fatty. no good for you.

9Mar/123

This is the second best I could do…

I was going to prepare a much nicer, epic, and emotional post about the biggest and scariest thing I've gone through in recent years.  I chose not to in favor of a little bit of a look into how big an asshole I really am.

I'm obese.  Not overweight, but cheese-in-my-veins fucking obese.  My weight is down a little bit (it's hanging in the low 270s) - but I'm still 100 lbs. away.

...and I don't deal well with fat chicks.

I should put an asterisk there, because it's sort of an arbitrary term that is a challenge to express properly.

Historically, girls of marginal attractiveness have been drawn to me.  Now, I'm open to several different body types, races, hair colors, and the like.  I really only have one 2 total non-starters: Ridiculously fake breasts or a penis.  Both are immediate disqualifiers for me.

I started a match.com account up last week early Monday morning.  Since I'm me, and I am criminally tactful, I've had three dates - the last of which was last night.  That's 12 calendar days by my count.  I've had a deluge of "winks", but they are without fail girls that I couldn't see myself with.  Mostly because I don't think we could both fit in the same picture.  Not everyone is going to be a potential connection, but I don't understand the common underlying feature that nearly all the women who would approach me share: a disproportionally large bottom half that recalls images of a sausage casing overflow or that pink goo McDonald's called chicken.

The first girl...did not match up well against her photo, and was very bottom heavy.  She was also at an age that gravity had taken a lot from her.  It was also unclear how well she maintained other parts of herself, as she had more than a few stray grey hairs on her head.  However, I proved that I can do just as much damage stone sober as I can drunk.  She asked me to set up Netflix Instant on her Wii.  I spent fewer than 15 minutes setting up her wireless network, and getting her Wii configured for Netflix.  I should have left when I finished.  I'll let you fill in the blanks...but I was irresponsible in accepting her gratitude.  Moving on...

The second girl I went on a date with decided we'd go to a burger bar.  Normally, I do OK in the context of similar establishments.  Not to endorse a restaurant, but Red Robin allows substitutions of the BOCA burger on all their burgers, and they have a really awesome spicy burger that is just amazing.  This place was not even remotely vegetarian friendly, and they still botched my order just a touch.  Poor dining choices aside, this girl happened to be a bit more pretty, younger, and had let me know she lost a lot of weight in recent months.  Good on her, seriously!  However, she too suffered from that ill-defined bottom-heavy build that just...doesn't do well for me.  To frame it a little differently, her top half had similarities to Adele - great face, bone structure, fairly dramatic eyes and lips.  I adore Adele, and would be more than happy to be involved with her.  However, this young lady's bottom half was more like a Dell computer - a collection of spare parts, poorly organized, probably incompatible, and destine to be useless in about 3 years.

I maintained a facade of interest, thinking it best to "keep options open" since I haven't been able to demonstrate how much of an absolute catch I am to anyone in years.  And then last night happened...

I met an amazing woman a few years younger than me.  She happens to be quite intelligent, a vegetarian, and every bit as ridiculous as me.  She's also absolutely stunning.  Our date lasted over 10 hours, of which 95% was talking.  As far as I can gather, any and all perceived chemistry was mutual - but I'm not going to get into specifics yet.  I've had about a half dozen significant relationships, so it does happen that I get a fair amount of what I want.  However, given the delicate balancing act that is the first few weeks of dating, I'm keeping feelings and word selections metered right now.  It was an incredible time, and we've planned to go out tomorrow night.

I'm a jerk.  I'm clearly saying terrible things about people who I hope never hear them, as they surely deserve better.  Attraction is something that really can't be helped.  I'm not sure how much of it can be conditioned or massaged.  However, I feel compelled to be honest about what I'm thinking and feeling, as it becomes a written record for me to better understand myself.  This year is about being honest with myself, who I am, and what I want.  It is not a time for compromise on any level.  It's a time to reassert who I am and what really matters to me.

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21Jan/122

“You may be done with the past…

...But the past isn't done with you." - James Dean Bradfield, "Days Slip Away"

I think he stole that from somewhere, but I can't confirm it.

Today is the last day of one of the worst weeks I've had in the last few years. I confronted all of my biggest issues in some form this week to varying results. I absolutely expect challenges along the way; I can't imagine anyone looking to completely reinvent themselves has an easy go of it. I don't expect to be smacked in the face by everything I've done wrong and the things I still need improvement with. I don't believe in the concept of "fair", but it's not fucking fair.

These are my problems, but feel free to share yours.

8Jan/122

Reality Sets In

This was August 29, 2011.  307.2 pounds.  I ate Sparta, and then some.

Less than one week after my divorce, a friend tried to get me on the right track by challenging me to a weight loss contest.  The goal was to see who could lose 10 pounds the fastest.

If I were to win, she'd send me some criminally sexy pictures of herself.  If she were to win, I'd fill her Starbucks Rewards card with $25.00.

Since I am me, a thirty-something white male stuck in arrested development, and there were tits on the line, I started myself on a powerful weight loss supplement that I'll leave unnamed.  For the days that followed, I ate next to nothing, and I felt like I was just asking for a heart attack.

8Jan/120

Fatman Begins

I've published this same content under the "About fatty." page, but while I expect that to evolve, I want a static version of this page to refer back to.

My name is Michael, and I am a fatty.

I could tell you I'm overweight, that I'm out of shape, or that I need to lose a few pounds, but that would send the wrong message entirely.  By telling you I'm a fatty, I'm telling you:

  • It's not a weight problem, it's an lifestyle: Until recently, I was doing nothing to help myself along.  I enjoyed 16" pizzas and short walks to the john.  I have a treadmill, an elliptical machine, and something that was sold to me as an "Olympic weight set".  They collected dust the way I collect calories.
  • It's an identity, and it sucks: I'm a white guy in the United States, meaning a substantially overweight gentleman is not an uncommon occurrence.  We're fairly well tolerated, and entitled to our lifestyles here.  Not to mention there's a dearth of good fat jokes lately.  That said, until there's an affirmative action that mandates blow jobs for fat people, I have to find a way to be attractive to the opposite sex (my preference) or pay for the pleasure through outlets like Craigslist or backpage.com.
  • I manage to keep a sense of humor about it: And maybe that's part of the problem.  If I can find humor in it, I can embrace it.  That said, when I reach 170 pounds, I'm still going to have all the collected stories from when I was fat.  For an alternate source of humor, there will always be the Republican party.
  • I hate it enough to do something about it: Keeping a blog is going to force me to confront the lifestyle, the identity, and hold me to progress.

I'm in my early 30s.  I both suffer from and enjoy ADHD.  I was divorced in August of 2011.  I'm mostly sure that if I want sex, it's going to cost me.  I drink, but not as much as I should.  I've done lots of drugs, but it's been a while, and I'm certainly not an addict.  This is not my online dating profile.

So, what should you expect?  Sad and pathetic stories touched with my dark humor, progress in the lack of self-efficacy, and a man whose love of women alternates between admiring the strength and resolve of those repressed by a society that embraces irresponsible body images and wants to pay them less, to "YAY, BOOBIES."

I'm doing it for me, but if you enjoy it, I'd love to hear it.  Thank you for your consideration.