February 18, 2013
Most of the wonderful women I’ve met along the way on this journey to world domination a healthy life are married or in long term relationships. I only know of a few single women like myself, navigating their way through the dating world with this newfound body and confidence that comes with losing weight.
If you follow me on Twitter, you have no doubt read my frequent tweets of my misadventures in online dating and have probably unfollowed or muted me because of them at some point. No offense taken. It may seem miserable from the stories I share, but it’s not all bad. For every horrible experience, there are five other decent to great ones.
When I was at my heaviest, I would hang onto any man that would give me the time of day. If it didn’t work out, I always thought: if only I wasn’t fat… He probably likes me, but too bad I’m fat… Once I’m not fat anymore, no one will be able to resist all this sexiness… Though I’m still overweight, I am “average-sized” enough for the excess poundage to not detract from the person I am under this skin. This removes a lot of the stress, anxiety, and self-consciousness of meeting any new person, whether I’m trying to get in their pants or not.
It has also put me in the uncomfortable position of being the rejector instead of rejectee at times. I never, ever, ever want to be the reason someone is feeling upset or hurt, so I have to be careful with all this sexiness now. Can’t just keep breaking hearts left and right! (Umm no.)
You may agree that your social life takes the biggest hit when you’re minding your nutrition. Oh how easy it was to agree to happy hour with coworkers, celebratory dinners for just about anything, or not having to decide between a real dinner or movie popcorn and snacks on date night. Sometimes it feels like I am being held hostage by my Saturday morning date with the scale.
However, lately, something odd has been happening. I want to be good on dates, and find that whatever I’m eating or drinking has little bearing on whether or not I’m enjoying myself. Sometimes I’ll only eat a salad; hold the cheese and dressing. Or I’ll have one light beer. And it doesn’t bother me. This, however, is not going unnoticed. Instead of being self-conscious about my companion scrutinizing every bite I take because I’m a bottomless pit, I’m sort of beginning to look like “that girl” that orders a side salad, two crackers and sips flat water with lemon because she “really needs to lose 3 pounds.”
[HUMBLEBRAG ALERT] A few different guys have commented on this in the last week alone. “You’re so damn tiny.” “That’s all you’re gonna eat?” “There’s nothing wrong with curves, you know.” “I’m really not into ‘size 5s’” (I’m a size 4, sucker!) [/HUMBLEBRAG ALERT]
All comments were made mostly in jest and not super judgy, and I really shouldn’t care this much about how I’m perceived, but we’re all guilty of it to some degree. If I like the guy enough, I’ll help him understand by whipping out my before picture to show him what I used to look like, and quite proudly I might add. The days of being ashamed of where I came from are way behind me.
The benefits of coming clean are quad-fold: 1) It explains why I chose spin class over drinks with them earlier in the week and why I’m drinking water-beer, despite my strong urge for an old fashioned. 2) I can never get enough of watching the facial expressions of pure and utter shock and disbelief. 3) It gives us something to talk about. Not just my own personal weight loss story, but whatever fitnessy shit they’re into and what nutrition advice I can give them to get into better shape. You see, most of these men are active enough, but are hopelessly lost in the dietary department. In turn, 4) I look super duper smart spouting off about macro and micronutrients, the effects of sodium, types of foods to eat before/after workouts, and junk to avoid.
And then they fall in love with me right then and there. I mean I can practically see their pupils turn into pulsating hearts while they listen to me talk. Next thing I know they’re begging me for a second date and scribbling the names of our future children on a cocktail napkin.
But who can blame them?