Two-and-a-half months I been a-dietin’, and I have no idea why I just launched into Junior Sample–speak just now, especially considering my new svelteness. Because as of this week, I have officially lost 10 pounds on said a-diet.
My dramatic weight loss–and let’s face it. Any weight loss with me is going to be dramatic–is attributable to Weight Watchers and their app, plus depression. I’m always vaguely depressed. I think I was born depressed, the way George Bailey was born older. But it ebbs and flows, and lately I been ebbin’. I’m down in the valley, valley so low. If my depression were a salad dressing, it’d be Hidden Valley Ranch. And I don’t even LIKE ranch dressing, to add insult to ebbin’.
So, the silver lining is, I’m incredibly thin. And I know it took a long time to get to 10 pounds, but slow weight loss is the way to keep it off. That’s one of those annoying things they always tell you, along with muscle weighs more than fat; don’t go by the scale, go by how your clothes fit; snakes are more scared of you than you are of them; and you’ll find him when you stop looking. All of these statements make me want to ram ham hocks straight up everyone’s nethers. Everyone’s. Even Suzanne Somers. Who’s over there minding her own business.
And look. I know this 10 pounds is a mere spit in the ocean of m’pudge. I know that tomorrow I will be living yet another hot pudge Sunday. But tell that to my considerable ego. Because ever since I lost five pounds, even, I’ve been insufferable.
A few days ago, I saw that little girl in my neighborhood? The one I like? The one with June hair? She looked right through me. “Hey,” I said. “Oh!” she was startled. “I didn’t recognize you!”
“It’s because I’m so thin,” I smugged to myself. I mean. Ten pounds. So imagine how delightful I’ll be 10 pounds from now. Imagine how much you’re all gonna like me at T minus 20.
My mother, who has to be Debbie Reynolds and grab all the glory, is also losing weight. She’s been moving, and attributes it to being too busy to eat, and also moving around more. We discussed the scale and people’s comments (naturally she’s gotten more than I have) and so on.
Then we paused.
“Are you assuming you have cancer and that’s why you’re really losing weight?” I asked.
“Oh, of course,” said my mother. This is where I get it. “Me, too,” I said, despite the fact that for the last 75 days I’ve limited myself to one slice of see-through bread a week.
“It’d be just like you to get cancer when I have it, and then everyone will be all worried about you and not me,” I kvetched. It’s true. She’ll have lines of people fighting over who will bring her casseroles, and I’ll have to beg Dominos to bring me a pizza in the rain.
Oh, but speaking of no one liking me, as part of my trying to drag myself out of my depression, and you’d think with as lithe as I am I’d be happy, but there it is, I decided to organize a little “happy” hour after work yesterday. A June pretends to be happy hour. I emailed about 30 coworkers, asked them to meet up after work at a bar nearby. I left work right on time, drove over there, sidled up to the bar to wait for the crowds, and?
No one came.
I sat there like a loser, a thin loser, for an hour. Occasionally I’d go to the window like a dog, hoping I’d see someone I work with ambling down the road, but no. As I made my way to the parking lot, I kept telling myself, DO NOT take this personally. It was NOT YOU. People have kids, or plans, or maybe the whole building collapsed and you were the only one to get out alive.
But as I made my way out of the stupid parking lot, tears were forming. Goddammit.
Maybe my coworkers are sizeist. Maybe drinking with a size zero is just too much for them. Or they worried I wouldn’t be able to handle alcohol, with my petite figure and all. They wanted to save me from drunken humiliation. Yeah. That was it.
So I had to will myself out of bed this morning, and force myself downtown to the Pride parade.
The good news is, my car didn’t even beep to make me put on my seat belt, because it didn’t recognize that anyone was sitting in a seat. I considered making my own pride sign: LOST 10 POUNDS and joining in, but I didn’t have any colored poster board. Plus, could I really hold anything up that was that heavy?
Mostly I was in it for the dogs, and I have to say that it was so bright out there that I was snapping pictures but could not see my screen. So that I captured anything resembling, you know, anything, was a miracle.
I’m not sure if it was the sun or hell’s fire, but eventually, I was thirsty, so I stopped into the local bookstore for some apple juice, because apparently I’m 18 months old. I mean, I’m the weight of an 18-month-old, so.
The good part about our local book store is they have seating in the window. The bad part is they are forever having fucking events there, and you can never just order a drink, sit on the couch, and read a book.
I took my apple juice to the window, and at another table was a young man of color. “Are you part of the reserved group that’s coming?” Sure enough, I looked around and there were damn signs all over yonder: Reserved at 3 p.m.
“No. Really, I’d be more of an outgoing group than a reserved group,” I said, and the MOC laughed. We kvetched about how there are always events at that store, and how we liked to sit in the window and look at people, and as I stood up, he said, “I like your outfit.”
I have neglected to tell you that two people at Pride had said they liked my shirt, and, you know, earlier I’d taken that shirt off and considered another, because it’s very loose and swingy and I felt a little like it was all COME ON DOWN TO JOOOOOOON’S BIG TOP! do do dodododo do do do do….
But I kept it on because it covers m’ass, which is better than it was 10 pounds ago, but still.
The guy and I walked out at the same time, and dudes, he was 35 at best. Cute, though, and we were getting along like a house a-flame. “I’m not following you,” he said, as we left going the same way.
“Wouldn’t care if you were,” I said thinly.
“Well, if you didn’t care, I would follow you, because you’re pretty hot,” he laughed, as we got to the crosswalk.
“Oh, thank you! That made my day,” I said, and sauntered off IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION.
Dudes. What is wrong with me? Why did I walk away? I HAD NOWHERE ELSE TO GO, like Richard Gere. WHY DIDN’T I HIT THAT? Oh my god.
I’m going back there tomorrow. I’m sitting in that window all damn day. What the FUCK with me, man?
After I blew my chance at love, I went to the GNC for vitamin D supplements, which the salesgirl pointed out were “glu-teeen free,” and bless her heart, and then after she said, “I like your shirt” AND DOES THIS SHIRT HAVE HYPNOTIC POWERS.
Then I schlepped to the pet supply store, for a change, and ran into my old coworker Ian, who you may recall from your Big Book of June Events is someone I spent Christmas Eve with. He and his family live nearby, and I had a lovely time over there. His wife had sent him in search of a kitten. Someone she knew was at some adoption thing there, and she wanted him to check out said kitten, and I guess I don’t need to tell you I did not let him go on this mission alone.
I LOVE YOU, KIDDENZEZSES!!!
Isn’t it perhaps redundant to make them sleep on a kitten-themed blanket? Do we have to use sheets with little people on them? Generally, no.
Anyway, it was nice to see a coworker who actually likes me, as opposed to the 30 who apparently don’t, and we made plans for this Wednesday, and also today I got invited to dinner at Lilly of Chris and Lilly’s on Tuesday, and we got many delightful charges out of saying, “See you next Tuesday” and even “CUNextTuesday” and much maturity throughout the land.
The point is, I’m glad I ran into Ian, although no words were exchanged about my shirt.
Now the night yawns before me with nary a plan, but I might rent a movie and of course walk this cur, who has had his jaw on my lap, my ever-diminishing lap, this entire time. At least Edsel likes me, but that’s what he’s paid to do.