My Story, Yours Too.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
How Much Tonnage Makes for a Few Extra Pounds?
Since the double-chinner fiasco (see pre-BDFH Hell), I just have one large report for you, dear reader. It goes like this: a guy sent me an "I'm interested" message. This is usually not a big deal, but in this case, it's rather massive. See, the dude describes his body type as "a few extra pounds." We all know what that means. Right ladies?
I'm not trying to be mean. It just comes naturally. I do have a few extra pounds myself -- in my belly. And under each arm. And another few are doing just fine hanging out on each upper leg. Plus, I'm the first to admit I have issues. Oh, stop nodding your heads in agreement and scanning through your memory banks to recall the names of all those mental health disorders you learned about in Psych. class. I'm merely talking about my chocolate addiction!
Being a 40-something'er American (i.e., food-obsessed) woman, a few body parts started drooping 1/2 inch toward the earth's center at 12:01am the morning of my 40th birthday. These parts drop again 1/3 inch (this time, toward China) at 6 month intervals thereafter. Sorry to warn you younger gals out there, but it's best to emotionally prepare for the trauma. Guys, we all know that once you hit 30, the fat cells gravitate to (1) your gut and (2) your gut. Right? Let's keep it real and restrained by a belt fastened on the last notch. Please!
So this is all to say that I'm no more shallow than the next Beauty Pageant Winner. I'm also a very small person, and thus not interested in a man who defines himself on-line as having "a few extra pounds." A review of his pictures indicates that he has a rather broad, shall we say, definition of "a few."
And so I became horrified upon envisioning our dating life. I could see us taking a leisurely walk along the main drag of this neighborhood, passing your standard cafes, eateries, and gift shops. I would, however, be 3 yards ahead of him, wearing a big whistle around my neck and carrying a bullhorn. When we'd come close to any pedestrians, I'd whistle 3 times, then shout into the blowhorn: "Make way, everybody! Wide load coming through! Wide load coming through!" Women, children, and poodles would throw up their arms, screech, and flee the scene. It's just not a very romantic vision. You know?
So I've fat out, I mean flat out, decided to avoid the ones who claim to have a few extra pounds. That fat lie tips the scales for this gal.