Become the change you wish to see, or why I need to lose 40 lbs

On Monday I turn 38 and, as is wont to happen around my birthday, my penchant for self-reflection intensifies as I contemplate the next year of my life.  This year, I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to lose this nagging 40 pounds (okay, maybe 50 for good measure), get back into a size 8 and stay there for good.  My decision has little to do with aging or healthy living, though I do feel better when I exercise regularly.  Nor does the impending trip to Weight Watchers (or whatever program I’m giving myself as a gift) stem from a desire to fit into Lucky Jeans – plus anything sold at Express – again.  Nope, I want to lose weight because I’m not attracted to fat men.

Damn the double standard, I like what I like

Now you’re thinking that I was a little hasty back there in my dismissal of the zaftig among men as undateable.  After all, you men may say, who am I to be picky if I need to lose 50 lbs?  Some of you might opine that men of all sizes like large women, or that I should learn to love myself no matter how much I weigh and I can still be sexy in a size 18.  First off, picky is in the eye of the beholder and if I want a nice piece of salmon, don’t try to give me flounder and say it’s the same thing.  I know what pleases me in dinner and in people and I know how to get it.  Furthermore, trust me when I say that I love my curves and work them to their fullest advantage on the regular; I don’t have any self-hate with regard to my size.  Why, then, do I think that dropping some poundage will land me the date of my dreams?  Two words:  buffet dinner.

The couple that eats together…

Have you ever been to Las Vegas, or any city that boasts cheap food in abundance?  My Dad lives in Nevada and like all senior citizens, he likes a good deal.  Buffet meals fit my father’s financial obligations because the portions are unlimited and he can always sneak out a chicken leg to eat later.  If you go to Vegas and size up the patrons at the nearest food trough, you’ll always find a bunch of oldsters with stacks of food that may or may not leave the building before consumption.  If I was on a fixed income, I’d bring plastic baggies and insulated totes to dinner.  In addition to the geriatric set, you’ll also find many, er, robust couples parked in front of the all-you-can-eat sign.  Apparently stuffing your gullet full of crappy foodstuffs constitutes a bonding as well as eating occasion.  I’m not a fan of the entrée called “look, its fried” with “greasy” as an appetizer.  And if I’m gonna eat a heart attack on a plate, I’ll have it made-to-order portion rather than sitting under a heat lamp where its cholesterol molecules gain strength hourly.

Unlike my brethren of the buffet, I have not maintained my pleasing plumpness by eating fast food, fried food, or empty calories.  My waistline has been cultivated by large quantities of gourmet cheese, European chocolate, well-prepared meats, and expensive alcohol.  Of course I inhale the occasional bag of puffed Cheetos, but I’ve never met a vegetable I didn’t like, and I bake my own bread.  My fat has a pedigree, just like the rest of me, and it does discriminate against those whose sole culinary criterion is quantity.  I’ve seen Mr. and Ms. Rotund waddle up to the buffet line, drool on the sneeze guards and put away piles of chow I wouldn’t even glance at.  I’ve also seen them repeat the process in the same sitting, trying to pass of some sad piece of iceberg lettuce covered in Thousand Island dressing as a vegetable.  Just who are they trying to fool?

Fat, not nasty

The food snob in me will never become one of those “shovel it in” people; I eat for taste and necessity, not just to fill my belly, so I prefer to savor what I consume rather than wallow it and swallow it.  Watch an overweight person eat:  they’ll either appreciate the vast array of what they eat, or just choke as much of it down as quickly as possible to make room for the next mouthful.  Lack of chewing at the dinner table and messy eating habits were contributing factors to a few breakups in my past.  There were other reasons those men were not long for my world, but they were also the two heaviest men I ever dated and had the worst taste in food.  We couldn’t really agree on eating out because they wanted White Castle when I wanted to eat at Four Seasons.  I exaggerate slightly, but not by much.  And if I’m planning to sit across a table from someone for any period of time I’m expecting them to have table manners, talk to me during the meal, and agree that Olive Garden is not haute cuisine OR real Italian food in spite of the bottomless breadsticks.

What I’m saying here is that there are fat folks who are fairly oblivious to food and their various food-related habits portray that engagement.  In my experience, these are the overweight people who wear lots of t-shirts, buy shoes at the supermarket and have bad haircuts, the “Fat Nasties”.  On the other hand, there are people who consume more high-quality calories than our bodies need, and may consume those calories as foie gras and snifters of aged whiskey.  They may be overweight, but wear good shoes and ironed clothes because they have respect for themselves and their appearance.  Now I may be fat, but I’m no Fat Nasty in that being big doesn’t determine what I wear, where I go, or my social circles.  I go to the beach and ride bicycles in spite of what my ass must look like in the seat.  I choose friends because I like them, not because they make me feel skinny/pretty/less insecure about myself.  And I’m incredibly well fed because my parents introduced me to escargot, the maitre d’hôtel and white tablecloths at an early age.  I have some taste, y’all, and you better have some too if you want to hang with me.

The moral of this story is, I’m going to head to the gym after work today.  I plan to make my outsides match my insides in hopes that nobody invites me to the all-you-can-eat rib joint because they think I need a truckload of dinner make me happy.  I’d rather eat pretty food with a fancy-pants hipster who wants to make me happy in spite of the fact that we’re having dinner.