I woke up today with this idea in my head of what I could bllllllog about and I was all excited and rarin’ to go and then I had to have a bagel and a smoke and some caffeine and promptly forgot what the fuck I was going to write about. As the day wore on and I played Zuma Blitz and Bejeweled Blitz until my eyes bled (haven’t hit the Angry Birds....yet) I kept reminding myself that I needed to write SOMETHING, need to yap about whatever, just some sort of mildly creative – “mildly” is an understatement – thing so one could stave off the annoying whiny “I can’t WRIIIIIIIITE anymore” moods I’ve been finding myself in as of late. Then I remembered that whenever my terribly delightful manfriendpartnerbeing happens to be online at the same time as I’m having these moods, he always says I should write about him.
You asked for it, sucker.
He’s rather tall.
See, the thing is, up until a few years ago, I was quite happy to be as frank and honest as possible in writing items composed for the internet set. Perhaps not at Kevin Smith-frank levels, but I didn’t have much issue exposing my foibles and having a chuckle over whatever adventures I had in my silly little life. About a thousand years ago (1998, maybe), I performed on a stage in front of people for the last time, a little 45-minute long one-woman playlet called “David Duchovny: Or the Socio-Economic Implications of a Celebrity-Hungry Society”, I talked about my skirmishes with depression and suicidal thoughts in a lighthearted fashion, which was probably a poor choice considering the family members that were packing the black box theater had no idea I had had such issues. Though, at the end of the evening, my father was far more appalled by my repeated use of “motherfucker” than anything else.
When I’d contemplate what my life might be like if I had managed to recruit someone to join me in my campaign of...uh...you know, living and shit, I figured I’d be someone who be always game to yammer endlessly about our life and our kooky misadventures and that sort of thing. Of course, I also envisioned me being a successful writer/bon vivant/chat show circuiter-type person so dammit, my personal life would HAVE to be fodder. But deep down, when it came to the relationshippy bit of the envisioning, I don’t think I actually believed I would find myself in such a place. I had a menagerie of Imaginary Celebrity Boyfriends, for Christ’s sake, there was no room for an actual human being. Let me put it this way – in my head, it was more far-fetched that I’d meet some random cat on an internet message board than wind up swanning about town with David Duchovny.
There’s all sorts of blah-blah-backstory yim-yam that goes along with that line of thinking that I’m sure can be found on my other, late blog, but jump-cut to the present and I wound up meeting some random cat on an internet message board (sadly, no swanning about town with David Duchovny...YET). Instead of vomiting forth constantly about him as I had once imagined I would do so with a partner, I’m hard-pressed to make mention of him in the public sphere. The word “boyfriend” doesn’t trip off the tongue because a) he’s not a boy, he is a MAN/ron burgundy and b) I’m almost 40 years old and while I may dress like I’m permanently stuck in the 90s (and more often than not, the lead singer of Smashmouth), my brain starts squealing unappealingly whenever I try to use the word because I haven’t been a “girl” in eons. I don’t know that I ever was, but that’s a whole other subject in and of itself. And, like, to spend paragraphs waxing on about the joybringer that is he just makes me cringe. He knows how I feel about him. I know how he feels about me. It’s just not important to me anymore that the rest of the universe knows as well.
Though, admittedly, from a fat girl activist-esque standpoint, it’s important that I am visible and, by extension, my relationship be visible as well. (You knew I couldn’t get through an entire post without bringing some fat flavor into it.) When one exists in a society that, despite evidence to the contrary, still shrieks that fat people will never have partners, should never have partners, and should be shunned, unloved, and despised until they approach an appropriate appearance, it’s important that it be known that a woman like me (fat fat fatty fat faaaaaaat *clown horn*) snagged a fellow who isn’t with me because of all the clichés we’re subjected to (fat chicks are easy, he’s desperate, he’s going to fix me, etcetera) but because he digs all elements of me, which includes my body as it is and as it will be. While I don’t doubt for a red-hot second that there is an element that is rather cross that I, without doing anything a woman is “supposed” to do (i.e. dieting into oblivion, adhering to cultural beauty standards), got myself a gentleman of regard and deliciousness, I would like in some way to serve as a bit of proof to those who find themselves mired in the “it’ll never happen for me’s” that oh yes, it’s quite possible, even if it takes a couple of centuries in order for it to happen.
But I also don’t wish to serve as one of those critters who plays the platitude game, either, because EWW GROSS ACK. If you want to cause my butthole to clench up fast and furiously, start dealing out platitudes about asses for every saddle and what have you. I know I got goddamned lucky. Goddamned lucky. There’s so much luck in all of this foo-fah that I couldn’t possibly begin to instruct someone on how to get themselves somebody if they desire it to be so because LUUUUUUCK. I was on the wrong end of those assorted platitudes for a very long time and it made me rather hostile and narrow-eyed at those who seem to revel in spewing them forth. Hence, another reason why I am reluctant to spend much of my bloggage time working my jaw about my relationship.
Ultimately, I don’t have to put on a show about my life like I used to, when I was working to convince others (and myself) that it was the greatest show on earth – don’t get me wrong, I had me some times but there was also a lot of self-inflicted fuckery that made it less circus, more sideshow. I don’t quite crave that audience like I used to, when I wanted everyone to adore me. I’m only really interested in the adoration of a small group of people...numbering in the MILLIONS oh dammit.
Let’s try that again. I’m only really interested in the adoration of a rather tall random cat that I met on an internet message board who thinks my horrific Dean Martin impression is hilarious and doesn’t find it at all odd that I have a Dean Martin impression. As for the rest of you...well, money talks. Keep that in mind.
