Dude, Eat Carbs While You’re Out: The Struggle for Body Confidence

Editor’s Note: After three years in the game, this is my 100th blog post! To honor the occasion, I’m stepping outside my comfort zone of humor and posting a thoughtful essay on body image. I’m also doing this because I skipped the gym twice this week and I’m pissed at myself for being pissed at myself about it, which sounds redundant because it is.

A few years ago I had a boyfriend – let’s call him Lionel – who accused me of being unfaithful. I wasn’t, but our relationship was in the process of unraveling and I had more or less withdrawn from him at that point, so I can’t say I was surprised by his bout of paranoia.

One day it led him to Facebook-message my ex-boyfriend.

“When you and Nic were together,” Lionel asked, “did you ever suspect he was cheating on you?”

My ex replied, “Nic? LOL.”

I’m able to quote directly because I uncovered the message history on Lionel’s computer one weekend while he was away for his army reserve duties and I was staying at his apartment. By then Lionel had already caved into his guilt and told me about the exchange himself, so these initial findings were more or less expected.

But then there was something else.

“By the way,” Lionel wrote right before signing off. “Nic is in really great shape these days.

“He’s super toned.

“Hot.”

I felt like he was insecure for me.

Throughout the course of our relationship, Lionel had always answered my habitual laments of, “Ugh, I feel really fat,” with military-inspired suggestions as to how to get in better shape. “So you agree?” I’d usually snap back, channeling my inner Regina George. “You think I’m really fat?”

I was 6’3” and weighed 170 pounds – thin – but that didn’t change the fact that I had some flab on me where there could have been muscle.

“Shut up,” he’d laugh. “You know I love your body the way it is. I’m just saying that if you want to tone up, I can help you.”

I eventually accepted the offer.

I love your body the way it is. I had always believed Lionel when he said this, but his comment to my ex-boyfriend that day suggested that perhaps he loved it more after I adopted his pushup routine. I mean, the proof was in the transcript. “Ha! You had soft-bodied Nic,” he might as well have declared. “But my Nic is better. My Nic is the one worth having.”

Of course. The One Worth Having: In really great shape these days.

Super toned.

Hot.

***

I’d always known men could be shallow.

When I was eight and nine years old, a few members of my dad’s old-school Italian family violently chucked fat slurs at my mom like jagged rocks at an innocent duck after she filed for divorce from him. “That fat bitch,” I heard them say to each other. “You fat bitch,” I heard them say to her face. “You’re divorcing him?”

Sometimes I wondered how much more diplomatic their divorce could have been if she had just dropped twenty pounds before filing.

It wouldn’t be too long before my friends expressed similar attitudes, openly discussing how they could never even think about being attracted to “fat chicks.” This sentiment pervaded my small hometown. I remember being at a friend’s house one day after school and getting caught up in a conversation about baseball cards or some shit when we accidentally left the television on whatever station aired the Rosie O’Donnell Show. His dad got home from work a few minutes later and asked, “What are you guys watching this cow for?”

I was a significantly overweight kid myself while all of this was going down, so I took everything a little more personally than I probably should have.

But! I’d tell myself. This is a female problem. Sure, some kids teased me for my weight, but the teasing never suggested that my fatness made me unlovable. When it came to love, it was always the men who didn’t want their women to be fat. Overweight guys got beautiful girls to marry them all the time; they just had to endure being jocularly called a fatass by their friends sometimes.

I’m ashamed to say that this fucked up, misogynistic double standard actually gave me comfort for a few years of my adolescence.

That is, until I’d remember that I was gay. Until I’d remember that I, too, would eventually have to possess a body worthy of male desire.

***

“I’m finally starting to realize that a good ninety percent of my insecurities stem back to my being a fat kid,” I lamented to my mom over the phone earlier this week. “And I’m so sick. I’m so sick of reflexively sucking my stomach in when I look in the mirror. And I’m so sick of hating myself on the days when I skip the gym. I’m so fucking sick of having to give a shit about any of this.”

“Believe me, Nic,” she said. “I get it.”

The craziest thing? I’m in really great shape these days. Super toned. Hot. People tell me all the time. Co-workers tell me after I casually turn down the birthday cake. Friends tell me after I yell, “If I have a double chin, we’re deleting this!” when we pose for group pics. My mom tells me when I call her on the phone having typical emotional upsets like the one referenced above.

People tell me I’m too skinny. In text messages and voicemails and Instagram comments.

starvingEat carbs while you’re out. Statements like these shouldn’t feel like compliments, except they do. The validation swoops me up and flies me around for maybe a good three seconds, but then it lets go just as quickly, flinging me down into a pit where the words GET YOUR ASS BACK TO THE GYM are etched into the surrounding dirt.

If the validation is coming from a man with whom I’m sleeping, maybe the high lasts closer to six seconds. But, oh. Since Lionel and I broke up, I can’t even tell you the number of dudes I’ve gone home with only to soberly decide in the eleventh hour that we can’t go through with hooking up because I don’t feel comfortable getting undressed with someone new and contorting into sexual positions that I know would make my stomach look – oh, my God – not flat.

When I do allow myself to go there with guys, I avoid bringing up the subject of fatness altogether out of fear that if they knew how much I really cared – how anxious and conscious and aware I can sometimes be of my body – they’d scrutinize it that much more.

Plus these aren’t just any men I’m dealing with – these are men like me.

***

Insecurities make no sense, and yet they do. Depending on your mood and vantage point they can either be silly little clowns or great, intimidating monsters. Sometimes both.

Most days I’m able to just point and laugh at how utterly absurd and hilarious my fat issues are, acknowledging all the bullshit that called them into existence in the first place and saying to myself, Wow. I’m so glad none of this shit actually matters in the end.

But then catch me on a shitty day and I’m capable of breaking down under the weight of it all – sometimes even to the point of calling my mom in tears and/or writing self-pitying personal essays about the Struggle for Body Confidence.

Of course I’ve perused enough self-help to know that everything is just a choice. At any moment we can choose to stop caring about other peoples’ perceptions and start loving our bodies as they are. Right. Fucking. Now. We can claim our power. We can strip ourselves of our clothes – whatever their sizes – and stand proudly, flipping off anyone who’s ever made us feel like the shapes of our stomachs have anything at all to do with the worthiness of our spirits. We can stop letting wounds get in the way.

On my best days, I’m actually capable of this.

Because deep down I know I’m worthy and important and loved. Because I know I’m talented and empathetic and smart. Because I know just how much more than a body I am.

But also — and it fucking kills me to say this — because I’m in really great shape these days.

Super toned.

Hot.

 

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Facebook Promotes Obesity, and I Don’t Appreciate It

I woke up this morning and realized that there exists a very unfortunate correlation between my eating habits and the marital statuses of my Facebook friends.

It kind of goes like this:

  • Engaged friends: sugary cereal with whole milk.
  • Married friends: burrito bowl from Chipotle.
  • Friends who just got engaged this week: entire box of Oreos.
  • Friends who just got married this week: multiple pints of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, various flavors.
  • Friends who just got married this week and have already posted photos from the wedding: all of the above.
  • Ex-boyfriends who are now in relationships: all of the above plus a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese, loaf of cinnamon swirl bread, entire tube of unbaked cookie dough, and the salt of my tears.

Thanks for the double chin, Zuckerberg.

Side note: I am still seeing [Awesome Guy Who Still Needs a Proper Fake Blog-Name] and he’s still awesome. But – contrary to what I’d secretly hoped – this post seems to suggest that his presence in my life hasn’t obviated my extreme need for therapy, so I guess I’ll have to get on that soon.

         Totally unrelated: My mom’s dog in his new winter coat. You’re Welcome.

 

Happy Friday!

 

I Finally Met an Awesome Guy, and He Doesn’t Call Me Fat

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.

        I dare you to toast a slice of this bread and not get aroused from the aroma.

 

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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