Texting a friend after a chat with my boss…
Texting a friend after a chat with my boss…
Therapist: “So, how’s dating? Have you written anyone back on the apps?”
Me: “Of course not, don’t be absurd.”
Therapist: “You know, if you don’t WANT to be dating…”
Me: “It’s not that I don’t WANT to. It’s just… Like we’ve talked about, I want someone who’ll fit into my life, which is pretty decent with just me — well, minus the depressive bits. And I’d SUPER like to have some sex. But about once a month I’ll hear something terrible about a man and I’ll think, ‘Ya know…I don’t really need one of those. Dying alone is fine.’ So I guess I’m just not in a hurry.”
Me: “My scale still hasn’t moved, but I can see and feel changes in my body, so I know the scale is just being a jerk.”
Therapist: “I’m glad you blame the scale. Some people blame themselves, thinking they have to exercise more often or restrict their diets more.”
Me: “No way. Why should *I* change? He’s the one who sucks.”
Aaand that’s how I decided to name my scale Michael Bolton.
I’m not saying I wouldn’t be talking to this OkCupid guy if he didn’t have an adorable black dog with blue eyes named Oliver who likes to snuggle.
But I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a factor.
I had lunch with a male friend today and he asked if it’s ALL weirdos on online dating.
But I did just laugh out loud in a GOOD way at a first message from a seemingly normal, attractive man, and for a split second I forgot how a human woman is supposed to behave in this situation.
I’m probably 95% in this whole thing for the stories. But sure, dude, let’s talk. You named your dog Malcolm Reynolds — at the very least I need to be your friend immediately.
I’ve talked about diet and exercise here 100 times before, so I’m sorry I’ve been Captain Do-Nothing. But I was chatting with my lady contingent, and we all seem to have had some form of weight-related trauma this week.
My clothes have gone from “saucily clingy” to “Oh, honey…,” I’m always tired, and even if I got off the couch to exercise, I’d probably collapse within 5 minutes. Plus I couldn’t donate blood today because my iron levels are too low, as if my steady diet of animal crackers and barbecue chips isn’t providing sufficient nutrients (pfft).
My friends have similar concerns. There’s a general consensus that although we are obviously sexy as fuck at any weight, exhaustion and ill-fitting clothing aren’t as much fun as you’d think.
So. To quote one friend: “We can do this. We are a formidable trio of badass bitches, and we can do anything we set our minds to.”
^ Now, I understand that statement is not WHOLLY true. I seem incapable of getting over relationships, sticking to a budget, or performing neurosurgery. But I can sure as fuck eat a carrot and take a walk now and then. (Well, as soon as Philly isn’t so humid that it feels like we’re being suffocated by ball sacks. But indoor workouts are a go.)
Discussing life with a very pregnant ladyfriend:
Her: “We still have 10 days to go. The baby seems content to stay there forever, so who knows. Someday, I won’t be pregnant. So they tell me. It’s weird. Everywhere I go I’m like, ‘I could go into labor RIGHT NOW and that would be acceptable. Like, the baby would be fine.’ Pregnancy is a total mindfuck (brought about by an actual fuck, I suppose, haha).”
Me: “That really IS a mindfuck, now that I think about it. ‘Cause eventually the kid just decides, ‘Aaand my work in this womb is done. Comin’ at ya, Ma! Wheeeeee!’ And then she swims down like Nemo, and that ‘Y’all Ready for This?‘ song plays like it’s a sports game.”
Her: “OMG, I wish ‘Y’all Ready for This’ would play whenever anyone went into labor. Vaginas should come equipped with that pre-recorded. Also could be useful during sex?”
Me: “I’m not sure how it would work, science-ly, but I would Kickstart the shit out of technology that would enable my vagina to welcome its visiting team with a jaunty tune. Vaginal Jock Jams. Yes. Shut up and take my money.”
Listen HERE, world. I only go to therapy every other week, so dumb family shit that’s going to eat my brain until vodka makes it stop can’t happen during off weeks.
It’s not even worth detailing because they’re SUCH stupid conversations, but did you ever have a mundane discussion with your family that just crawls under your skin and colonizes? Yesterday with Dad, today with Mom — almost as if they’d tagged in and out.
Remind me again, WHY don’t I just send the therapy bills to my parents? Wait, what? “Owning my issues because I’m a grown-ass lady?” That doesn’t sound like me at all.
I’m so grateful to have so many influences outside my family. And for the therapist. SO MUCH FOR THE THERAPIST. (And obviously for my willing/ableness to work and tell heredity to go fuck itself.)