Remember that time a guy named Lou called me fat and it left me scarred for life but I survived?
Well, I recently ran into him at Target while I was busy drooling over nutritionally evaluating a loaf of cinnamon swirl bread (because of course I’d have a loaf of sugary-basically-a-muffin-bread in my hand when running into the guy who called me fat) and it was awkward yet liberating.
Seeing Lou in real life for the first time since August made me extremely happy about the fact that I have been ignoring his requests to hang out for the past two months — because we really have nothing in common. And he is kind of a horrible person. Because you just don’t call someone fat. Especially when they’re NOT FAT – a fact that I had somehow let slip away from me on account of my existing body image issues and a single unsolicited opinion from a vapid gym addict who clearly has lower self-esteem than even I did during this whole debacle.
Looking back, I think I tried to excuse him at the time because one of my straight guy friends was all like, “Dude, what’s the big deal? I call people fat all the time… and so do you. Didn’t you call me fat last week?”
- To which I responded, “You’re right, and I’m crazy,”
- but should have instead responded, “Yes, but that’s all in good fun and I’m not trying to marry and/or raise children with you. If I were, I would never call you fat, and you calling me fat would certainly be out of the question… Don’t you have any gay friends?!”
- To which he would have responded, “…,”
to which I would have responded, “Oh.”
I write all of the above after having spent much of the past month with a pretty awesome guy whom I have embarrassed myself in front of multiple times and who still somehow thinks I’m as awesome as he is.
Case in point:
A few weeks ago, he made some vaguely fat-related comments (including the jocular phrase “no one likes a fatty”) via text message that were rendered difficult to analyze by my low self-esteem and ridiculous neuroses. After reading them over about a hundred times like a crazy person, I considered all of the following possibilities:
- He thinks I’m fat and was trying to make me get the hint that he’s not interested in seeing me anymore.
- He thinks I’m fat and was trying to subliminally inspire me to go to the gym before we commit to seeing each other again.
- He thinks I’m fat but not fat enough for him to not sleep with me. (In other words, he is Lou 2.0 and God hates me.)
- He genuinely doesn’t like fat people and thought that I may also share in that prejudice. (The silver lining of this possible scenario was that it carried the implication that he doesn’t think I’m fat, which I found momentarily comforting.)
- It’s not about me at all, as he was facetiously commenting on the three cheeseburgers he ate over the weekend and how mitigating the damage at the gym on Monday morning might not be a bad idea. (In retrospect, this is clearly what he actually meant.)
Because all of the above started to make my head hurt, I decided to just lay it all out on the line by saying this: “I should be frank… If a few extra pounds would be a deal-breaker for you, then this will not work out. I love beer too much.” (Go me, right?)
Then he called me skinny and said that even if I were fat, he wouldn’t care because I excel so much in the personality department. (GO HIM, right?)
His response made me contemplate whether or not replying to him with a straight-up marriage proposal would be considered apropos, but I ultimately decided against it because he’s currently in law school and probably wouldn’t have the time to go into full wedding-preparation mode without neglecting his studies, and I’m supportive of his career goals – so I just responded with, “Phew.”
P.S. I think the best thing about this whole saga is that my body dysmorphia had intensified so much that I actually not only came to believe I was truly fat, but had moved beyond my discontent with the situation and into the full-out acceptance stage – to the point where I went all “I’m fat and you can take it or leave it!” on a guy.
P.P.S. I think the actual best thing about this whole saga is that if things work out between [Awesome Guy Who Still Needs a Proper Fake Blog-Name] and me, I have documented proof that he won’t leave me when I gain those inevitable ten pounds this holiday season.
P.P.P.S. Did I mention that I’m crazy-smitten with him and he’s friends with Tom Brady? Well, okay, they’re not friends – but they totally went to college together. Fine. That’s pretty much a lie too. They did not technically go to college together. But they did go to the same school – just not at the same time. Still, it’s entirely possible that [Awesome Guy Who Still Needs a Proper Fake Blog-Name] once sat on a chair that was once sat on by Tom Brady – which is definitely something that friends do.
P.P.P.P.S.– I think these P.S.’s were longer than the actual post. Is that normal? Also, is a P.S. with four P’s even a thing?
P.P.P.P.P.S. I totally bought that loaf of cinnamon swirl bread.