Dood. Oh my god.
I know I'm a high weight when my thighs touch at the tops, and lately they've been reaching out and touching someone, which bothers. I've been FEELING phat, too, but I've been afraid to weigh myself.
Yesterday I did.
Not just at my high weight, I'm at THE HIGHEST I'VE EVER BEEN. I'm lucky the floor hasn't broken. Good gravy. Literally. I blame my antidepressants, and I don't care if I DO feel great, I'm going off them. This is ridiculous–I've gained 20 pounds since I started them! I'd rather be thin and miserable than fat and happy. Well. "Thin."
Plus also too, on Friday evening I went jeans shopping, which is always a delight, and I did not quite, you know, fit into anything. I finally found some that had once belonged to the circus, and bought those while they asked me if I needed any restorative ice cream since it had clearly been half an hour since I'd had any, but man.
So yesterday I did Tracy Anderson as hard as a person can do her, and took each dog for individual walks, and we will not talk about the Burrito Supreme I had as the day wore on.
Oh, this is a terrible feeling. What a feeling. I can eat it all now I'm dancin' for my life.
Despite m'girth, I had a busy weekend. I went on my date Saturday, which was not a love match.
This was orange cheesecake, and why so chubby? I think I'm dangerously close to not even being "chubby" anymore, but downright plump. I have no idea what the difference is, but with "chubby" I always think of Nancy Drew's friend Beth, who was cute and chubby and rosy-cheeked. She still got play. Probably most often from Nancy's "tomboy" friend Jo.
Oh, so not a love match. Yeah. For example: "I'll get the check this time, and you can get it next time."
What's your take on that? My feeling is, unless the man is jobless, and even then if he was the one to ask you out, there should be no QUESTION that he's paying. And that he should pay for a few dates, until we're more or less a couple. For me, it means the man is going to be chivalrous. He's going to be the man in the relationship. I don't go in for the whole "we're equals" crap. Maybe that's old-fashioned of me, but I want the man to take care of me. I want to feel like if a wild boar charged us as we left the restaurant, that he'd do whatever it took to fend it off, not stand behind me and screech. You know?
And I don't mean he has to make all the money while I loll about at home, although that'd be lovely and why does that never happen, but I don't mean that at all. I have friends whose husbands work and they don't and on top of that they have cleaning ladies and complain about how busy they are and I want to smack them clean across the head.
But I have a friend who had no kids, didn't work, but her husband entertained regularly. So it was up to her to have elaborate meals and make everything pretty, and I think that's a fair exchange of work.
I don't know what I'm trying to say, other than for me, if a man wants me to start going dutch right away, I know I'm not going to feel taken care of. He's gonna be the guy I call when the car breaks down who'll say, "What do you want me to do about it?" That's a thing, by the way, that actually happened with someone I dated in the '90s. That pretty much ended things.
After my not-a-love-match date, I went to my coworker and neighbor's house, a coworker I'll call notLuis, for a Peruvian dinner. I've never been to a Peruvian dinner before and it.was.delicious. "This is how we do dinner in Peru," he told me. "We have wine, we talk, we eat appetizers, we have wine, we talk, we have the first course, we have wine, we talk, then dinner, then wine, and we talk, then wine, then dessert. Then we have wine and talk."
He wasn't kidding. This was my vision by the end of the night. Bah. No. I accidentally took this and I love it. It was fun, and we should really take a page from their Peruvian book and not eat everything like the building's on fire. I was there till well after 1:00, and they were astonished when I said I had to go. "Already?"
Here I am at 2 in the morning. Two a.m. in the morning. In my snow leopards. Rwawr. That snow is good packing, with my new girth.
I ended up sleeping in and having a lazy morning with the needy committee, then I schlepped to Lilly's to see her new baby, as opposed to an old baby, and I need to stop saying that.
This is not the new baby. This is their regularly scheduled child, Zella, who lives with dogs and cats and chickens, and who has a horse next door that she can walk right up to, and who has a grandmother across the street who gets her every day to help feed the horses and see the barn cats and get eggs. How did she get my life before she was three? Annoyed. I only know she's almost three because I was there the day she was born. I delivered her. Then I made meringue pies for everyone. Which is less believable?
Look how natural. That child knows he's in trouble. He feels less taken care of than I do on a dutch date. "girth laydee going to forget she holding. girth laydee going to drop graham on flor."
Oh my god, I forgot to tell you that when I was sturdily walking Edsel, trying to burn off my new girth, and say girth one more time, this kid approached me. "Have you seen Helen Keller's new house?" he asked me.
I knew the punchline, but you know how fond I am of Helen Keller jokes, and why does god punish me with girth, do you think? "Nope," I said.
"NEITHER HAS SHE!" and he got such a kick out of himself that I ended up standing on the street with him laughing like a girthy hyena. I wonder if his dad's single? I wonder how his dad feels about girth?
I watched the Academy Awards for awhile last night, but I got tired, and annoyed that the celebrities weren't supposed to thank people but did anyway. Tallulah snored through the whole show. I'd have woken her up if they'd given a lifetime achievement to Lassie or whatever, but they didn't.
I'd better lug myself to work. Everyone will wonder when they hired Jackie Gleason.
P.S. Crap. Forgot to link to newest Purple Clover article.