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

Road Rash..I'm on the IR

Damn it!  I was so excited to finish work early and got on a two-hour rollerblade work out, with a 30-minute stop lakeside.  I mean I was really ready to put in 10 miles.  And now, I'm on the IR.

Everything was going great.  I felt great.  Had my cute workout outfit on, it's cloudy and about 75 degrees.  Perfect!  I was taking my regular route (note to the City of Chicago: exactly how long does it take you to fucking tear up a street and repave it?  Apparently more than three weeks) and I inched myself carefully across a half torn up street and cruised downhill towards the lakefront.  Now, I don't normally take the South side of the street all the way down but the North side, near Lake Shore Drive, gets a little dicey - Hey Chicago!  Fix the fucking sidewalks! Nothing ever gets done around here!  Where exactly is my tax money going?  Oh, that's right, apparently every city worker is skimming off the top cuz they think they deserve it.  Foolish me.  Of course you  DON'T.  Fuckers!

Anyhoo...I took the South side and there's a small part of the sidewalk that intersects with a gravel running path. Apparently, they can't fucking clean up the sidewalk.  I saw it; I knew it and knowing I've been through it before foolishly thought "no problem".   Let's just say that gravel and rollerblades don't mix.  It's like rollerblading and grass.  You stop.  Almost immediately.

So, with rush hour traffic piling up off Lake Shore Drive, I fearlessly approach the gravel and suddenly realize it's worse than usual.  It's everywhere, and...it's deep.  Too late...I plow into the gravel, stop within inches and take a dive forward as if I'm on a Slip 'n Slide, except there was no water and I....just....stopped. Next thing I know, water bottle flies out of my mini backpack, mp3 goes for a dive in the gravel and I'm spread eagle in shitload of gravel.  I looked like fucking Superman trying to fly across a gravel pit that Lex Luther set out as a trap.  Fucker! 

The nicest older couple EVER were approaching and saw the entire thing.  Can you believe, that as many people were on that sidewalk, and so-called-running-path, that they were clearly the only decent human beings to stop and ask me if I was okay?  I'm beginning to think that Chicagoans aren't nearly as friendly as we like to believe- not to mention the fact I have neighbors who are dicks and never say "Hi" in return.  We've truly become a city of non-Midwestern imports who don't give a fuck about anyone else.

Anyhoo...lovely couple conversation:

Woman: Oh, sweetheart, are you okay?
Me: Yeah, I know gravel and rollerblading don't mix but I've made it through before.  I should have known better and taken it slow.
Man: Look, what a shame that you ruined a good pair of pants (referring to the destroyed left-knee of my pants)
Me: Oh, it's okay, I've had them forever, but they are my favorite.
Man: Well, at least you can replace them.  Can I help you up? 
Me: Thank you so much, you know most people wouldn't do anything
Man: That's because this city has lost its Midwestern-ness.  All these people come in from all over the world and don't know how to be, well, human like we do
Me: I agree.  I was born and raised in the plains and that's why I chose to move here.  I'm constantly surprised on how little anyone ever thinks of anyone here.
Man: It's a shame.  Wasn't like this since recently and we've been here for 45 years.
Me: Yeah
Woman: Are you okay to get home?  Do you have a car nearby or live nearby?
Me: Thank you but no.  I'm a little over a mile away.
Woman: Well, are you okay to get home?
Me: I bet this will feel like nothing until I get home.
Man: Well, pop a pill and few shots of something warm and you'll be set.
Me:  LOL  You're brilliant!
Man: Well, it looks like nothing is injured but your pride.
Me: Eh, pride, schmide!
Man/Woman:  LOL
Me:  Thanks again, have a great weekend.

It's true, you know.  I've never been one of those people who falls down, takes a nose dive, or whatever and gets embarrassed about it.  Really, I don't.  Seriously?  All those people in your cars sitting at the light watching the scene unfold wish you could rollerblade because it's such a good work out.  And by the way, no one's perfect!  Besides, the athlete in me kind of likes the big ass strawberry on my knee.  Call it a war wound.  There's pride in it.  I'm trying to do something others see as extreme, even though it really isn't.  I love it.  Ouch!  Maybe not at the moment, but yeah....it's pretty cool.  Damn, no skirts or dresses for weeks!

After checking to make sure all the body parts worked and the wounds were mostly superficial (I may have to pick gravel out of my hands later), I turned around and headed back home.  The knee hurt at first and then felt great.  I almost thought, for a moment, that I should turn around and take my battle-wounded ass up the lakefront to complete the mission I'd started.  Eh, go home.

Now, I am sitting with wounds washed and bandaged, having a glass, or five, or wine hoping the drugs will kick in soon.  It's really like road rash, but worse.  Gravel actually gets under your skin! Just as planned I will spend my Friday night catching up with Mad Men On Demand (don't judge! Everyone likes to stay in on weekend nights sometimes.  Shutup!).  What I really need is a boy toy, a nurse's aid to cook me dinner, make sure my wine glass is always full, kisses my boo-boos and helps me relax. 

Unfortunately, now, I'm on the injured reserve with no prospect of getting back in the game for the next five days.  Man, I was going to kick some major calories rollerblading this week.  As everyone else does in this town, I blame it all on the City of Chicago.  Hey, you think I gotta case?