My Boyfriend is Making Me Fat!

As a woman who once worshiped Glamour, and later then Vogue, I've read every article on why you should love yourself and not complain to your boyfriend that you're fat, your ass is too big, or belly not flat enough.  Bottom line was always DON'T DO IT. Love yourself cuz your man adores you the way you are.  No where in any of those thousands of Glamours read did I see anything about how to keep yourself from blowing up into a big balloon while dating someone.  Nor have I seen anything regarding how to deal with a boyfriend who complains about being fat himself.

Normally, I eat very well.  I can't afford to go out to eat often, so I cook and it's always healthy with tons of veggies and definitely includes some four buck chuck from Trader Joe's (this shit is GOOD!).  I'm also not someone who eats much.  Normally I have three meals a day - not much of a snacker - and the portions are just about right.  I don't overeat, unless I'm at a restaurant, but even then I know that there is a to-go box in my future and that means additional meals, if not one, more, for the week.  Dating Steven has been a challenge in self control and being polite.

Now let me just say one thing that Steven likes about me is that I'm kind of over the "gotta be out at the hottest places in town every night of the week".  First it's expensive, seriously, with cabs you can easily spend $250 in one night, for one person - dinner, drinks, nightclub - it's insane!  And while it is fun every now and again, I've been there, done that, and now appreciate a different lifestyle.  There's nothing out there I haven't seen before and frankly, I feel just too old to participate in that crowd any more.  When it was my time, I had a BLAST, no doubt, but now I am so happy I had my fun and can concentrate on a different kind of life.  One that doesn't include getting home at 5am, sleeping until 1p and further cocktails to assist in hastening recovery.  Recovery now lingers long past the 24 hour mark to the 72 hour mark, and frankly, there's just so many more things I want to do with my day then play the hang over march from the couch to the bathroom all day long.

So, Steven and I go out every now and again, but not to the hottest restaurants in town.  We prefer the cool hole in the wall, neighborhood joints with amazing food and even more amazing prices.  The problem is that he eats A LOT!  In some cases prompting more "immediate bathroom" situations which result purely from lack of self control and overeating on verge of exploding - literally and figuratively.  I, of course, am in tote.  Even at home, when we cook at his there is an overwhelming amount of food.  It cracks me up.  He'll prepare his plate and then mine exactly like his, as if I have a starving army in my stomach.  Out of politeness I always tried to clean my plate.  Later on in our relationship, I've begun to stop him before he dishes out extra spoonfuls on to my plate.  Often I get the "you eat like a bird".  Of which I respond, "Do you like my butt?"  "I LOVE your butt." "Well, let's keep it from getting a zip code of it's own and still feeling the love, shall we?"

The real problem is that even though I've been cutting back and putting my foot down, I have, somehow, still gained weight, and no small portion of three pounds...much MORE!  This is truly the biggest I've ever been and I feel so uncomfortable that it's making me crazy.  If it hadn't been raining here for the last, oh FOREVER, I would be working on dropping some of this arse on the lake front. However, one gay bf alerted me to the fact that it's illegal to dump biological waste in public parks.

Worse than this, is how Steven feels about himself.  Rarely do I say a WORD about how I'm feeling physically, but Steven is almost constantly saying "I'm so fat".  My response "Don't complain.  Do something about it."  Harsh, maybe, but I say it in soft voice accompanied by a smile and followed with a kiss on the cheek.  The problem is an absolute lack of motivation.  As if his stint in the hospital when his heart rate was super high along with his blood pressure didn't freak him out at all.  It's pure LAZY.  This is a problem for me.  So, I've done what I can.  He's bought new rollerblades.  I encourage him to ride his bike and, when I can afford it, plan on joining his gym.  I, of course, do all of the cooking when we do get together and it's always healthy.  I even have a PT friend willing to train him FOR FREE twice, even more, but he won't follow through.  I am not sure if it's insecurity or lack of caring.  Please, I need a man's response!  I'm at a loss!

To top it off, Steven told me last weekend about his ex-gf who was always blowing him off for work but it always came out that she'd decided to go out to the clubs instead.  So, naturally, I had a super busy week and told him I needed to concentrate on me.  He realizes I'm not going to do the same to him, but I am now wondering how he will react when I start creating time for myself to go rollerblading, etc., for me.  It's not that I'm insecure about my relationship with him.  It's that I'm seeing all of his insecurities and it's a lot to take on.  Here is this amazing, even-keeled man, who in all other totally random, and quite embarrassing moments, has all the confidence in the world and these are his road blocks.  Seriously, Steven takes the "He's Just Not That Into" test and scores 120 out 100.  I'm totally confused.  I know what I need to do and if he won't do it for him, I can't let it stop me doing it for myself.

Amongst other things, there is something that has come up that really bothers me....apparently he's more than just slightly racist.  If you know me, you know this really pisses me off, and he knows exactly where I stand.  Is it small mindedness, ignorance or a deal breaker? 

The honeymoon is over.....

xoxo

Be Careful What You Wish For...

Diarrhea, Diarrhea

It was Thursday morning and Steven had the day off, as his days off run every six days and so we only have a real weekend together every six weeks, (That's like twice in our relationship, but he's a good sport knowing the rest of the world's schedule doesn't exactly jive with his.) and he decided we should go to brunch, because that's what ordinary people do with their weekends.  The problem is that most restaurants actually only have brunch on the weekends so it was one of a handful of diners always open for breakfast, The Original Pancake house, IHOP (Yes, we have a few in the city) or one of my favorite places not too far from my house.

I love Wishbone.  It's soul food at it's best but also serves enough regular menu items that appeal to everyone, especially breakfast.  After a sex marathon the night before, or what now constitutes as a sex marathon for two people no longer in their 20's, we were starving.  A quick shower and we were out the door.

It's funny how relationships move a bit faster the older you get. In the past, I would have been so concerned with looking perfect that I would lock myself in the bathroom with my clothes, shower and wash off the mascara that had run down my cheeks during sex (the big thing is washing my hair...this boy can turn it into a birds nest in NO TIME FLAT!), put on my makeup, dry my hair, all in a steamy bathroom, only to open the door and step out in a heavy midst, with some slight sweat, but looking perfectly made up and ready to go.  I would feel like Kelly LeBrock in "Wierd Science" who, after being created by a boy and his computer, seemed to appear in perfection out of a fog.

At this age, and with Steve, I wake up with raccoon eyes and he tells me I'm beautiful.  I feel so comfortable with him that showering with Steve is nothing.  He looks at me like I'm the most incredible thing he's ever seen including a light cat call whistle - jiggles, cellulite and all hanging from here and there.  Albeit, he is pretty much blind without his glasses up to about a foot away - HELPFUL!  This morning, I showered, put on just enough cover up to not look like I had only managed three hours of sleep the night before, threw on some comfy clothes and we were out the door.

Those in Chicago share a common love for Wishbone, no matter the location, although I think both the food and service are best in Lakeview.  Steve is so excited I recommended the restaurant that I think he peed himself a little.  We manage to park, pay the rip off parking fee (thank you City of Chicago for selling our parking meters and then spending the $1B, mostly on the bid for the Olympics, which we lost, leaving the tax payers, once again, holding the bag.  I thought we were Democrats!), and head off to the restaurant.  We get a good table, but not the best.  The best tables are the booths by the windows - lots of light and great people watching as people walk up and down the street.  I order coffee and Steve, obsessed with juice, orders two tall orange juices.  We sit and talk, laughing, mostly.

I love how we just harass one another.  It reminds me of who I really am.  When I was younger, this sassy-smart ass quality apparently drove guys crazy because I had them flocked around me.  It was as if I held them just far enough away to say, "I like you but you can't have me.....yet!"  This has been the element missing, amongst others, in past relationships.  You know, the "I want him to like me so much that I'm afraid to be me?"  Well, I now know if that's the case then that person is not the right one for you.

"Are you ready to order?" says the waitress. I reply "Could you give us a few minutes?"  We were so consumed with talking about nothing important.  "Yeah, a few minutes," Steve says.  "I'm too busy admiring the vision in front of me."  (Okay, we can all collectively throw up a little in our mouths). I, being conscious that I am consuming about 1,000 cals more a day (AT LEAST) dating Steve, conservatively order the egg white, spinach, mushroom and tomato omelet with tomatoes on the side (my ass doesn't need the home fries - no matter how much Steve loves "the butt").  On the other hand, Steve decides on the Red Eggs.  Hmmm...are you sure about that?  Red Eggs, beans, hot sauce..it's not like we're recovering from hangover, but our age (shutup I said it and it's time I admit to the "changes") it's just not the best idea.  And it wasn't but I didn't know until we were finished.

"I have to go to the bathroom."  "Okay."  I sit, enjoy some more coffee and looking out the window to some people watching and thinking...All these people off to work, like most normal people.  I DO enjoy my lifestyle.  What kind of dollar figure would I put on it?  Well, whatever it is, I love it but I am not ready to reveal my financial truth to Steven so maybe it's time to start the hunt again.  I remember how exciting it was to get up each morning and head to my office on Michigan Avenue, even the one in the burbs...and having a car.  I do miss having a car.  Freedom.  To reach this goal I would have no choice but to reveal myself and if he doesn't kick me to the curb I could take care of it living together, but why should I EVER expect him to support me.  Damn it, E!  That's the thinking that your Dad instilled in you - strong, don't need anyone, independent - not such a bad thing, but can be.  Now it's simple embarrassment about my reality.  How the FUCK did I get here?  How did I even let it happen?  Making just enough to get by on, clients paying late, overdraft fees and sometimes bad checks that totally fuck me over...that totals an extra thousand dollars a year and then the government STILL wants money after that.  What the HELL?  I know what's held me back - daddy and male family figure's expectations of me, but isn't that just imagined.  Stop it, E, you're making yourself crazy.  But I want a nice home and life.  I should be able to have this.  How the hell do others do this?  Oh, yeah, they're married or have a trust fund.  Well you have neither so it's time to be the scrapper you were raised to be.  You're just going to have to make time and put your foot down with Steve so you can concentrate on what you need to do for YOU! "There's someone in the bathroom." "Oh."  Steve is still standing.  A bit antsy.  He then sits.  "Well, you should wait, I'm sure they won't be long." "You're right. I'll go check again."

Okay, it's official, E, you're certifiably crazy.  It's not like you're the only one who has suffered in this economy.  It's hard to do this on your own and, not to mention, you've just celebrated 10 years in business...that's a milestone.  A major one.  People WISH they could say this.  It gives you so much more credibility.  Okay, so Pittsburgh didn't work out and maybe that's because you look so young, but FUCK 'em.  You're great at what you do and it's about time you say...outloud.  Celebrate your success and show a little pride.  God won't strike you down.  He wants the best for you...."  "There's another person in the bathroom now."  For God's SAKE, I know there are multiple stalls in the women's bathroom...what's going on?  "Okay, well, we can head to mine. Why don't you check one last time."  Standing with small grimace, "Okay."  Geez, E, here is this man totally enamored of you.  But what if he finds out my truth and leaves me.  This could happen.  E!  Shutup.  Do what you gotta do until that happens.  Take it slow.  Take care of your shit as best as possible and worry about it when it comes up.  Sigh.  "Here's your bill."  "Thanks."  Not sure of the amount of money in my bank account at this very moment, I whip out my debit card with complete confidence that God will provide and pay the bill.  E, all you need is a little faith.  He will lead you.  He's never left you behind and always provided for you when you really needed it.  You'll be fine.  It's time to get your house in order. "Thanks," says the waitress.  I pay the bill and return to my internal battle.

"Uhm...they're not coming out of the bathroom," Steve says sitting.  "Okay, well we'll just head to mine." "Okay, now?  Where's the bill?"  I wink.  He smiles, "You didn't have to."  "But I did.  I can afford breakfast."  I think.  It wasn't rejected.  "Uhm, okay, we have to go RIGHT NOW." "Oh! Okay."

We head out of the restaurant, turn the corner and walk the 100 feet or so to his car.  Steve is clearly walking a few paces faster than me.  "Are you okay?" "Yep," he says shortly.  "Just need to go to the bathroom."  OH!!!!!!!!  I start to walk faster and hop in the car.  We're about 10 blocks from my house but Steve drove like the car was on fire - or rather his ass was on fire.  Poor guy, we hit every red light in those 10 blocks.  All four of them.  He was really antsy.  So much he couldn't even talk.  "How are you?"  "Need to get to your house." I smile and give a little chuckle.  "Okay." We pull up and he goes to park.  "Do you have your keys out?" "Yep." "You go ahead and I'll come up."  "Okay."  No joke.  I knew the emergency.  I saw it in his sweet brown eyes.  The feeling of dire urgency.  The kind of urgency that would leave more than skid marks in his shorts if he didn't make it to a bathroom and fast.

I run up the front stairs, unlock my door while he parks the car, run up the stairs to my apartment, I head him, now, running behind me and up the stairs.  Steve is unbuckling his pants as he runs up the stairs.  I cut the corner after opening the door and head to my office on the other side of the apartment.  Once there I turn on my computer and immediately launch Windows Media Player and blast some music. Hey, I know what it's like.  I have a fear of pooping in public bathrooms.  I totally "clam up", for lack of a better term.   I hear Steve close and lock the bathroom door and I begin to work like nothing has happened.  HELLO!  The honeymoon is over. He has diarrhea in front of you, the initial romance where you both smell like roses and have no bad faults is now over!

Eventually, the victim makes his way to the door of my office.  Looking a little worn out, a look of relieve crosses his face.  "That was a close call."  I laugh.  "Apparently!  Thank goodness we weren't head to your place." "Oh my GOSH!" he says in his Chee-ca-go accent. "No kidding.  I wouldn't have made it and you might have seen the end of me."  "Really?"  "Uhm, yeah, what man's pride can recover from shitting his pants?"  I just laugh until I cry. "Well, honey, we've all been there. Again, glad I live so close."  He sighs and laughs, "Yeah!".

So, here we are.  I joke that I feel like I have a target on me and Steve has his arrow aimed on it and it's true what people say, when it's right, it's natural and when shit happens (pun intended) you still like and want that person.  After all, eventually shit does happen and it could have been me.  So I got up and kissed him and he bid adieu so I could work and I just chuckled to myself thinking about the morning.

xoxo