When I dated the bad Canadian – his favorite question was: “Did you go to the gym today?”
Mind you, I’ve been dieting ever since my first grade teacher pulled me aside before recess, motioned to my body and said, “What are we going to do about this?”
My weight: A sensitive topic.
I explained to Osama bin Canadian that all I heard was FAT when he asked me about the gym. Because the truth was I’d packed on a few pounds and it was starting to show and he’d stopped telling me I looked cute -even when I dressed up. “I only ask because you feel better after you go to the gym,” he explained, “but if you want I’ll stop asking.” He never stopped.
Then - I met Pete who didn’t want me to go to the gym and over-ordered every time we went out to eat. “Get fries on the side!” “Should we get an extra order of bread!?” He was GORGEOUS. Smart. And Jewish to boot. But there were some things. Like most of his female Facebook friends were morbidly obese. And most of them were dressed in two-piece swimsuits/or stuffed into bandaid dresses with their boobs spilling out. Some had written messages on his wall, “Had so much fun last weekend! Post your photos! XOXO”
“How do you know these ladies?” I asked.
“From events,” he explained.
The events – were events for fat women and the men who love them. I had a million questions. Had he ever sex with anyone who weighed more than 300 pounds? MAYBE. Did he have sex at the events? NO. What happened at the events? There were dances/pool parties. Did people have sex in the pool? IT’S NOT LIKE THAT, RACHEL.
I was mortified. Nauseous. I couldn’t tell ANYONE. Not even my best friend Bienstock who I’ve never kept a secret from in my life.
Here’s the crazy part though: During our 54 day relationship (I count) I never once felt good about my body. Not once.
Hugging in my apartment:
“Can you not stand like that, because you feel really muscular? Just relax. I like when you’re softer.”
Sitting on the park bench holding hands, having a nice little moment:
“Would you be adverse to gaining weight? You’re not going to start dieting right?
Cuddling on the couch:
“I can feel your ribs! You’re getting smaller. Are you going to the gym and not telling me!?”
I knew it was over the day he asked if I might try on some jeans that no longer fit. “It really turns me on,” he said. “Would you do that for me? It’s so hot.” He made a moaning sound.
I did it. I did that for him. I know it sounds so creepy. And it was. It felt horribly wrong. The worst part is he barely looked up from his iPhone. As I stood there in my too-tight jeans that once looked great – all I could think was – I want to go to the gym – And I need to get rid of Pete. And so that is what I did.
September 6, 2009 at 1:01 am |
I didn’t know about the jeans! Osama Bin Canadian.
September 6, 2009 at 8:32 pm |
Rachel you are a brilliant writer. I think you will become the next blogger with a big book deal and worldwide fame. They will make a movie about you starring someone as pretty as Amy Adams, but without the bad wig since you have really good hair.
September 14, 2009 at 5:09 pm |
UGH, what weird dudes! NYC is the hardest place to date, I swear… hang in there, girlfriend! And don’t let any more weirdos make you feel bad about your body!!! I want to punch these guys… at the very least, though, you got a story out of it! i am a writer so for me that’s always a bright side.
Chin up! I can’t wait to read about your latest escapades.
October 12, 2009 at 2:23 am |
[...] to weigh three hundred pounds. “It’s not a fetish,” Pete explained to me when I confronted him about the obese ladies on his Facebook page. “It’s a [...]