Scorn at Every Size

Me: “I need to lose some weight.”
 
Therapist: “But you get regular checkups and your health is fine? Heart, cholesterol, blood pressure?”
 
Me: “Yes, but I’m MUCH heavier than the recommended highest weight for my height. And I’m not looking at, like, Jamie Lee Jo Bob’s Anorexia Enthusiast Forum — these are weight charts from real medical organizations.”
 
Therapist: “Those charts are based on the same BMI criteria you just told me was ‘horseshit.’ Have you heard of the Health at Every Size movement? That you can weigh more than you ‘should’ but still be perfectly healthy?”
 
Me: “Of course. And I totally believe that.”
 
Therapist: “OK, so…you JUST said your health is fine.”
 
Me: “But it’s NOT. I have a gut like a 55-year-old man with a lifelong Budweiser habit.”
 
Therapist: “I agree you should exercise more often, but if you do, and you eat a balanced diet, what if this is genetically just the way your body is supposed to be?”
 
Me: “It’s not.”
 
Therapist: “So you’re saying you support the idea of ‘health at every size’ for everyone except yourself?”
 
Me: “…Yes, that’s correct.”
 
She doesn’t want me to do Whole30, because apparently you, like, need carbs to live or something? But I’m doing it, so… we’ve reached an impasse. And by “impasse,” I mean, “thing I’m not telling my therapist.”
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Observations on trying to eat better

1. Salad is stupid. Fuck off with your leaves, salad. I’m not a goddamn giraffe.

2. Trying to solve problems without burying them in fried cheese is like trying to count to purple.

3. Jesus turned water into wine because even HE knew water is some bullshit.

Entropy > Therapy

The other day I told my therapist that I think the country is fucked beyond repair, and she had no counterpoint, and THEN all this shit in VA happened so… yeah…

Drink up, y’all. Humanity’s had a good run. Cheers.

Cost analysis of psychoanalysis

I’m going to my scheduled therapy session tonight, but only because if I bail last-minute I still have to pay them. But my brain is being super bitchy about it, presenting a compelling argument that it’s currently preoccupied with “too-busy-at-work stress” feelings, and we don’t talk about those, we eat and drink them, and frankly don’t even care to hear your stupid “healthier coping mechanisms.” Yoga won’t help, blow me.

For the money I’m ’bout to hand this broad, I could consume my weight in froofy martinis and fried food. I’m just saying, from a cost:benefit standpoint, we better fucking solve some big shit this session. I better leave with, like, NO abandonment issues.

Bring it, lady.

Eternal conundrum: Hating people but needing sex

Male BFF: “Where do you want to go for drinks tomorrow night? Something low-key like Barcade, or something more involved like dancing at a gay bar where you’ll be fondled by beautiful gay men and I will have an experience in the men’s room that leaves me questioning some very fundamental things about myself?

Me: “Any place I can get drunk and find a dude or two to make out with, but that is also magically not crowded/won’t have a wait on a Saturday night.”

(If y’all ever have the chance, being horny, lazy, AND socially anxious is, like, the BEST.)

Followup email: “Also, if I’m going to get fondled, I think I’d prefer hetero. I’m not sure I could convince a gay man to put his hand up my dress. But hey, dare to dream.”

I think My Default Bar wins—they offer bacon-y cheese pretzels, froofy cocktails, and cake. Throw a unicorn* and some books in that joint and I’ll be set for life.

*Please don’t really throw unicorns. They’ll fuck you up. Little known fact: Unicorns are actually total assholes.