Help! I Was a Total Asshole to the Girl Who Works at My Favorite Sandwich Shop

I have this routine where I eat healthy-ish throughout the entire week and then reward myself by getting ratchet on Friday night. Then I’ll wake up on Saturday and go straight to this delightful little neighborhood sandwich shop across the street from me and order a bacon, egg, and cheese on a whole wheat bagel with a medium iced coffee, and the ritual of it all (or maybe just the bacon) fulfills me in ways that the unconditional love of another human being a healthy, balanced breakfast never could.

So this past Saturday I hobbled into the sandwich shop at about ten o’clock. Please note that I barely slept the night before, so I was tired and weak and generally struggling to not sound like Christian Bale’s Batman.

  • Me: Hi. I’ll have a bacon egg and cheese on a toasted whole wheat bagel, and—
  • Girl taking my order: A medium iced coffee with milk only? I remember! [Smiles warmly.]

In my head: Oh! This is the moment in which I befriend the girl who works at the sandwich shop because I’ve been here so many times. If this exchange goes well, my future visits will involve her being all, “Hey Nic! How was your week? Getting the usual today?” and I’ll be like, “Yeah, girl!” and we’ll probably live happily ever after (or something).

I wanted to answer her with a self-deprecating and light response to ensure the above fate, maybe something like: “Haha, yep! That’s me. I’m boring and my order never changes. [Chuckle/smile.] Thanks.”

But on this particular morning my brain wasn’t working, because as stated before, I was tired and weak and generally struggling to not sound like Christian Bale’s Batman — so while I tried to formulate a sentence like the one above, I just couldn’t do it on such short notice, and so, fucking THIS ended up happening:

  • Me [Dryly]: Well, I’ve only ordered it about a hundred times, so… good.

WHO SAYS THAT TO SOMEONE? I’m sure this is exactly what I looked like in that girl’s head at that moment:

bageldebacle

After the dust settled, I gave an awkward half-laugh/half-look-of-disgust as I realized that I had responded to her in the way a total asshole – a total asshole for no reason, nonetheless – would have.

Meanwhile, she gave me a look that was half-shocked and half-“Ew, your attitude is fucking gross,” which, really, was generous. Because if the shoe was on the other foot and I was working at a sandwich shop and a customer talked to me like that, I’d have totally been like, “GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN, DICK. AND MAKE YOUR OWN DAMN ICED COFFEE.”

I spent the rest of my time in the shop waiting for my sandwich in what can only be described as a severely uncomfortable state of debilitating embarrassment and shame, which is yet to wear off entirely.

As another Saturday approaches, I find myself fraught with anxiety over how to move on with my bagel-eating life. I’ve narrowed down my options to the following:

  1. Banish myself from this particular sandwich shop (in a dramatic fashion and while listening to that “deception, disgrace” song from the Lion King 2 soundtrack, perhaps) forever.
  2. Continue on as if it never happened and just hope that the girl forgets about it and/or has a forgiving heart and/or has better things to do than give a shit about my antics in the first place.
  3. Explicitly acknowledge the blunder the next time I come in and say something like, “Hey, remember that time I was a total dick to you? Haha, sorry. It was a weird thing where my brain stopped working and couldn’t formulate the kind of sentence I wanted it to, and again, sorry. Sorry! Sorry!! LOVE ME.”
  4. Crawl into a hole and die… ?

Please feel free to cast your vote — and/or offer a better option — in the comments below.

P.S. When I told my brother this story he was like, “Really? You’re putting that much thought into this? Nic, you have issues.” So I guess Option 5 is to agree with him.

P.P.S. When I told my friend Steven this story he was all, “I’d have spit in your bagel if I were her,” and then I was like, “Yeah but can we talk about how difficult it was for ME?! At least she had the luxury of being the victim,” and really I’m only including this exchange here because I find it kind of hilarious but also a little fucked up that it was so easy for me to use “the luxury of being the victim” in a sentence without even a trace of irony, which I guess proves my brother right in that first P.S.

 

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The Straight Gay Ghost of Tinder Past

tinderghost2

So this past Saturday, right? I’m sitting on the couch in my hotel room and killing time on Tinder waiting for a trolley to pick me up for a wedding, and I come across this buff bro type named Benjamin with the perfect amount of facial hair and I swipe right and It’s a match! and he messages me.

  • Benjamin: oops lol

Twelve minutes of silence

  • Benjamin: this happens sometimes, it’s weird

At first I thought he said “oops lol” as in “I MEANT TO SWIPE LEFT BECAUSE YOU’RE GROSS lol,” which hurt my feelings and stunned me into the twelve minutes of silence you see noted above, but then when he followed up with that second message I was just confused.

  • Me: wait what? What happens sometimes?
  • Benjamin: I’m not gay lol. But idk sometimes guys show up in my feed and I guess I’m an aggressive swiper
  • Benjamin: the last time this happened the guy took my third photo a little too seriously and asked me if I wanted a bj haha

So of course I go and look at his third photo, and it’s of a random sign on a fence that reads: Ready. Set. Blow!

  • Me: LOL oh, gotcha. Yeah sometimes Tinder puts girls in my feed and I’ll have a mild identity crisis. Not gonna lie, that third picture of yours is intriguing haha
  • Benjamin: ha

So at this point I’m fairly certain it’s over, but then after a few minutes he’s baaack.

  • Benjamin: You ever suck a straight dude’s cock?
  • Me: Uhh
  • Me: maybe in college? now I only give head to get head haha
  • Benjamin: lol I see
  • Benjamin: You’re saying I’d have to suck yours too? lol
  • Benjamin: I might be willing to try

Okay. If you weren’t just like, “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? THIS IS ALL SO ABRUPT!” as you read that, then I’m going to go ahead and assume that you run in some fucked up circles. Because seriously, what the fuck was going on? It was all so abrupt!

A sick part of me was intrigued, though. And he was cute. And I mean, who knows, I figured. Maybe sexually flirting with a closeted/questioning straight man on Tinder will be a great, emotionally healthy thing to do! Plus the wedding trolley was running late.

  • Me: haha REALLY?
  • Benjamin: maybe
  • Me: well I’d probably be too chickenshit to meet you IRL anyways
  • Me: I’ve seen enough TV to know that being lured into a strange setting on the promise of straight dick can be dangerous
  • Me: I don’t want to get gay bashed!!!
  • Benjamin: lol
  • Benjamin: no I understand
  • Benjamin: so do you have a nice dick?

First of all, how insufferable am I with the whole making-light-of-gay-bashings talk up there? But it was an actual concern I had, and that’s why talking to closeted/questioning straight men on Tinder is never a good idea — you’ll totally wonder if he’s serious or if he’s like, acting on some kind of gang initiation dare where he has to lure a gay guy into a strange setting with the promise of straight dick and then maim him. It was a dark scenario to contemplate, but luckily, as you can see above, he asked me about the quality of my genitals before I could fully explore it.

  • Me: I’ve never had any complaints haha
  • Me: You???
  • Benjamin: about 7
  • Me: nice

How hilarious is it that we’re both grown men here? Like, as I’m reenacting these messages I’m legit thinking to myself, “OMG HIGH SCHOOL DELUXE,” which is both sad and also evidence that people never actually grow up and everything is just a façade. (Wait was that deep?)

  • Benjamin: you have Snapchat?
  • Me: yeah my name is ctnicolas
  • Benjamin: send me a pic of it
  • Me: my wedding trolley is here! Argh right when this was getting good

Saved by the fucking trolley, am I right? I mean, as much as I enjoyed our bizarre spur-of-the-moment exchange, I’m not about that dick pic life. Even though I’m pretty sure I gave him my Snapchat name because I wanted to get a pic of his dick, but whatever, I’m a hypocrite, YOLO.

After I logged off Tinder, I got two notifications indicating that Benjamin had messaged me. By then I was in wedding mode, though, so I didn’t sign back in to look, figuring that he probably just said “lol ok ttyl” and I could go back to our conversation later in the evening after I got white girl wasted at the open bar.

Flash-forward to later in the evening when I’m white girl wasted at the open bar:

BENJAMIN IS GONE.

Like, his profile is not in my matches anymore. Our entire message history has vanished. It’s like he was never there. Like he didn’t even exist.

You may be wondering how I was able to so accurately quote the conversation throughout this post without the actual transcript for reference, and the answer there is that I was obviously writing this post in my head from the very first moment Benjamin brought his penis into the discussion, so I was grasping tightly to the contours of pretty much every line we exchanged right from the start. (Though I didn’t have the foresight to screen-shot it before he went all fucking Houdini on me, but lesson learned.)

I told my best friend Fran this whole story the next morning over coffee.

“Yeah, dude, it was so weird,” I said. “Like, ‘Ever sucked a straight dude’s dick? POOF I’m GONE!’ He deleted his entire Tinder profile because of me.”

“Or he just blocked you,” she dryly retorted. “Oh! Did I just stomp on your self-importance?”

It was kind of insulting but mostly hilarious, because it was true.

So in conclusion, I don’t know. This whole situation was bizarre and crazy and yet another example of the sad, strange world we live in. Mostly I just feel for Benjamin, because I know we’re all on a different journey in this life and sexuality isn’t always black and white and so who the hell knows, maybe he’s bisexual and needs to figure that shit out via a spontaneous Tinder beej. Or maybe he’s gay and tortured. Or maybe he’s straight and was just having a moment like the one I had that time I flirted with a beautiful girl at a straight bar all night and we almost decided to go back to her place to “just get naked and see what happens” but didn’t.

Or maybe — actually? — it’s none of my damn business. But then again, neither is the length of his dick. And yet somehow I know it’s “about 7.”

The Internet is so weird.

 

11 Signs You’re Drunk and a Problem

1. You order a “Grey Goose and Vodka.” The bartender looks at you weird and is all, “You mean Grey Goose and Soda?” and you reply, “THAT’S WHAT I SAID, DICK!” followed immediately by, “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

2. In the wake of #1, an imaginary, miniature, and slightly translucent Full House-era Bob Saget starts hovering over your left shoulder and convinces you to leave a 100% tip, mostly out of white guilt (or something), to make up for the whole debacle.

3. Straight women: You start Katy Perry-ing and kissing each other.

4. Gay men: You also start Katy Perry-ing, kissing straight women and/or lesbians.

Well, I made it a solid two months.

Well. At least I made it two months.

5. Straight men: Ain’t nobody got time for Katy Perry, as you’re too busy Facebook status-ing impassioned rants RE: underrated athletes who are hated on by many but are in fact the BEST OF ALL TIME.

6. You spend five or more minutes meticulously fashioning a grammatically sound and typo-free text message to your [ex-boyfriend/hookup/person whom you generally wish would love you] that simply says, “Hey. How’s it going?”

7. You start answering all questions with “GENEVA CONVENTION!”

8. You’re not sure what the Geneva Convention is/was.

drunk

9. You craft what you think is the perfect Snapchat, but is in fact just a really, really dark picture of an unremarkable barstool. When sending, you speedily check off names with reckless abandon—including all the people you usually avoid Snapchatting out of fear that they’ll think you’re a loser. Which is very ironic.

10. You touch people in ALL the places.

11. You receive a response to the text sent in #6. It says, “I’m OK, you?” and you respond with, “WHdAT the FKCU Do YOU THINK, ASFKLHOLE???”

 

This is What Happens When I Best Man a Wedding

Yes, I just used “Best Man” as a verb in the title of this post. It’s a thing now, and you’re welcome.

So. After throwing an epic three-night, thirteen-man bachelor party at a rented house in Vermont last fall (the details of which I can’t get into for legal reasons), getting fitted for a tux while awkwardly asking the salesman, “So, what’s your perspiration policy?” (he just looked at me weird and said, “We clean them”), and sneaking my way into my now-sister’s bachelorette party in December by flashing everyone with my GC (Giant Co.. Gay Card) – my brother got married a few weeks ago. And! It was the best day.

Like, ever.

The fun started the night before at the rehearsal, where this conversation took place between two bridesmaids (whom I will refer to as Hilary and Amy) and myself:

  • Nic: Hey Hilary, wanna hear something hilarious? My aunt told my stepmom earlier that she thought I “had eyes for you.”
  • Hilary: Ha! Wait. Your aunt doesn’t know you’re gay?
  • Nic: I mean, it’s not like I hide it. I just don’t think she realizes that gay people exist in real, everyday life. Like, she’ll probably find out about me when we’re at my wedding.
  • Amy (joining the conversation): Oh hey, you have one too?!
  • Nic: What? No. I don’t. I’m not getting married. [Laughs uncomfortably.] I mean, I am getting married. I hope. Eventually. Just not any time soon. Gotta find the right guy first. All the ones I meet seem to fall short in one way or another, and I’m at the point where’s it’s like, I’m not in a rush to meet The One anymore, because where’s the fun in that? Plus I don’t wanna settle for less, y’know?
  • Amy (pointing to my left ear): I was talking about your cartilage piercing.

So that was awesome.

The ceremony the next day was also awesome, although there was a minor debacle when I went to deliver flowers to the bride in her dressing room and was cornered by the photographer, who asked to borrow the rings – allegedly for the purposes of taking artful pictures, but probably more so because she gets some kind of twisted joy out of making other people anxious – and then disappeared.

After five minutes passed, I started slightly freaking out at the realization that it was twenty minutes to showtime and my brother was waiting for me. So I bid adieu to the bridal party and luckily was able to find the photographer in a hallway, regain possession of the rings, and step outside to get back to the main church.

Except now it was raining and I didn’t have an umbrella, so I was like, “SHIT.” I went back inside and asked the photographer if there was an indoor route to the church that I didn’t know about and she was all, “I dunno.” So then I was like, “SHIT,” again, and just decided to run the few steps there.

And then, as I was approaching the entrance to the church, I slipped.

AND I PLUMMETED.

I was clearly touched by an angel, though, because I managed to make my hands hit the ground first. So it mostly just looked like I was doing a spontaneous and highly awkward military pushup (on a rainy church sidewalk, in a tuxedo) for a second. I also managed to quickly retrieve the rings (which, by the way, had also plummeted and were dangerously close to a sewer… I know. Can you IMAGINE?) and put them safely in my pocket.

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One would never know I had just almost ruined the entire wedding (and my ruggedly handsome face) with a single plunge.

And after that, everything went smoothly.

I pranced into the reception to En Vogue’s “Free Your Mind” while the Maid of Honor whipped me (literally), I rocked the Best Man speech (by “rocked,” I mean I got up in front of everyone and went on a long-winded verbal tangent about how my brother is a guy who exemplifies love and I am a guy who spent most of the nineties making Mariah Carey-themed scrapbooks), and I made sure everyone got really, really drunk – which, given our network of friends and family, didn’t actually require too much effort on my part, but still.

The whole thing was one of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences that make you stand back, look at your life, and say, “Holy shit. This is it. This is what matters.” It’s like, we can get so caught up in our daily routines – coffee, soul-sucking jobs, petty arguments, super important life-or-fucking-death (just kidding, I mean petty again) arguments, social media, Mariah Carey’s mental health (okay, maybe that’s just me?), the fucking weather, etc. – that it’s easy to start believing that the stuff that doesn’t matter, matters. But then something reminds you that it doesn’t.

Over time, I’ve found that meditation and books and — frankly — wine are good at helping me get to that place of transcending the bullshit. Celebration and love and family are even better.

And Best Man-ing is, of course, the best.

 

How I Got Screwed Over Royally by US Airways

With a recent travel experience of mine in mind, here’s a short list of things that I currently despise:

  • Birds (of all varieties – except turkeys, because those are delicious and Thanksgiving is very soon, and I voted last week – so I’m obviously a patriotic American)
  • US Airways (specifically, their nonexistent customer service skills)
  • Sketchy motels (and the plethora of STDs I may or may not have as a result of staying in one over the weekend)

Allow me to elaborate on the first two:

My flight down to Raleigh, North Carolina last Friday was cancelled because some asshole bird decided to fly into the plane’s engine earlier that morning.

Initially, the lady at the gate just said, “The plane has hit a bird, so the flight is cancelled.” She neglected to mention the whole engine thing, so I was of course imagining that a bird merely hit the windshield – which left me perplexed and made me go into a ridiculously unnecessary thirty-minute mental tangent exploring the concept of airplane windshield wipers and how they must really suck.

Then someone on Facebook told me it was probably a stuck-in-the-engine situation, and I proceeded to feel like an idiot.

I called US Airways’ cancellation line to find another flight, but was informed that there were no other US Airways flights to Raleigh that day. I almost started crying into the Bloody Mary that I had procured in the midst of all this drama – but then the lady on the phone was all like, “…let me check if we can book you on another airline for no additional charge,” and suddenly I believed in love again.

But then she was like, “Sorry, there are no flights at all,” and the tears resumed.

I re-booked for 6:30 a.m. the next day and was super depressed but quickly got over it with the help of my vodka/tear-filled beverage and Mariah Carey’s 1994 Christmas album (which I plan on listening to exclusively for the next forty or so days; don’t hate).

Moments later, my brother’s amazing girlfriend called me with the great news that she found an available one o’clock flight that day via Southwest Airlines!

Giddy as could be, I called back the US Airways number to let them know that they could cancel my 6:30 and book me on the same-day Southwest flight. But then my giddiness faded when the phone representative said, “Oh, I’m glad you were able to find a flight! But I can’t book that for you over the phone – you’ll have to go to the ticketing line and have them make the arrangements with Southwest at the actual airport.”

The original US Airways phone lady never mentioned this annoying caveat, but whatever, I thought, as long as my supposedly fat ass gets to Raleigh today.

I ran to the ticketing window and proceeded to overhear the guy in front of me get told that – for some unknown reason – they couldn’t put him on that same Southwest flight. I got all depressed again, but then my brother’s aforementioned lifesaving girlfriend booked the flight online herself and had the confirmation sent to my Blackberry e-mail.

When I finally got in front of the US Airways ticket lady, she immediately launched into the same “that flight’s not available” spiel that she had given my predecessor — and that’s when I melodramatically whipped out my smartphone and shoved my confirmation e-mail in her dream-shattering face while politely asking for a refund.

Then she was all like, “Well, we can’t reimburse you until you actually obtain your Southwest boarding pass and show it to us,” which actually made my day because of the implication that they’d need to see the cost of the Southwest ticket in writing so they could reimburse me as accurately as possible.

Then I hauled ass across the airport, waited in Southwest’s line, got my boarding pass, and hauled ass back to the US Airways woman, who was now facing a line of about eight people and actually told me to wait again.

When I finally showed my boarding pass to her, she didn’t even look at it and proceeded to refund me only for the cost of the original US Airways ticket – thereby rendering my whole ass-hauling boarding pass achievement totally unnecessary.

Then this exchange happened:

  • Me: What about the extra sixty dollars that I had to pay for the Southwest ticket?
  • US Airways Lady: We can only refund you for the cost of the original ticket you purchased with us.
  • Me: So, I get inconvenienced with a flight cancellation and I have to pay extra?
  • US Airways Lady: You are welcome to write US Airways a letter. Perhaps they’ll be able to compensate you in some way. Sorry. (In the least apologetic tone ever, mind you.)

What I actually responded with: Thank you for your help.

What I should have responded with: YOU SUCK, and so does the airline you work for. Y’all have been the opposite of helpful. If I wasn’t lucky enough to have someone checking flights from home and willingly booking me on last-minute replacement flights on a moment’s notice, then you would have delayed me an entire day for absolutely no reason. Furthermore, Y’ALL LIED TO ME about the availability of said replacement flight about three times. And to top it all off, you had me take a sixty dollar hit after all of this inconvenience. And your only peace offering is to tell me to write a letter about it?! No. I WILL NOT WASTE MY TIME WRITING YOU A LETTER.

…but I will waste my time writing you a strongly-worded, totally public blog post.

 

The Restorative Power of Mountains, Oktoberfest, and Lots of Garlic

So, the past few weeks have not been ideal.

I stopped dating (and consequently, blogging), the Pats lost for two weeks in a row, and I had to deal with some other life drama that is totally blog-inappropriate (although, my definition of blog-appropriate includes some pretty questionable things — so there’s a good chance that my other life drama is actually totally apropos by normal-people standards).

In light of the above, I decided to drop everything on Friday and spontaneously join two of my best friends on a trip up to the Catskills for a long weekend of nature, Oktoberfest, and garlic — three of my favorite (totally non-questionable) things.

It was awesome and pretty much fixed my life.

Our first morning there, we engaged in an rousing session of moving wood from a big pile in the yard to a neatly organized stack on the side of a shed.

                                                      Bringing lanky back.

Yeah, I’m basically a glumberjack. (That means “gay lumberjack,” for those of you who don’t spend much time in glumberyards.)

…Or maybe I’m just Big Ang. (This is what happens when I obnoxiously try to display my buff chest while my friend struggles to take a picture that actually includes my face.)

Later that day, we encountered a random group of horses quietly standing still in the middle of a circle.

I know, right? It was weird to me too.

                     “Oh, don’t mind us. We’re just chillin’ with our saddles on.”

Naturally, I felt compelled to loudly declare, “THOSE ARE NOT REAL HORSES!” So I did.

And then my friends looked at me like I was the weird one. And then the horses moved and I stood corrected. And then I tried to explain to my friends that those horses were freakin’ bizarre — because a brilliant Mariah Carey music video from 1997 taught me that real horses, when left to their own devices, like to run wild and free with abandon into the sun.

And then they looked at me like I was weird again, and I was like, “Listen, y’all, if we weren’t in the mountains right now and had cell service, I’d settle this immediately by YouTubing ‘Butterfly’ and this whole argument would be moot.”

And then we all stopped caring about horses because we realized it was time for Oktoberfest.

After a glorious afternoon of beer and German food, we decided that the best way to end the day would be with some good old fashioned cigars while overlooking the mountains from the house we were staying in.

           Gangsta. (Or just nerdy gay man with a cigar and a chalice. Either one.)

For some reason (and by that I mean, “probably because of all the beer”), I felt compelled to try to be a tough guy and inhale all of my cigar smoke for the first time ever. So I did.

And then I proceeded to throw up three times.

Frazzled, I thought I was dying and promptly took to Google while my friends watched A Time to Kill starring Matthew McConaughey and Sandra Bullock and insisted that I was just having a bad reaction to the fact that I inhaled an entire cigar.

Thankfully, Google agreed with my friends. Turns out that inhaling cigar smoke is totally okay if you’re a chain-smoking professional. If you’re a glumberjack who only smokes on special occasions such as Oktoberfest, New Year’s Eve, and Carrie Underwood album release days, then you should avoid it at all costs. (You’re welcome for the warning, glumberjacks.)

By the way, did I mention that there was lots of foliage already and I freakin’ love being in nature?

                                         Fresh mountain air heals everything.

Our final day in the mountains involved hitting up my first-ever garlic festival. And it was heaven.

Turns out I’m a big fan of garlic burgers, garlic fries, garlic pancakes, garlic ice cream in garlic waffle cones, garlic sausage, and (non-garlic) bottled water.

At the end of it all, I feel like the trip (combined with Sunday’s incredible Pats win) really put life back into perspective.

And I didn’t even have to watch Titanic this time!

But I did have to move some wood, throw up a little, and eat probably nineteen cloves of garlic.

Totally worth it.

 

Portrait of a Gay Blogger

Until last weekend, I had always held the belief that it would be impossible for a photograph to ever truly capture the essence of who I am. Such a picture would require all kinds of random elements that rarely end up all in one place.

Such as:

  • A healthy dose of blurriness, so as to mask my various physical faults and create an illusion of attractiveness
  • A feather boa (for divaliciousness)
  • A classic Connecticut outfit — complete with khaki pants, a navy blazer, and a mild air of pretentiousness
  • A prop microphone (for divaliciousness)
  • A light beer
  • A straight woman on either side of me (for divaliciousness)

Apparently divaliciousness is a word. And also a big part of my life.

                                        You’re welcome, world.

 

Someone Called Me Fat — and I Survived

If you’ve ever read a blog post of mine, you’ve probably noticed that I sometimes like to write about how I seem to love feeling inadequate — especially when it comes to potential husbands. As a result, I’ve been confronted by a few close friends for being too hard on myself and putting myself down too often in my writing.

I usually respond to this criticism with, “But my low self-esteem is what makes me me! Without it, I’d be totally worthless.”

(Please let that remark simmer for a moment so you can fully appreciate the irony.)

Let me assure you, my low self-esteem is admittedly exaggerated in this blog (I swear I don’t hate me). Still, I do sometimes have to remind myself that the gallon of ice cream I guzzled the other night doesn’t make me entirely unlovable. This is why I have these strategically-placed post-its in front of my desk at work:

                                   Repeat out loud in sets of five for best results.

When not convincing co-workers that I’m weak and emotionally fragile, these affirmations can be a huge help and are highly recommended for anyone else who occasionally guzzles ice cream and feels unlovable.

Speaking of ice cream, let’s discuss the sole source of all my issues — my fatness. (Note: I am referring to gay-fatness, which is its own, effed-up scale. Straight people often tell me I’m thin, which, coming from straight people, unfortunately means nothing.) This fatness (along with my body image issues in general) has been the main focus of my life for the past several days — mainly because this was said to me last week:

“I mean, you’re not that fat. I still wanna have sex with you, or else I wouldn’t be here.”

Seriously, that happened.

It was during a conversation between myself and Lou — a guy I had been spending time with over the past month in spite of the fact that on our first date he openly admitted to only wanting a casual friendship with benefits (something I think we all know I’m incapable of by now; see: any past blog post).

I think I ignored my better judgment with Lou because he’d kiss me affectionately and feign an interest in my feelings every once in a while, so I was at least able to pretend that he cared about my well-being on some distant level.

For the sake of my mental health, I’m going to refrain from recapitulating the entire fat conversation. I’ll just say that it started with Lou helpfully suggesting that I stop drinking beer on a nightly basis, eat healthier, and start going back to the gym. It ended with the above-quoted declaration of my fat-but-not-fat-enough-to-be-rejected-for-sex-by-Lou status.

Because my work post-its clearly weren’t enough to combat the severity of this situation, I went into full self-hatred mode and actually went to the gym with Lou a few days after the incident.

I’m still sore from that workout (both physically and emotionally).

Here’s a tip: If you’re ever craving a traumatic experience, simply go to the gym with your super-in-shape non-boyfriend and allow him to coach you through various weightlifting exercises while you cry on the inside and fantasize about him getting killed in some kind of freak bench pressing accident.

First of all, Lou was lifting about three times as much as I could. This added a horribly quantitative element to how much better than me he is. Secondly, whenever he’d spot me, I had this whole how-many-reps-until-I’m-good-enough-for-you?! thing going on in my mind. (Answer: Infinite.)

Despite the trauma, though, I woke up the next day feeling better about myself than I have in a while — and I couldn’t help but wonder if Lou is some kind of evil genius.

By doing what he did, he has provided me with the following revelations:

  1. I got called fat — something that I’ve lived in complete fear of for all of my gay years — and I survived. The world kept spinning. No puppies died, I didn’t fall out of a window, and Manhattan didn’t burst into flames or sink.
  2. My diet kind of was crap. While I made healthy choices whenever possible, there’s no getting around the daily beer consumption and penchant for buffalo wings that Lou unabashedly called me out on.
  3. At some point in my crazy-busy life, I stopped going to the gym altogether — and I did feel less healthy because of it.

Thanks to Lou, I’m now more motivated than I have ever been. I’m eating healthy and being the most active I’ve been since before I went to grad school and gained twenty pounds. It’s kind of awesome — and I swear the impetus behind it is not to gain the approval of a gym-obsessed gay man; it’s to feel better about myself and maybe decrease my odds of heart disease down the line.

So in the end, despite the fact that I wanted to cry hysterically and stab Lou in the eye at the time of his fat comments, I’ve come to realize that — even though he was being insensitive — he was not being intentionally malicious. He’s just a health fanatic with a hot body who couldn’t help but comment on the fact that I am not living up to my healthy potential.

That or he’s just a judgmental prick — which might be okay, since I love feeling inadequate anyways.

 

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