Today marks for me one week of marriage. One week! And now that I have some expertise in the area (ha!), it only makes sense that I take advantage of this opportunity to combine my two areas of know-it-all-ness: fat and marriage.
Where I want to start this little treatise is actually six years ago when I was fresh out of college at 21, living on my own outside the structure of campus life, and starting my very first independent and intimate relationship. Not my first boyfriend - my first relationship. I say “independent” because I was no longer living at home - if and when things went wrong, there was no safe place to retreat to; no mother to hide behind. I say “intimate” because I had ventured beyond the high school rituals of holding hands and counting the successes of a date by the number of bases reached. I had crossed the line from making out to sex, and I took all the responsibilities that came with that very seriously.
I took this relationship so seriously, I think, because I was so shocked that it happened in the first place. Sometimes I would look at the boy sitting next to me in the car, his eyes fixed on the road, and I was just drowning in a big puddle of disbelief. Why am I here? Why is HE here? What could he possibly see in me? In this gross body? How can he not be repulsed? What could be so good about me that trumps my totally repulsive looks?
I was cautious - more cautious than I’ve ever been in my life. This push and pull with a significant other was something very new to me. Being so confident in my intellect and my ability to express myself in words, I had no problem charging in to a room in a way that let everyone know they best steer clear. (”That’s right, you better fuckin’ watch yourself or I’ll calculate your ass right into a corner!”) But dating this boy was a completely different animal. I was achingly self-aware of everything I said, everything I did. I watched him intently, trying to gauge his responses to me. I didn’t want to make a misstep, because I was certain it would break the spell, he would see me for the bloated and nasty person that I was, and out the door he would go.
My head latched on to this idea that this was my ONE chance to have a partner in this life, and it resulted in a draining and anxious obsession with the trappings of weddings and marriage. I bought wedding magazines and I spent hours poring over gowns and veils and rings and table centerpieces and napkin rings - yes! napkin rings! - imagining a perfect wedding down to the last detail. I would visualize the supernatural will-power I would muster that would finally allow me to lose all the weight I wanted, and guests would be blown away by the vision of beauty that I had become. I would be a thin, lithe, tall, poised and elegant bride. The bride to end all brides (except for Princess Di - because there is no topping her).
Of course, this boy I was dating had no idea of the immense marital plans I was mapping in my mind. I said not one word. Because what if he got scared? What if I made him nervous? What if he thought I was a freaky, clingy girl? What if he wanted to bolt? What if he did? What if he LEFT ME? I put everything into this one chance, convinced that I wanted to be part of this “club” where people are chosen. I was desperate to be chosen by someone who thought I was worthy of living a life with. Looking at myself, I didn’t see anything worthy.
Once my mind started asking those questions, it was a very short trip to shoving the wedding magazines under the bed and sobbing my heart out. Everything felt hopeless - I would always be ugly, and I would die alone. No one would ever want me. Cue the binge. And the next. And the next. Ad nauseum.
As it turns out, I did make a misstep. Somewhere along the line, something went wrong. I’d go into more detail, but I’m not even actually sure what happened. Towards the end of the relationship, we were struggling with the long-distance thing, and that’s hard for anyone. I don’t know if it was something I did. I don’t know if it was really all his issue. I do know that I wasn’t doing myself any favors in that relationship. I thought I had just one chance at happiness; that this boy - and no other - could be the one to pick me, and if it wasn’t him, there would never be another chance. I was wrong about that. So six years later, I’m now ready to say:
Ryan: Fuck you. And thank you for dumping me.
Right now I have the one with me who wants to be WITH ME. And really, I’m rather glad that he and I spent our first few months with several hundred miles between us. Just starting treatment when I met him, he gave me balance and time to work on myself, and while I did struggle and question why someone would be interested in me at all, it passed and I’ve never felt that desperation that I met with six years ago. He and I are good together, and we work well together. So why not work well together as long as we can?
Jeff: I love you. And thank you for choosing me.
Posted: September 3rd, 2008 under BEDhead, Canadia-Land.
Comments: 7
