I haven’t had much luck in the realm of dating for …. oh, about six years now. My mother is convinced that if I just got down to a “normal size,” I’d find a nice boy and settle down for good.
When I’m laying awake in bed in the middle of the night, worried I’m going to die alone, it’s hard not seize on that theory. This doesn’t soothe me at all. In fact, it makes me feel worse. The only thing standing between me and true love (or at least some mediocre sex) is about 75 pounds.
I’m outgoing and well-read. I have good taste in music, and I can cook. I think I’m funny. I have an interesting job and I have interesting friends. But all of that fades away when I’m face-to-face with a guy I like. I get tongue-tied and shy. I definitely don’t want to get intimate, lest he discover all my rolls of fat (because he totally can’t see them underneath the clothes, right?). I won’t even get into the disaster that was online dating. And the few times I have gone out on dates (or quasi-dates), I’ve felt so uncomfortable in my own skin that I’ve completely squashed any chance that he’ll like my personality.
On my really bad days, I wonder why wearing cute clothes and worrying about my hair and those zits on my chin are even really worth it. Most guys only see me as the really fat girl. I might as well duct tape a Glad trashbag around myself and sell my hairbrush.
Strangely, this doesn’t really motivate me to break up with the junk food and end my intimate relationship with the couch. In fact, sometimes I decide to chuck the diet and the exercise out of spite. If no guy wants to look beyond the weight, screw ’em.
This is not the answer, I know. But it’s a hell of a lot easier than putting in the work to change.