad it's over. Most days I'm okay with being single. I'm mostly so absorbed with pursuing my degree that I don't have much time to offer to a man, which is one of the reasons my relationship with R started to crumble. And the loneliness only creeps up very late at night, or when I've been drinking too much. But every once in awhile when I have a free evening and not much to do - I find myself wishing that I had a tall boy to watch movies and eat pizza and have crazy sex with.
V-Day - see you next year, asshole!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Sunday, November 30, 2008
I am deleting a now unused blog, and this is the only entry that I want to save from it. It basically sums up the way I feel about being fat. It was written on January 8th, 2008:
The last year of my life was fraught with change and transition. I found myself attempting to make breaks from old habits, and one of my resolutions for 2007 was to try to take more risks, and attempt to put myself outside of my comfort zone in a plethora of situations. Do I feel that I was successful? Well, I cannot argue that I didn't at least make an attempt. When you consider that I left my job of over four years to go back to school, well then yes, that was a risk. I left a scenario that I was accustomed to, and comfortable with. I left the people that I had worked with for years, people that I liked, people that I knew that I could rely of for a source of daily comfort and support, whether it be through light and casual conversation, or the unburdening of my internal struggles. I gave up my apartment that I held so dear, my cozy little downtown nook, full of books and cats, stocked with gourmet tea and cheap wine, and furnished with third-hand furniture and pilfered knick-knacks. I left this for a basement bedroom in my father's and stepmother's house. I haven't lived with my father since I was 22, shortly after my mother died... this has been an adjustment!
But I also believe that when I was initially outlining my goals for 2007, what I actually meant by intending to take more risks was to do just that... risk appearing foolish, risk being embarrassed, risk your pride to do the things that you want. This is what I meant by putting myself outside of my comfort zone: do what you want to do regardless of what people will think. This has by far been my life's most difficult lesson, and I know it is one that most people struggle with at some point in their life.
I am just sick of it ruling my though processes! I want to take a pilates class without being afraid of being the fattest girl in the class. Who cares if I am the fattest girl in the class? Following logic, doesn't someone have to be the fattest girl in the class? Why can't it be me? What is wrong with that? I want to walk by stores and see something that I like, walk in and try it on, regardless of the fact that it might not fit me! What happens if it doesn't fit me? I put it back and walk out of the store! Or better yet, find something else that does! Why am I so afraid of the judging eyes of the pilates instructor, sales clerk, random passerby? Why do I care? And furthermore, why do I assume that they will judge me in a negative manner?
These are all questions that I have grappled with for most of my adult life. And they are also questions that I trying to force myself to examine a little more closely.
I am so tired of having my fat-related paranoia rule my life. I have been fat since I was a child. It is not a matter of not excercising - my summer months are filled with downtown pavement walks on hot days, and bike rides on the boardwalk, and swimming in Lake Superior. It's not a matter of poor eating habits - while I may not exactly be a picture of perfect nutrition, I do enjoy fruits and vegetables more than most people I know. Perhaps it lies in the fact that I am not a fan of self-denial? When I desire chocolate, cheese, laughter, comfort, sex, pleasures of all varieties, I in turn seek them! Perhaps my excess adipose tissue is a penance for hedonistic ways?
I would say that about 75% of the time, I like the way that I look. I am eternally flawed... name any body part, and I will list a complaint. My hair is too fine, my nose is too big, my skin is too dry, my eyebrows uneven, my arms are too fat and my legs are too short. I have a giant scar on my left leg, and it gets swollen when I am on my feet for too long. I get ingrown toenails, and I have the scar on the back of my neck that flares up into and angry rash every once in awhile. My eyes are too small, and my fingernails are very weak and flimsy. My complexion is too ruddy, and I get these brown skin patches around my upper arms because of a condition. My breasts are too large, and I don't like their shape. My vulva is lopsided!
And yet... I still feel okay about myself, 75% of the time. I think that's a pretty good number! When you consider the number of times in a day when you are faced with someone trying to convince you not to like who you are, I will absolutely be okay with liking myself 75% of the time.
2007 was the first year that I found moderate success with my resolutions. And it was also the first year, in at least ten, that I DID NOT resolve to lose weight. Coincidence? Instead, I quit smoking. I am very proud of this!
My primary resolution for 2008?
To love myself 25% more!
The last year of my life was fraught with change and transition. I found myself attempting to make breaks from old habits, and one of my resolutions for 2007 was to try to take more risks, and attempt to put myself outside of my comfort zone in a plethora of situations. Do I feel that I was successful? Well, I cannot argue that I didn't at least make an attempt. When you consider that I left my job of over four years to go back to school, well then yes, that was a risk. I left a scenario that I was accustomed to, and comfortable with. I left the people that I had worked with for years, people that I liked, people that I knew that I could rely of for a source of daily comfort and support, whether it be through light and casual conversation, or the unburdening of my internal struggles. I gave up my apartment that I held so dear, my cozy little downtown nook, full of books and cats, stocked with gourmet tea and cheap wine, and furnished with third-hand furniture and pilfered knick-knacks. I left this for a basement bedroom in my father's and stepmother's house. I haven't lived with my father since I was 22, shortly after my mother died... this has been an adjustment!
But I also believe that when I was initially outlining my goals for 2007, what I actually meant by intending to take more risks was to do just that... risk appearing foolish, risk being embarrassed, risk your pride to do the things that you want. This is what I meant by putting myself outside of my comfort zone: do what you want to do regardless of what people will think. This has by far been my life's most difficult lesson, and I know it is one that most people struggle with at some point in their life.
I am just sick of it ruling my though processes! I want to take a pilates class without being afraid of being the fattest girl in the class. Who cares if I am the fattest girl in the class? Following logic, doesn't someone have to be the fattest girl in the class? Why can't it be me? What is wrong with that? I want to walk by stores and see something that I like, walk in and try it on, regardless of the fact that it might not fit me! What happens if it doesn't fit me? I put it back and walk out of the store! Or better yet, find something else that does! Why am I so afraid of the judging eyes of the pilates instructor, sales clerk, random passerby? Why do I care? And furthermore, why do I assume that they will judge me in a negative manner?
These are all questions that I have grappled with for most of my adult life. And they are also questions that I trying to force myself to examine a little more closely.
I am so tired of having my fat-related paranoia rule my life. I have been fat since I was a child. It is not a matter of not excercising - my summer months are filled with downtown pavement walks on hot days, and bike rides on the boardwalk, and swimming in Lake Superior. It's not a matter of poor eating habits - while I may not exactly be a picture of perfect nutrition, I do enjoy fruits and vegetables more than most people I know. Perhaps it lies in the fact that I am not a fan of self-denial? When I desire chocolate, cheese, laughter, comfort, sex, pleasures of all varieties, I in turn seek them! Perhaps my excess adipose tissue is a penance for hedonistic ways?
I would say that about 75% of the time, I like the way that I look. I am eternally flawed... name any body part, and I will list a complaint. My hair is too fine, my nose is too big, my skin is too dry, my eyebrows uneven, my arms are too fat and my legs are too short. I have a giant scar on my left leg, and it gets swollen when I am on my feet for too long. I get ingrown toenails, and I have the scar on the back of my neck that flares up into and angry rash every once in awhile. My eyes are too small, and my fingernails are very weak and flimsy. My complexion is too ruddy, and I get these brown skin patches around my upper arms because of a condition. My breasts are too large, and I don't like their shape. My vulva is lopsided!
And yet... I still feel okay about myself, 75% of the time. I think that's a pretty good number! When you consider the number of times in a day when you are faced with someone trying to convince you not to like who you are, I will absolutely be okay with liking myself 75% of the time.
2007 was the first year that I found moderate success with my resolutions. And it was also the first year, in at least ten, that I DID NOT resolve to lose weight. Coincidence? Instead, I quit smoking. I am very proud of this!
My primary resolution for 2008?
To love myself 25% more!
The entire city is covered in a six inch layer of slush. There is so much slush-related anger coursing through my veins any time I have to leave the house. Any time I find myself walking to the bus stop, I try to repeat the eco-friendly rhetoric in my head - public transportation is GOOD. Cars are BAD. But it's a whole lot easier to swallow when the pavement is dry and I get to wear cute shoes. I'm just going to buy sorels! I can't believe that I've gotten to a point in my life where I'm willing to admit that function>fashion. But it really is for car-free people such as myself, and I'm soooo tired of fighting it.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Oh, hey tharrr super secret blog. Why do I always neglect you, and write terrible half-entries and delete them without posting?
This cute little boy that works at HMV came into my store today and was asking about Marvel Zombies 2. He always comes straight to me for the zombie deets, cause he knows that I'm familiar with the territory. I am always instantly attracted to zombie-philes, and I have no idea why. (Althought the guy from HMV is TOO YOUNG, and it's wrong to dick little babies and shit.)
I have many other varied interests that I'm sure that I share with a good bulk of the population, but finding out about other common interests just doesn't affect me in the same way. When Marvel Zombies 2 first arrived at the store, I happened to be working cash the first time a guy bought it. A totally normal and nondescript sort of dude, very blue-collar and non-interesting looking in every way. But when he slid his avid reader's card and copy of MV2 across the counter to me, I looked up at him and just about got lost in his dreamy zombie-infected eyes. I started gushing about how awesome the series is and made myself look like a blathering idiot, and I am absolutely embarrassed to admit this... but I memorized the name that came up when I swiped his card, and tried to facebook stalk him. I swear to god, I am really that sad. It's a problem. (I should mention that I did not locate him on facebook. I have decided that this is just as well. I may have done something crazy.)
I once considered going on a date with a 42 year old married man because he really really really liked zombie movies, and saw on my POF profiles that I also really really really like zombie movies. Fortunately I was talked out of it. This would have also probably been a terrible situation.
Someday I will meet a man who will understand me enough to get me this without having to ask me if I want it, or without me TELLING him about it. Someday. I'm not holding my breath, though.
I met a totally cute boy at a 90s party I threw last weekend. An acquaintance of mine brought him along, and all night long I was trying to figure out where the hell I knew him from. Turns out he's the little brother of this guy I used to be friends with, a million billion years ago. He's cute, and funny, and has a wicked job, and had gone on a date with a girl I know the night before. POO. Also, being that it was a 90s party I basically looked like Kurt Cobain. I probably actally looked more like a dude than Kurt Cobain ever did. And when I found out that this guy is a nurse, I dragged him into my bedroom and made him let me take his blood pressure and asked for tips. Also, I was wasted and couldn't hear shit through my stethoscope. Who does that? Me, that's who. Also, I'm pretty sure that he thinks I'm a freak now because after I finally scraped together enough ballz to add him to my msn, the only think I coudl think of to talk to him about was boots.
For real. Like, sorels. And uggs. And weatherproofing and garbage like that.
I'm probably the worst person in the whole world at talking to boys. I'm going to die alone.
Also, after he left, I wrote on his facebook wall, thanking him for helping me with the blood pressure stuff, and then the girl that I know that he went on a date with kind of wigged out a little bit. Sorry?
I have approximately somewhere in the realm of seventeen kajillion exams over the next two weeks. Then I am off for a month. I'm planning on spending most of my break sleeping, and not talking to boys, because all I ever do is make myself sound like an idiot.
I wish I could date Ice Cube, for real. Plus he's got all that Are We There Yet? money, so I could quit my job at the bookhole while I finish up my Nursing degree.
Fuck my life!
This cute little boy that works at HMV came into my store today and was asking about Marvel Zombies 2. He always comes straight to me for the zombie deets, cause he knows that I'm familiar with the territory. I am always instantly attracted to zombie-philes, and I have no idea why. (Althought the guy from HMV is TOO YOUNG, and it's wrong to dick little babies and shit.)
I have many other varied interests that I'm sure that I share with a good bulk of the population, but finding out about other common interests just doesn't affect me in the same way. When Marvel Zombies 2 first arrived at the store, I happened to be working cash the first time a guy bought it. A totally normal and nondescript sort of dude, very blue-collar and non-interesting looking in every way. But when he slid his avid reader's card and copy of MV2 across the counter to me, I looked up at him and just about got lost in his dreamy zombie-infected eyes. I started gushing about how awesome the series is and made myself look like a blathering idiot, and I am absolutely embarrassed to admit this... but I memorized the name that came up when I swiped his card, and tried to facebook stalk him. I swear to god, I am really that sad. It's a problem. (I should mention that I did not locate him on facebook. I have decided that this is just as well. I may have done something crazy.)
I once considered going on a date with a 42 year old married man because he really really really liked zombie movies, and saw on my POF profiles that I also really really really like zombie movies. Fortunately I was talked out of it. This would have also probably been a terrible situation.
Someday I will meet a man who will understand me enough to get me this without having to ask me if I want it, or without me TELLING him about it. Someday. I'm not holding my breath, though.
I met a totally cute boy at a 90s party I threw last weekend. An acquaintance of mine brought him along, and all night long I was trying to figure out where the hell I knew him from. Turns out he's the little brother of this guy I used to be friends with, a million billion years ago. He's cute, and funny, and has a wicked job, and had gone on a date with a girl I know the night before. POO. Also, being that it was a 90s party I basically looked like Kurt Cobain. I probably actally looked more like a dude than Kurt Cobain ever did. And when I found out that this guy is a nurse, I dragged him into my bedroom and made him let me take his blood pressure and asked for tips. Also, I was wasted and couldn't hear shit through my stethoscope. Who does that? Me, that's who. Also, I'm pretty sure that he thinks I'm a freak now because after I finally scraped together enough ballz to add him to my msn, the only think I coudl think of to talk to him about was boots.
For real. Like, sorels. And uggs. And weatherproofing and garbage like that.
I'm probably the worst person in the whole world at talking to boys. I'm going to die alone.
Also, after he left, I wrote on his facebook wall, thanking him for helping me with the blood pressure stuff, and then the girl that I know that he went on a date with kind of wigged out a little bit. Sorry?
I have approximately somewhere in the realm of seventeen kajillion exams over the next two weeks. Then I am off for a month. I'm planning on spending most of my break sleeping, and not talking to boys, because all I ever do is make myself sound like an idiot.
I wish I could date Ice Cube, for real. Plus he's got all that Are We There Yet? money, so I could quit my job at the bookhole while I finish up my Nursing degree.
Fuck my life!
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