“All at once the world can overwhelm me.
There’s almost nothing you could tell me that would ease my mind.
Which way will you run?
When it’s always all around you
And the feeling lost and found you again,
The feeling that we have no control?”
-Jack Johnson, All at Once
A few weeks ago, I started communicating with a guy I’ll call B, and we exchanged messages for probably two weeks, and I liked him, despite the unlikelihood of me picking him out of the bunch. He’s a few years younger, for one, and, perhaps more intimidating is the fact that he’s more attractive. He made the first move. I thought it was going well, and then he stopped. I was a little bummed, but it’s not like I can force someone to communicate.
Yesterday, he messaged me and said he was sorry, had gotten really sick and kind of receded until he felt better, and wants to keep getting to know me. Seems fair, because I don’t want to be bothered when I’m sick, either. We texted for 4 hours last night. He asked me out, and I said yes. We have plans for dinner on Sunday, since I have plans with Brandon and Grant on Friday and he has plans for Saturday.
I’m excited. And terrified.
Melissa asked what I was going to wear, and I have no idea. Because my body doesn’t make any damned sense anymore. I’ve lost so much weight and my body has changed so much fat into muscle (with a long way yet to go) that I am more awkward than a middle schooler. I don’t know what to wear anymore.
Two weeks ago, I met with my trainer for the first time. When we talked about what I do, and where I want to be, and he said “You’re doing everything right. Why am I here?” To which I honestly replied, “Because I’m bored with it and need someone to show me new things and help me keep at it. I’m only happy when I’m miserable.”
It’s like he was sent by Satan himself to give me the most horribly, wonderfully miserable routine possible. Balance work on the Bosu ball. Hill climbing. The pull up machine. Um. Do I look like I do pull ups? To paraphrase the great John Pinette: I don’t do “ups.” Up defies gravity, and gravity is a law. I obey the law!
But because when it comes to the gym, I am happy when I am miserable, and I do it. “Don’t go by what you weigh, go by how your clothes fit. You can weigh yourself once a week, if you feel like you have to,” he said.
Well, OK, Ryan, after one week, I’d GAINED three pounds, and after two, I’m back where I started but now my work jeans don’t stay up even with a belt and while my shoulders are starting to look like real shoulders, the increase in upper muscle means I have bat wings like never before. So now I can’t wear my magenta dress to the gay bar with the boys on Friday because it’s sleeveless.
And I have no clue about what to wear on Sunday for my date with B.
My body has been changing for 18 months now. It is exhausting. Totally and completely exhausting to constantly have to reevaluate how I feel about my body. It’s overwhelming to try to find continual acceptance of it. I’m forever noticing that my left thigh is thinner than my right, but my right ankle is thinner, and some days I have cheekbones but other days, my face seems puffier, and on and on.
Tonight, I am weary of it. I’m anxious about meeting B and disappointing him somehow, despite the fact that he has seen pictures. While freaking out at the gym, Brandon tried reassuring me that the things I don’t like, like my bat wings, are “just battle wounds.” He’s incredibly accurate, but it’s a war fought entirely with myself. The wounds are deeper because they are self-inflicted.
I’m trying to not be too anxious, but I’m losing that battle at the moment. Even though B texted me about two paragraphs into writing this. It’s both nice and more pressure.
Before I think myself in too many more circles, I’m going to leave this here, and text B and listen to Jack Johnson for a little while before I fall asleep. And try to be kind to myself.