10 Red Flags Not to Ignore

The following are some red flags early in the relationship that should tell you to move on, get out, or run away as fast as you can.  These are in no particular order. 

1.        He never seems to want to take you to his house.  This means

A.      He might be homeless.  He does not have a house, or apartment, or a pot to piss in for that matter. 

B.      He is married or living with someone. 

If his house is a wreck, he probably not care too much although could be at least a tad embarrassed if he has any kind of shame.  He might clear off the pizza boxes and the XBOX games for you to sit next to him on the couch while he watches sports, but at least he invites you over.  Even if he has eleven roommates or lives at home with his parents, if it means he gets to have sex with you, he will sneak you in late at night and do you in the laundry room in necessary.  But if he doesn’t take you home at all, see the above.  It is most likely choice B, although I have had both occurrences happen to me in the recent past.

2.        He has too many children by too many women.  I’d say if he is in his mid-thirties and has two or three children by two or three women, this is too many.  He obviously has some commitment issues.  On the plus side, it at least means he is fertile.  But with that many kids by that many women, he is probably broke with child support or has had a vasectomy or needs one.  Date this one only casually.  He is probably very charming and possibly a great lover to convince so many women to carry his seed. 

3.        He wants to have a baby too soon.  Now I am in my mid-thirties and the baby thing comes up.  This is expected.  I have been informed by men in that dating women in their thirties without children it is expected that they would like some and only a fool would believe a woman in her thirties is “on the pill.”  Wrap it up regardless, okay?  I have rejected perfectly great gentlemen because they already have children, do not want anymore and have had vasectomies.  A couple of them are great and I really enjoy their company, but I know there is no future.  We want different things out of life. 

That is all fine and good if you at least bring up that babies are on the radar for you too, but I had a guy say (admittedly while making out and people say crazy shit when they are aroused)  “I want to get you pregnant so you will stay.”  That is crazy.  That is psycho.  This was also on a first date.  Yes, we have been talking on the phone and all for weeks, but still, that is just weird and possessive on the first date.  Perhaps he was thinking that he would impregnate me before I would come to my senses and leave his ass but it would already be too late.  He is amazingly perceptive.  I got out of their Scott free and with my virtue intact.

4.        If he says “I love you too soon.”  Obvious sign of desperation. 

5.       Asks odd question about domestic violence.  I had one guy confess he only hit a woman two or three times.  Two or three times too many, if you ask me. 

Another quote from a date after a huge diatribe about his kinky and cuckoo ex-wife he asked, “Do you beat people?”  It was such a ridiculous question; all I could answer was “Not even at monopoly.”  I am sitting here talking this to the man thinking that I might come off as the freaking Virgin Mary because I don’t have a criminal record.

6.       Does not seem to be the least bit interested in your family, job, or life in general.  He just wants a peace of ass.

7.       He keeps on wanting you to drive.  Several reasons for this.

A.      Too cheap/broke to afford gas

B.      Does not even have a car (of course, I will not even meet a man who cannot DRIVE to meet me somewhere)

C.      Has a suspended license

D.      Has every intention of getting toasted

E.       Too busy checking his phone/Blackberry to text other girls, illegally gambling or some other nefarious activity that needs constant attention.

8.        Checking his phone too much is a problem in general.  Either it is for the above reasons or he is trying to avoid you.  I was on a date once and he was pretty much courteous.  The only time he answered his phone was to take a call from his wife.

9.       Bad kisser.  Need I say more?

10.   He won’t pay even on a first date.  This goes again to either being too broke or not that into you.  Even if he were broke, he can take you somewhere cheap and interesting.  Be aware of “He’s not that into signs.”

Fun, Free, and/or Cheap Ways to Date Ms. Charlotte J (The Pensacola Edition)

How hard is it to date, I mean really?  Finding the right person can be difficult.  In fact, it can seem downright impossible.  But finding romantic places to go in this town are easy. 

-First, the beach.  I mean, can you go wrong?  Not that I am really comfortable in a bikini or anything.  In fact, I think I’d rather have a guy see me naked before I’d want him to see me in swimwear.  If he has seen me naked, he is already hooked and all that flesh in public should not scare him off, right? 

Swimwear aside, you can’t get better than a walk along the beach at sunset.  I would love to make out on the beach.  I have once with this Alabama guy at night outside the Florabama, but that is another story.  One time my date and I went to a lovely restaurant in Santa Rosa.  Afterwards, I wanted to walk along the beach and get my toesies in the sand.  He refused to follow me.  This was a bad sign.  I am no longer seeing him.

-          The second free activity is the Naval Museum.  This is about a mile tops away from my house.  It is a nice place to walk around.  You can also climb in and out of flight simulators.  Giggle as you reach around each other flipping switches.  Take all kinds of pictures.  Fun!  There is also a lighthouse on the base.  I believe there might be a small fee to climb to the top.  Hey, if you and your date can hoof it up to the top, it will prove you two have the stamina for some athletic boom-chaca-wow-wow later.  Also, there is a beach nearby.  But that beach is probably heavily guarded and giving hickeys might be a federal offense on military bases.

-          Thai food.  Yummy!  Any kind of ethnic food is a great date place.  The ambiance is often unusual and fun.  Many ethnic places have high quality, unique food at reasonable prices.  It can be an experience, something to talk about, and a way to get to know each other better.  I know I am impressed when a date takes me to his favorite ethnic restaurant and suggests dishes he might think I like, without being too pushy.  Do not order for me, though.  I am not a child.  One time a date put lemon juice on my oysters without asking.  It turned out to be good, but that is like salting someone else’s food.  This was also a first date.  Bad sign.  This was also the guy who on a later date would not follow me into the ocean.

-          The movies, a great standard, but a terrible first date.  Unless you are so uncomfortable you would just rather sit in the dark and not talk. I love going to movies and later discussing them.  Discussing movies can tell you a lot about a person: how they think, their world view, their interest or even awareness of the arts, sense of humor, how negative or positive their outlook.  It is important.  Right now I would love for some nice man to take to see Harry Potter.  I saw all the other movies with my ex-husband…. Sigh… He really was a great guy.

-          Art, ethnic or music festivals: Any kind of activity where you can look around and take in culture or art or something and eat food is great.  Sign me up!

-          Sporting events, I almost forgot.  I have been to a few on dates that have included sporting events.  My ex-husband was not too much into sports, but every other guy I have seen since really was into either watching and/or playing sports.  I am sure there might be some kind of stereotype in there somewhere.  I am not a huge sports fan, but I think going and seeing a game is fun.  Cuddling on the couch watching football while I read, play on the computer or knit on a Sunday afternoon is also perfectly acceptable time spent with my best guy.  Hell, I’ll even make you some nachos.  Just don’t be obsessive about it, okay?

-          Walking dogs.  Much like the art festival thing.  My dog is very important in my life.  Love me, love my dog.  If a guy doesn’t like dogs or is weird or cruel to dogs, I cut them to the curb real quick.  Also, if he has dogs I can’t help but draw a connection to see what kind of father he might be.  Who is the “alpha” anyway?  Often, my stupid doggie chooses a male to be her alpha.  I resent that.  It was my ex-husband, then my ex-boyfriend, now it is kind of my Dad, although she still looks to me for guidance.  Sigh….

-          Photo walks.  I have always wanted to do this on a date, but have never pulled it off.  I even have two cameras.  I think it would be fun to walk around town or in nature, whatever and see what the two of us saw as “artistic” by the end of the day.  Fun, huh? 

That is all I can think of at the moment for fun and/or cheap ways to woo me.  Would it be narcissistic to say that if I were a guy I would date me?  J  I am fun.  I am clever.  I am only a little psycho, but what girl isn’t in her own way?  Isn’t that part of our charm?  Anyway, Pensacola is rife with romantic potential, but these tips can be used in just about anywhere.  Just show your date a good time and that you are interested in them, not just that you are interesting. 

The Unholy Trinity

The quest for a suitable mate, a partner, frined, lover, etc. is a daunting one.  There are so many factors to consider.  Do you choose someone because you get along so well?  Someone you can really talk to, have fun with?  Or do you choose someone who turns you on in away that you never thought was possible to feel so alive?  Is it possible to get both?  And who decides?   

My heart, mind, and coochie have different agendas and they will not show up for meetings. 

Let’s start first with my mind.  My mind knows that I should find a suitable partner.  I should find an educated, professional man with a decent income and we can have a comfortable life together, nothing extravagant, just so we don’t have to worry.  And we will have sparkling conversations full of witty banter and deep philosophical discussions on the subjects of art, music, politics, philosophy, whatever strikes our fancy because we would never run out of things to talk about.   The age or sex appeal of this individual, let alone gender does not really matter as long as we can discuss and “get each other” on an intellectual level.  It is important to have friends.  Yeah, but if there is not spark….  And really, I have to be with a guy.  I am straight really.  As much as men can be a pain in the ass, I still like them and really want them to like me.  It ain’t no thing without that schwing.

My coochie, or “Ms. M” as she is sometimes referred because she is a lady, after all, she has an agenda all her own.  She has two main goals: get laid and get pregnant.  With these two prime directives, she wants me to choose younger, sexy men that appear to have strong genetic features and look like the know how to fuck.  I hate Ms. M sometimes.  I wish she would shut up.  She is so unrelenting sometimes!  But once she at least has her first goal attained (in whatever manner that satisfaction might come, she is easily confused) she is conspicuously quiet.  It is like once the hunger is sated; the slut monster will return to its cave and leave the villagers in peace for a time.  That time being about 25-28 days or until the ovulation rolls around again and I should be locked up for the safety of man. 

My heart…. Well.. She doesn’t have much to say.  She is a like a wounded animal cowering in the back of a cage that would rather bite your hand off if you tried to help.  We are just going to leave her alone right now and let her heal right now.

Except, I need my heart.  She needs to regulate the mind and the body to come to a good decision.  Those other two characters cannot be trusted.  The mind likes, the body lusts, but it is the heart that loves.  Maybe love is when the mind and the body agree on one person.  It is the heart that makes sure the other two stay in line and don’t think too much of themselves. 

For example, I had a very, let’s say “fulfilling” courtship with an older man mostly via phone. I chatted with him online and whatnot and we talked a lot on the phone in the few weeks before I left the Midwest.  He was very intelligent and witty although his humor had a distasteful bitterness that I saw as a warning sign. He was highly educated and in a professional line of work, but was not all that successful at it and I could tell he was barely scraping by, although he tried to cover it up.  He was in worse shape than I was professionally and financially speaking.  I am not saying that money is everything, but it is a factor.  Why lie?  And as far as a spark, very little and that fizzled out.  Besides, he thought he was so smart; he treated me like a bimbo.  Anyone who knows me would think that is laughable.

Another recent relationship was with a younger man who was smart and professional.  He had a lot to go with him.  We had amazing sexual chemistry, and I should not post this, but he was amazing in bed.  Of course, it is possible given my history that I am easily impressed. Nonetheless, it was amazing.  And I think I loved him too.  I really did.  Intelligence level was not a factor but we thought so differently and had such different world views that we fought a lot.  We just did not see eye to eye.  We fought so much that I began to feel guilty when we would go to bed because in between rolls in the hay he made me feel bad about myself and I could not make him happy.  Needless to say, that kind of passion also had a passionate end.

My libido is once again calling me to action, so to speak.  I am rather taken with a certain marine that is so devilishly handsome I am amazed he finds me attractive.  I do not see what he sees.  Maybe he likes me for my mind.  Ha!  As far as his mind and heart, I would have to stop kissing the man long enough to find out.  I know he would give me beautiful, strong, and intelligent healthy children.  I also predict we’d have a good time making those babies.  But the mind and heart part?  We will have to see.

So, so I hold out to try to find the heart, mind and body in one man, or should I just outsource?  I think we need to have a meeting.

Women of the World Beware of the Charm of Southern Men

Because they will charm the pants right off of you.  It is their mission, it is their duty, and it will be your undoing.

I am not saying that Midwestern Men don’t have their moments, because they do.  Once you actually get them to notice you and with a great amount of subtle and not so subtle hints of your availability, they might ask you to their bedrooms to pleasure them, if it is not too much of an inconvenience, if they are not busy with work, hanging out with the guys or if a sporting event is on TV.  If you meet those criteria, they are somewhat serviceable.  And a good roll in the hay can even occur in a neat and tidy bedroom with central heat in the dead of winter.  I'm not saying that men from other regions of the U.S. do not have certain skill sets and charm when it comes to romance.  However, it has been my rather limited experience that Southern men take it to the next level.  A Southern Man will sweep you off your feet “Gone with the Wind” style ala’ Clark Gable and you’ll never see it coming.

First is the pursuit.  If a Southern man finds a girl he desires he will pursue her relentlessly.  None of that “take it or leave it” bullshit men from other regions pull.  ***By the way, men, we fucking hate that.  Any woman who will put up with that shit gets what she deserves. But I digress** I had a man chat me up at a gas station and then literally chase me down a highway to get my number.  As psycho as that sounds, it worked.  And it worked because he was stupidly handsome, undeniably charming, and damn persistent.  How could a girl say no?  I had the choice to either pull over or call the cops.  Either way, one of us was going to surrender.

The next thing is how they kiss.  Oh my God, can Southern men kiss!  Jesus Christ!  I think I need a moment.  I’m good, I’m good.  Whew, just thinking about it makes me woozy.  Now, I have fallen for a few Southern transplants in the North and I thought it was a fluke.  Nope, all men from the South know how to kiss.  If a man has spent at least a portion of his formative years in the South, he learned how to kiss.  It as if they were all in on the same kissing seminar that they did not tell the Yankees, Midwesterners, or the West Coast-is.  Can you blame them?  I am not saying that they have the same technique.  I have not kissed nearly enough men in the half a dozen or so states that claim to be “The South,” to prove this hypothesis, but I think i have enough data to make an educated guess on the matter.  Southern men somehow learned to kiss with their whole mouths, nay, I say their entire being.  They get so wrapped up in that kiss, so intent and single-minded of purpose that nothing distracts them from the kiss.  I don’t know what they are thinking, because I know I lose my mind when they kiss me like that.  Other guys when they have kissed me I can tell that they are just kissing to get to “the good stuff."  Well, if the kiss isn't great, there will be nothing else.  They kiss you like they would like to fast forward through this section like coming attractions on their favorite Adam Sandler DVD.  Southern men take their time, like they got nothing else better to do than to kiss your mouth and make the two of you happy.   Like Scarlett O’Hara, when you have been kissed by a Southern Man, you have been kissed, and kissed properly.

Ladies, do not get out your wallet, because a Southern Gentlemen will not allow you to pay, at least initially.  He might be broke as hell and scrounging up coins from his pick-up to treat you to the dollar menu at McDonald’s but he is sure as hell going to pay.  But be warned, just because he is shelling out big bucks in the beginning does not mean he’s loaded, it just means he is trying to win you over.  Do not be fooled, but do go with it.  Modern Southern men did get the memo that we can take care of themselves, but isn’t it sweet to let them try? 

Southern Men are not so troubled with a little thickness, at least not all of them.  I have heard some immature Midwestern men say that they might like a heavier girl for her personality, or might be genuinely attracted to her but won’t pursue her because he is afraid what his friends might say.  Southern men do not give a shit about such things.  Now, supremely obese is another matter, I am just talking a little extra.  First of all, the South has a high besity rate seconded only by the Midwest, but they don’t seem to care.  Down here, if you don’t like chubby girls, you don’t like girls.   They all can’t bang the same skinny blonde at the bar all at the same time.  And some of them like “something to hold on to.”  Now, if a Midwestern man said that to me, I would be offended.  Southern men will make reference to a woman’s weight, size, and body in general, but it is not meant derogatory, he is just “telling it like it is.”  And believe me, if he is slapping that big ass of yours in a restaurant as you walk by, don’t be offended because you know he wants to tap it as soon as you two get home.

The South, in general, firmly believes in the “Lady on the street, Freak in the bed” phenomenon.  This is the Bible belt and you can trip over churches down here.  That does not mean they don’t like to fuck.  They love it.  Southern men (I imagine because I have not actually witnessed yet) love to get buck wild and then shower up, wash the pussy juice out of their beards from Saturday night and walk into church Sunday morning and shake the preacher’s hand with the same hand that was quite possibly elbow deep in pussy the night before.  Knowing thier own nature, they can be possessive.  They know what a wild cat you can be in bed and they DO NOT want to share.  There are probably more bar room fights over a lady’s “honor” down here than in the Midwest.  I imagine this occurs because they value the pussy, and the lady it belongs to, is worth fighting for.

Yes, they will treat you like a lady, they will hold open doors for you, and they will fight for you, but do not expect to be treated like an equal.  And you better let go of having some kind of “agenda” on a date, because your Southern Man is just going to throw a wrench into those plans anyway.  Just let it go and let them lead the way, at least initially.  They secretly know that the woman is smarter and makes all the real important decisions anyway, but they like it that way.  Don’t ruin their façade, ladies.  It is all about manners and appearances.  They want to seem like the “head of the family” but they know who the real boss is, but that doesn’t mean you have got to rub it in their face either. 

And if all else fails: the near stalker-ish pursuit, the worship of your body, the wining and dining and picking up the check, his chivelous way he opens the door for you and defends your virtue, and the intentional, deliberate, mind blowing kissing does not work, they use their secret weapon that is natural as, well, talking.  Their accents will really win you over.  I know I love the way they call me “Baby” and “Darlin’."  It just makes me weak.  I can’t help it.  Just understand that when a Southern man calls you “Sugar” that you are going to melt and get as sweet and drippy as honey.  Just accept it and offer up a piece of that sweetness because he sure as hell earned it. 

That is all I have to report on my observations of the mating rituals of the Southern Men.  And I don’t even know their mating habits, only their making out habits thus far, but no one really cares about those findings.  I am sure Albert Kinsey would hardly consider my little anecdotal evidence as scientific, but it is kind of funny and cute.   AND IT'S A JOKE!  Calm down.

+++By the way, men from other regions, you guys are great kissers… really… just… can you try a little harder?

+++++Did I mention that this is mainly a joke for humorous purposes?  Relax.  You are all hot, okay?  *wink

Life in 3D: The Pink Elephant in the Room

This blog does not make sense.  It is clever, sometimes sad, occasionally poignant, and funny every once and awhile, but as it stands it is just a smattering of witticisms, ponderings, and confessional observations.  It is like they are differently colored little tiles, some bright, some neutral, some pointy shards, but there is no cohesion, no pattern, no point.
 

Writing whether it is fiction, non-fiction, poetry or prose, the whole point or reading or writing is to tell the truth.  Even street signs tell the truth.  I have signs that don’t lead anywhere because I cannot tell you, fine reader, where to go if I have not told you where I’ve been.  So, in an effort to not further mislead you or to hold myself back, I will tell the truth.  I will, at last, mention the pink elephant in the room.  The pink elephant everyone can see but are too polite to mention.               

The truth about my marriage, the divorce, why I left town, why I am running around looking for validation and comfort in any man’s arms that will hold me is this: My ex-husband is gay.  When I reveal this to a close friend they often ask this, “What happened?”  or “How did you find out?”  The thing is, nothing specific happened and I think a part of me always knew. 

Let me get this very, very straight, please pardon the pun.  There was a time that he loved me.  He loved me mind, heart, AND body.  I believed he was my soul mate.  Perhaps we still are soul mates, we just can no longer live together as husband and wife.  He did love as a man would love a woman.  We had sex, very good sex actually in the beginning.  He loved me, thought I was beautiful, attractive, sexy, and made love to me.  We did all the kinds of things in bed that a men and women who love each other do.  Any other details on this matter would be uncouth and disrespectful.

That being said, now that I have been with “straight” men, I have observed my ex’s affection for me was perhaps more subtle, shall we say, then others.  I could chalk it up to the fact my ex is more reserved and subtle in all he does.  But now that I know the difference at times I say to myself, “How did I not know?”

So, how did I know and what did happen that made the marriage no longer tolerable?  Well, there were signs along the way.  Signs I either ignored or pretended not to know.  Signs I may write about at another time, but not at this moment.  But what really happened was when we were trying to have a child.  We were unsuccessful and trying became, well, trying.  His appearance and demeanor started to change.  He lost weight, started dressing differently, became obsessive about the gym, he started to spend less and less time with me even though we were in same house and still had the same circle of friends.  Then I was so lonely and sex and love starved that I entertained the attention of other men that was probably wrong, although I did not really act on these affections.  The fact that I was at all suspectible to these attentions was dangerous and a real symptom that something was wrong.  Then there was a point that he could no longer respond to me in bed.  I am fighting off the affections of men that would love nothing more than to have me, and my husband, whom I loved most of my adult life and with my whole heart would barely touch me.  It became intolerable and I knew that we could no  longer make each other happy, in or out of bed. 

So, that’s the truth.  That is the pink elephant in the room.  My husband turned out to be gay.  If not gay, he was not straight enough for me.  He could not make love to me, could not give me a child, and although polite, friendly, and the consummate gentleman, I could no longer abide with a man who did not love me as a man should love his wife.  The heartbreak is that I loved him as a man.  I was still attracted to him and his body, and he could not respond to me.  I could no longer live with a man who when I was with him made me feel ugly and wanton (for wanting to have sex in the first place) and it was dangerous that I would fall for any other man than showed me any interest.  There was a point that I thought it would be more honest and safer to be divorcee’ than a mistress because if I had stayed, I would have been so lonely and desperate, I would have sought the comfort and joy of another man’s bed.  And I believed my husband would have done the same.  That is no way to live.

Life in 3D: Diet and Excercise- What Reallly Motivates Me in the Gym

Sex      

Vanity

Pride

Anger

but mostly sex

Let me explain....

I have gone up and down in weight a lot over the years. For this blog, I’m going to focus on my adult life. I think a kid’s weight problem can be a reflection of the family, but that’s another story. (People are going to freak out about that statement, but I think it’s true.)

My first major weight loss as an adult occurred my freshmen year of college. I knew that some of my wacky weight loss techniques I used in high school were no longer an option. Let's just say that they were not really feasible in a group living situation.

I did not weigh myself during this time, but I believe I lost about fifty pounds that year. I know I went down four sizes. Once again, not posting actual numbers, but I know that I went to the mall for Christmas my sophomore year and shopped at “The Limited” and I was thrilled as hell.

What worked that year were two of my strongest motivators: Anger, pride and frustration. Angry at who I was, pride of what I could become, and frustration I wasn’t there yet. More specifically... I wanted a boyfriend. Not just any boyfriend either. Despite popular belief, chubby girls can get boyfriends, but I didn’t want just any boyfriend. I wanted a high quality boyfriend. I wanted to be attractive to as broad and deep a gene pool as possible. I decided in order to achieve the highest level of personal hotness I would have to lose some weight.

I didn’t really go on a “diet.” I just ate smaller portions of dorm food and lots of veggies. I never eaten broccoli before I went to college and it became one of my favorite vegetables. I also worked out. I worked out a lot. I walked/ran the track, was on the bike, the elliptical machine (still one of my favorites). I also did some strength training. I befriended a girl on a swim team and she was very supportive. She didn’t judge me or think of me as a tragically flawed “fat girl.” To her working out was neither a punishment or a transformative wand that would make all make all insecurities disappear, it was just something you did. For the first time, I started to bridge the mind/body disconnect.

I also discovered aerobics. Step aerobics was really popular in the mid-nineties. At first I could only do the platform, but I tried to keep up with the other girls in their cute little thong leotards as much as possible. Thongs leotards were also popular mid-nineties. I later was able to do with one riser and then two. I never did the thong thing though. I do have some dignity.

During aerobics class, my focus was just keeping up. I have a huge ego. In fact, I’d say my ego is even bigger than my ass. I was not going to let little things like a stitch in my side or heart palpitations let me fall behind. What kept me going in aerobics classes was pride. What kept me going on the treadmill was something even more primal.

While running the track, the treadmill, or climbing endlessly on the Stairmaster I thought about boys. I thought about boys a lot. Sweat would drip down my face but was really making me breathe hard as the thought of having a man’s hands all over my new, tight body. I thought about the boys I liked, boys I thought I could get, and all the boys that I would meet in the future when I was thin and therefore hot.

Once again, not to sound egotistical, but I believed (and was told) I had “such a pretty face.” This is the bullshit people say out of pity. It is like saying, “She’d be cute, if only...” This was the anger component. Being judged and dismissed by not only boys but all of society. That is what I thought, whether it was true or not. I knew I had a “nice personality” but I was damn sick of being “the funny fat girl”. I was tired of being “just friends” with boys and then having them sleep with my girlfriends.

So, let’s review what worked:
Getting out of the house and away from my family’s bad eating habits.
Living in an environment where I felt safe and challenged to reinvent myself.
Eating healthy without over thinking.
Working out tons with cardio and strength training.
Motivated by ego and a teenager’s obsessive desire to get laid.

Incidently, losing weight worked like a charm. I got a high quality boyfriend within two weeks of transferring to a certain Big 10 state school.

He said I had nice legs.

Fat: The Final Frontier. "Why I Hate Pizza"

I hate pizza.

No really. I love pizza, but pizza is my bane. I cannot eat it casually. I can’t just have one piece. I don’t know how anyone can. It is a “trigger” food for me.

First of all, using words like “hate” and “love” to describe food is not a good sign. I have to remind myself that “normal” people do not have relationships with food. They don’t have to “break up” with sugar, nor do they have a secret “love affair” with chocolate. By the way, the evidence of that love affair remains on your gut.

I argue that if you are more than, let’s say fifty pounds overweight or have some kind of eating disorder like anorexia, bulimia, or obesity (you know who you are) you probably have a relationship with food.

That is why Weight Watchers never worked for me. I thought about food ALL THE TIME. It made me crazy and feel like a failure.

I have to let go of food. I have to let to go of the idea that food will make me “feel” anything at all. Even “full” because, seriously, if you have a weight problem the signal of “full” has been overwritten over and over that you can hardly recognize it anymore.

I have become powerless over food and my life has become unmanageable....

So, about the pizza.

Last week I was trying to be all sensible. I went to a friend’s son’s play. I ate a sensible salad before I left. I did not know that pizza would be ordered later. I was driving another friend with me and I didn’t want to be rude, so I had to stay even though a major “trigger” food would be presented.

By the way, the play was lovely. Time with friends with lovely. Had a great time, overall. Except for the temptation of the enemy.

This is what food addiction is like. I was so distracted by the boxes of pizza; I could hardly relax with friends. I have been under a lot of stress lately and without the comfort of food, I have just had to deal with the stress in... oh, I don’t’ know... I guess one would have to say “constructive ways” like exercise, meditation, counseling, and other mature balanced coping mechanisms that have long been under utilized.

And the pizza didn’t even taste good. Don’t get me wrong, I used to love this kind of pizza. I used to like pretty much all kinds of pizza. However, I have been eating and cooking healthfully at home so much that just turns out to be lower fat, sugar, and salt that when I ate the pizza, all I tasted was fat, sugar, and salt. It is weird how one’s palate can change. I ate a little chocolate brownie bite and the sugar burned my mouth.

To make it worse, they were watching the freaking Food Network. The Food Network is like porn for food addicts. This was not helping my anxiety. I used to watch the Food Network. I was a big Rachel Ray fan for awhile. They had a special all about cheeseburgers. Damnit! The only other place to go in the house was the kitchen.... with the pizza......

In the end, I think I ate three slices of pizza, one breadstick, and one brownie bite. I think I also might have had a wine cooler. This is hardly a binge. I do not believe I ate any more than anyone else. But the anxiety was driving me crazy. I thought about food so much that I thought I ate more than I really did.

Later this week at work, my department ordered pizza as a celebration for a coworker. I politely declined. I felt conspicuous and unfriendly eating my grilled chicken and brown rice that day, but so be it. The thinner I get, the less invisible I become... especially to men.

By the way... Friends and loved ones from the play... You know I love you. This is not about you. DO NOT FEEL BAD!

See, that is the problem. If I had an alcohol problem, I could just avoid a bar and friends and family would understand. But pizza at a child’s play party? That is unrealistic and unfair. I just have to deal.

Some Unfiltered Thoughts About the Finalization of My Divorce

This is what I wrote on the day that I get divorced.  I could edit this, but that would seem to dilute the true meaning.

If I had any sense, I would keep this to myself.  I would at least of the good sense to at least sleep on it and at least edit.

But I won't.  Maybe raw and fresh wounds heal faster when they are given some air.

This does not feel like I thought it would.  Instead of using a list of adjectives that are rendered meaningless in such circumstances, I will use an anology.

Getting the final papers is like throwing in the last handful of dirt into the grave.  The shock and grief of the death are over and you just want to get in the car, drive away and eat.  Only there are no condolescenses, no awkward hugs from relatives you only see under such cirmstances, no "it will get better looks" from friends.  It is like going to your own funeral after a suicide.  No one knows what to say and it's your fault.  You are invisible.

I am the only guest at my own wake.  On the way back from my ex's house, the home I lived in for eight years, I picked up a pack of cigarettes and a peanut butter m & m's.  Sugar is my real drug of choice.  I don't even enjoy smoking and the chocolate in the m & m's tastes cheap and waxy, but I want to punish myself.  For what, I'm not sure.  It was truly a "no fault" divorce.  Whatever that is.

I feel the nicotene and sugar hit my blood stream making feel numb and jittery at the same time.  The chemicals swirl with my sadness and self-defeat making me feel exactly the way I think I deserve to feel, miserable.  I am almost disappointed that this is the extent of my self-destruction.  There have been times that I would do far worse things to my body for far less cause but this time its different.  This time, I have self worth.  I love myself.  And once you love yourself, you become damn intolerant of those who doesn't share your opinion.

Sitting in my ex's house, having a mostly civil discussion with only the occasional emotional outburts (on my part) , I look around and it doesn't look like "my house."  It just looks like a house.  It is nicely furnished and tastefully decorated.  It is quite clear that I was the messy one of the house.  And I don't think I flatter myself too much to also note that I was the vibrant one.  I made that house a home.  But home is where the heart is.

My heart belongs to another now.  I can give myself to him fully.  Now that I am really free, I can't help but fear that we will not return my affections. It is a fear that is completely unfounded because he just called me to make sure I was okay.  He tried to joke with me, but I wasn't in the mood.  I am at my own funeral and a funeral is no time for jokes.
 
I am giving myself until the end of this small single serving size bag of m & m's and about three cigarettes to grieve something that is long past dead.  Because really, its just paperwork.  Even tonight, talking with a man that I spent more than a decade with,  basically my entire adult life (so far) I shared his bed and his life, I see how many ways are really incompatible.  Not how he is "bad" or I am "bad" just .... not working.

I will not sit here and lie and say it was all a mistake.  That is not fair and not accurate.  I will have a tender spot in my heart for him.  Right now that tender spot is a bruise.

I know my boyfriend has loved other women.  I am sure that those women have come to his mind from time to time.  And a few of them I'd like to thank for making him the man he is now.  We are not children.  We are not blinded by love.  We are going into this thing with our eyes wide open.  With our hearts open too.  Sometimes a heart has to break to be broken open to accept a kind of love your former self could never imagined before.  Sometimes you have to die to be reborn.  To realize you weren't really alive.

I have to thank my ex.  It is because of him that I am the woman I am today.  He really did finish raising me.  I was so young.  Maybe not chronologically, but I was so naive.  We both were.  We could not be our true selves if we stayed together.  So we did the kindest thing we could have done for each other and let go.
,
The new love of my life will be over in a few hours.  He will hold me in his arms and make me feel safe, treasured, and loved.

I am reborn.


****I had a boyfriend when I wrote this.  These are out of order, but I thought that this needed to be in here.

Stupid Sh*t Men Have Said About My Body

I was so proud of myself that I had reached a certain fitness goal that I was being subjugated for my body, just like all the other girls.  Believe me, when you are really obese, you are invisible.  It is almost like the more space you take up, the less you are noticed.  I could go on, but that is depressing and I am trying to keep this funny and light, yet still make some kind of social commentary.

I share Gloria Steinem's opinion, "It's not that women mind being sex objects, it's just not the only thing they want to be."  I have a mind, a heart, and a body and all three need attention.  Once I got my body (more) into shape and a curvy hourglass is a shape, I noticed men noticing me.  I am still a big girl, but can still turn heads.   I do not perceive myself as "sexy."  I guess I am still in that "you have such a pretty face....if only...." mode that I have heard since about age eleven:  the idea that I am a pretty girl with a weight problem.  Be that as it may, and I am STILL working on it, there are segments of the male population that disagree with all those well-meaning family members, teachers, and other ineffectual adults.

So here is a list of comments men have made about my body.  Understand that these men did find me attractive (on some level) and wanted to date me... or something.  If the remarks were not made by a man who found me in some way.. um... enticing... I will annotate the source and still protect their identity, if necessary.  Not all of these are sexual in nature.  But many of them are funny, brutally honest, sweet, cute, or just outrageous.  Not even my body elicits a neutral response.   If there are **** it is because I have edited some portion of the quote.

 "You are the only one who doesn't think you're hot."  (need to give props to current bf.  He is so awesome)

"You are proportioned well."  WTF is that even supposed to mean?

"I gotta watch you walk.  You can hate me later."  I didn't hate him for it.  (wink)

"I love tall girls."

(Discussion with first "real" boyfriend.  This is a conversation of a naïve 19-year-old.)
Me: So, why me?  (that STUPID question girls ask why a guy would like them.)
Boy:  I thought you had nice legs.  (This blew my mind.  I thought that my legs were my worst feature.  But I did spend my entire freshman year and that summer losing weight and doing the latest fitness trend, Step Aerobics.  I guess I did have nice legs).

"You have great curves, just work on getting them more (makes gesture)....compact.  --- This was made by a girlfriend who has been amazingly supportive through my weight loss.  Love her!

"You are already hot.  Losing weight and working out will only make you hotter."  This statement from a guyfriend last year really jump started my weight loss and my new life.  He really woke me up from my "coma."  I had all the ingredients of a beautiful, healthy, competent, and sexy woman, I just had to access them and use them to my fullest potential.  I will forever be grateful to this man for waking me up.

"What, did you used to have a weight problem, or something?"  This is SOOOOOOOOOO hilarious!  Oh, on so many levels.  Like I used to have a weight problem but not currently.

"You have really lost weight.  Your boobs stick out more than your stomach now."  This was a comment made by a young and somewhat silly female personal trainer.

"I love your ass!  I want to send postcards to that ass."  This was complimentary, really.  He was not saying that just because my ass can qualify for its own zip code, he just thought it was... I don't know, in need of congratulations or something.  He was trying desperately to sleep with me, so I don't think it was condolence.

 (phone conversation with a potential blind date) Me: Just so you know, I'm not really petite. (total euphemism)
Man: Hey, will my arms fit around you?
Me: Well, of course.
Man: That is all I need to know.  (Wow, we women are hard on ourselves.  Really, that is what men really want.  I woman they can put their arms around.)

"That's what I see when I look at you, a pretty face and big boobs."

"Ahhh... Chanel Number Five.... That is what noses were made for."  This was also when I was a college freshman.  Okay, that was just a line, but it was cute.  I loved him; he didn't really love me back.  He just wanted me to write his papers.  Why couldn't he just use me for sex like a normal boy?

 (This was part of an IM exchange) Man: You have great legs and beautiful breasts.
Me: You know, if you would see me during daylight hours, you would also see that I have a great smile and a nice personality.
Man: Nope, can't get past the legs and breasts.
(This man was supposed to be a 'friends with benefits' situation.  At one point I asked him, "So, when does the 'friend' portion of this arrangement supposed to kick in?"   The "can't get past the legs and breasts" thing, I never spoke to him again.  He then called me a b*tch.  How dare I insist on conditions to access my body?)------This is also sooooo funny because it is like he doesn't know that my body is not the best thing I am bringing to the table.  To be seen only for my physical attributes I find SOOOO absurd.

"You have a great ass and decent tits."  Wow... what a smooth talker.  And only "decent"?

"You have such beautiful breasts.  You shouldn't cover them up."  This was said by an older classmate (he was probably about 21 or 22 tops) my freshman year of college.  To my memory, this is the first time any "man" saw me as a sexual being, or beautiful.  I think this moment I no longer saw myself as a little girl and instead a woman.  In context, it is not nearly as crude as it seems here.  In context, he was really encouraging me to be more proud of my body and realize my beauty.  Yeah, sure, he probably would not have minded if we slept together, but still, I think he was sincere.

Funny, the parts of my body I think are most beautiful, other than my face, men do not talk about.  I think I have a lovely neck, nice shoulder bones, and a cute little waist.  I also think I have nice hair.  Other women notice and even envy my hair.

I am sure I could think of more given enough time.  The most hilarious comment about my body is way too personal to post on FB, not that this hasn't already been embarrassingly revealing.  But I bare my soul, and my ass, for comedy and posterity sake. 

And I saved the best comment for last..... and is was from my ex-husband....

He said my Pussy is Pristine.

That can be taken in so many ways... which makes it so funny.  Was he referring to its general upkeep or that he barely touched it therefore can be auctioned on E-bay?  So many levels.

Life in 3D: Dating "The Land Before Boys"

I was originally working on a piece titled "What I Want in a Boyfriend, Circa 1993."

But alas, I had no boyfriend circa 1993 and therefore would have been per fiction.

Maybe it was a good thing.  I say that now, but at the time when I was 17 or 18 years old, it was all I wanted.  Or all I thought that I wanted.  But not really.  Like many teens, I was ambivelant on the subject.  I wanted a boyfriend, kind of.  I wanted to be be wanted and "loved" (whatever that meant) but I didn't want him to get in the way too much.  I didn't want him to cramp my style or take me away from my friends, time to myself or become the giggling mass of dinginess and servitude  some of my friends at the time had become once they got boyfriends.  To me, they were a hot mess of hickeys and hormones held together with a three word phrase, "I love you" that made all their sacrifices of the mind and soul worth it.  But perhaps I am giving them too much credit.  Maybe there wasn't that much mind and soul to to sacrifice.

I know I sound like sour grapes about it now.  But, really, maybe it was a good thing that I didn't have a boyfriend.  I had all that time to study, work on myself, go out and have fun, and one always needs time to cry oneself to sleep.

Of course, I am exaggerating.

At one point in my formative years, I would have  loved to make out to Pearl Jam.  I thought that  "Ten" playing in the car CD player in the front seat and making out on the backseat would just be so ideal, so romantic, so deep and meaningful.  I did not date a boy who had his own car until I was 21 and he was 24.  I ended up marrying him.

It is a good thing I never fufillied that dream of making out to "Ten."  That album was so critical to the molding of my young self and, not to be too grandiose about it, but it did influence who I am today.  If I had made out to "Ten,"  and some boy who would have broken my heart, because seventeen year old hearts are meant to be broken, it would have forever tainted that album for me.  Track 2 I would have remembered an awkward fumbling in the dark.  By track 6 he is leaving me at a party and talking to some other girl.  By track 10 I am devestated and would begin to hate the boy and Eddie Vedder by proxie for making me remember.

And that would be a travesty.

Eddie Vedder might have been my first love.  His songs and lyrics made me think about what it would be like to be an actual person.  To be confused, angry, upset, but with hope and passion.

I remember the line from "Alive" second verse that really influenced my early views of what I thought sex was or what I thought it could be.

"Wow, she walks softly. Across a young man's room. She said 'I'm ready for you.'  Well, I don't remember anything to this very day.... except the look."

That verse showed me that a girl, no, a woman, is not just the object of affection, but can own her sexuality, but intimacy decisions on her own and she can be an actual participate, if not iniator of sex.  Mindblowing, huh?

I actually had an "Elderly Woman Behind a Counter in a Small Town" moment a few years ago.  I ran into randomly an old crush of mine.  Amazingly, as if out of a scene of my very own novel, every heartbreaking crush, every tingle he gave me with just his smile, even how he smelled filling my body and heart with such ache and longing came flooding back to me.

 "I swear I recognize your breath.  Memories like fingerprints are slowly raising. Me you wouldn't recall, for I'm not my former.. its odd when your stuck upon the shelf.  I change by not changing at all....But I just want to scream HELLO!  My God it's been so long never dreamed you'd return but now here you are... and here I am...."

And no... even though this moment was rife with romantic tension, like before, like always and forever, it was one sided and this man will never love me.  Not like I loved him.  And perhaps it is just as well.  I no longer hold a flame for him... perhaps just a" candle of thought to light his name."

My Ideal Body

When I was little every time I blew out the candles on my birthday cake to a make a wish, I wished for magic.  I thought magic was the perfect wish because that would make all my dreams come true.  When I got a little older, a teenager, I wished to be thin for the same reason.

I wanted to be not only thin, but petite, blonde, with perky boobs, not too big, not too small, and a tiny almost insignificant ass.  This is before the era of Jennifer Lopez and Beyonce’.  God love J-Lo.  I also wanted to be smart, but not too smart and the right kind of smart.  I was the kind of smart that intimidated boys and made me more critical of the world but without the impetus to get good grades.  I cured that last factor when I went to college.   I also wanted to sing and be admired by others with still be thought of as sweet.  I wanted to be cute, blonde, petite, non-threatening, and popular with a pretty voice.  So basically, I wanted to be Galinda the Good Witch from “Wicked.”

There was something magical about those little blonde girls.  They looked like little women.  They were little girls with boobs that somehow adhered to their bodies as if overnight.  And they got the attention from the boys I wanted.  It is hardly their boys’ fault.  All teenage boys like little blonde girl-women.  They can’t help themselves.  They can even the girls were to throw a fit and screech at them and they can just pick them up and throw them over their shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

For the sake of argument, let’s go to the land of make-believe where I am my ideal weight.  Let’s go one step farther and say that I am Hollywood skinny, like Tyra Banks or Brooke Shields.  Go ahead, try picking up Tyra Banks and throwing her over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes.  That woman would throw you to the ground and bitch you out for trying.

Here’s the thing.  Even if I were “skinny” (whatever that means) I am still going to be almost six feet tall with big boobs and an ass that has no business being on a white girl.  I am still going to be smart (whatever that means) and I am probably still going to have a big mouth.  I am not quite as attention seeking as I was in my youth, but I still like to speak my mind.

I remember this event where this boy I think was kind of cute was doing a “smoothness test” on these girls legs at some youth gathering thing at someone’s house.  The “smoothness test” was to check how close the girls shaved their legs, but really it was just an excuse for the boy to touch them in a seductive yet seemingly innocent way.  Genius.  The girls were sitting on a counter with the spindly legs wagging over the edge taunting the boy like a red cape to a bull.  No boy, no man has ever done the smoothness test on my legs.  Maybe they’re afraid I’ll kick them in the head if they try.

Why can’t I be happy with my body the way it is?  I got catcalled and was flirted with everywhere I went this weekend.  Yes, some of this was when I was dressed in fishnets and high heels going to “Rocky Horror Picture Show”, but also when I was just walking around Mass Avenue in regular clothes.  I guess I have a “coke bottle” body.  This body type of characterized by round breasts, small waist and a full hips and thick legs is celebrated in the African-American community.  I heard it referenced in a rap song and decided that my body, even as it is right now, resembled this coke bottle image.  Why can’t I be happy with looking all bootilicious with a body that makes men think that, perhaps, something sweet and refreshing is contained in all that curvy goodness?  But no, I want to look like the straw: long, thin, and hollow.

I sigh audibly even as I type this.  Why? Why was this so important?  Why did I study the nutritional information on food packages instead of studying algebra or economics, something useful?  To this day even though I have a great boyfriend who thinks I am sexy and have to politely turn down men’s attention with “I have a boyfriend, thank you” often, I am still shocked that men might find me attractive.  Damn you stupid high school boy!

If you look at some of those girls I envied, time has not been as kind to them.  If you look like an adult so soon, it can be difficult to retain one’s youthfulness.  Also, on such a small frame, it is hard to carry any kind of weight “well.”  As if anyone can wear weight well.  But they were cute once and being that cute, having that kind of power over the male species can be heady and they often still have that spunk.  Me, I’m too nice, too eager, and have yet to learn how to be unapproachable.  I also, at times, have a bit of a chip on my shoulder.

Perhaps there can be some kind of benefit to not being a “cute girl” when I was young.  Perhaps not having to entertain men means I had time to work on myself and losing my beauty to the ravages of time won’t be quite so traumatic.  That’s a whole other topic.

I like being tall and I like having my curves.  I accept the only way to achieve my ideal of being petite and blonde would require a brain transplant.  I would also require some kind of lobotomy in the part of my brain that controls speech and opinions.  And maybe up the part of my brain that makes me submissive and modest needs to be surgically amplified.  That part of my brain is obviously underdeveloped. 

So, I will accept my coke bottle body.  I am obviously a 20 ouncer for extra refreshment. But still, to be light enough to float through Oz on a bubble would be nice too.

Life in 3D: Random Observations of Florida

1. I do not really live in Pensacola.  Pensacola is fifteen miles away.  I really live on Perdido Key which happens to be dangerously close to a Navy Base.  Safe for the country, but a danger to my virture.  I could walk there. There is also a beach practically in my backyard.  The “poor side of Paradise” is still pretty nice.  I am blessed to be here.  There are some people in the Pensacola area that think anywhere around Perdido Key is posh and where the “rich people live” and that is simply not true.  There are trailers across the street from mansions and both millionaires and the homeless were flip-flops everywhere.  There are haves and have nots, but it is kind of hard to tell.  Well, I guess the poor people ride their bikes or walk to the beach.  But if you live along the Emerald Coast, you environment is enriching enough.

2.  I am tripping over eligible guys down here.  Hot Navy guys (and civilians) run along Gulf Beach Highway right in front of our house.  It’s a beautiful thing.  Yeah, there are old guys on lame three-wheeled bikes too, but they are enjoying life on the beach if not contributing to the overall scenery.

3.  Southern men are more courteous and aggressive at the same time.  Yes, it is possible to be both.  I swear, in my 30+ years in ____, I was rarely hit on under any circumstances.  I don’t know what it is because I am the same girl.  Maybe the men are more forward or the standards of beauty are different down here, I don’t know.  I just know a girl like me has no reason to go hungry or thirsty in this town.  I have men come up to talk to me just about everywhere I go (besides church, for some reason) and I don’t think it is just Southern hospitality either.  I have been hit on at a gas station twice this week. And they weren’t gross guys either.  One was an older guy, but the other was a pretty hot age-appropriate Marine (see earlier post).  My father warned me that Marines are “heart breakers” and “life takers.”  Besides, I am not the kind of girl that gets picked up at a gas station.  I could have a whole post… a whole book about comparing and contrasting Southern men, but it would require way more research than my little heart can bare.  ;)

4.  I understand why Southern belles would get the “vapors.”  I never got the vapors in the Midwest. The "vapors" is when you feel light-headed, short of breath, a little nauseous and about to faint.  I felt this most recently in my choir robe last week. It was almost 90 degrees with 90% humidity.  We were indoors, but air conditioning can only do so much and we were wearing polyester robes under bright lights.  I was sweating like a whore in church.  Oh, if only I deserved it, but I was just hot.  I am NOT used to the heat and humidity yet.  To paraphrase Tom Robbins from <span>Jitterbug Perfume</span>,

“Louisiana (or the Gulf Coast for that matter) in September was like an obscene phone call from nature. The air - moist, sultry, secretive, and far from fresh - felt as if it were being exhaled into one's face. Sometimes it even sounded like heavy breathing.”

http://i976.photobucket.com/albums/ae247/aflory2000/female/woman1.jpg
5.   Learning new terms, to describe myself.  I am a “ginger girl.”  Usually a “ginger” is someone with red hair, but it can apply to any young female with fair skin with freckles that burns easily.  Knowing one's SPF is necessary in this part of the world.  Mine is 30.  The next term was not directed at me specifically, but I think it applies.  A “wootie” is a white girl with a typical African-American rounded backside.

6.   I must agree with my father, “You have to bring your own money to Perdido Key, because you sure as hell can’t make any here.”   Jobs are hard to come by anywhere, but it is hard in Perdido Key especially.  This area is almost totally retired, military, or retired military.  I am looking for work in Pensacola, Gulf Breeze, Fort Walton Beach, and as far as Mobile, Alabama.


7.  I stand out as a “Yankee” even before I speak.  My lack of accent gives me away.  People might get the idea that I am a “snow bird” and will have the good manners to leave in the spring.  I also walk and talk too quickly with an unnecessary sense of purpose.  Everything is on “beach time” around here and things are just done “eventually.”  Stores close and open randomly throughout the day and the week, especially during the very coveted Red Snapper season.  I am perceived as being more curt and guarded than most Southerners/beach residents.  Well, honey I got more to hide than what a flimsy bathing suit “cover up” will cover up.  And I forget to say “sir” and “ma’am” at the beginning and end of each sentence.  I guess I have entirely too much to do and too much information to convey than the heat and humidity will allow my fellow Floridians attention will allow.

8.   I am NOT fat.  At least I am not Gulf Coast fat. Yes, there are some hard bodies with store bought boobs, but really, fat is all relative.  Now, after I lost some weight, I am not really obese and look “normal.”  I am still a “big girl.”  I mean, come on, I am nearly six feet tall in “reasonable” heels.  But I am not fat, I dress well, and I wear a bra everywhere I go in public as if it is federally mandated.  Others down here feel that modesty or containment of one’s jigglies is merely a suggestion rather than a necessary social convention.  Maybe it is just too damn hot to wear anything too constricting and underwire might very well rust and salty air.  But, still, my Momma raised me right.  This area is known as the “Redneck Rivera” frequented by some of the fattest states in the nation, Alabama and Mississippi.  Yeah, I am not even in the running as most likely to be mistaken as a beached manatee in these parts.  Not that I am hating on these people.  I say work it, own it.  It is your body and if other people don’t’ like it, they don’t have to look.  And hey, Alabama State fan guy weighing over 350 lbs wearing nothing but trunks on the beach looking like he’s wearing a hirsute because real men don’t manscape… you go, Man, you get down with your bad self.  Yeah, people do not give a shit.  I love it.

More observations to come.