Just One Reason Why I'm Single

Actual transcript of email conversation on OK Cupid – user names and actual names changed to protect whatever semblance of dignity I still cling to.

Tuesday, November 1st, 8:48 pm

HotStud6969: Hey beautiful! My name is Craig. How are you?

Thursday, November 4^th, 10:15 am

HotStud6969: You have a beautiful smile!

Sunday, November 6, 9:40 pm

HotStud6969: Do you remember me? We actually met in at a hotel way back. lol

Tuesday, November 8, 3:27 am

HotStud6969: Do you remember?

Thursday, November 10, 12:20 pm

Bambi666: Hello Craig.  Yes, I seem to remember you, although we didn’t meet at a hotel.  Meeting some random idiot off the internet at a hotel doesn’t seem like something I would do, then or now.  We met at a coffee shop.  You said you were a marine engineer, and you were in town for the night before heading off to meet a fishing boat the next morning for a few weeks of work.  You showed up for our coffee date drunk. I encouraged you to eat something, so you ordered a sandwich with ham, chicken and steak combined on a bagel. I chose to find all of this charming, probably because I liked your tattoos, and the way your chest looked under your t-shirt. I still feel shame. I gave you a lift to your hotel afterward and kissed you goodnight before driving off home.  The kiss was good, even though you tasted like Old MacDonald's Farm. Weeks later, we arranged to see one another again. We talked or texted every day for two weeks before making definitive plans. Then you stood me up, and ignored my text messages. Textbook ghosting. Months and months later, completely out of the blue, you send another message through this same garbage fire of a website. I answer, probably due in part to whatever instincts make characters in horror movies want to check the basement. You let me know you’re in town for a couple of days, and "really just wanting to bang,"  For some reason, you thought I would be the girl to help you out with that.  I politely declined.  So yes…I remember well.

Thursday, November 10, 12:25 pm

HotStud6969: So does this mean you don’t want to get a drink?

Thursday, November 10, 12:26 pm

Bambi666: Correct, Craig. I don't want to get a drink.

Please stop helping.

Advice, suggestions and observations from people I trust and occasionally random strangers on how and what I should be doing with my life are often welcome.

Wise counsel like: your hair is on fire, or the cat was drinking out of your water glass, he’s never going to divorce his wife, the five second rule doesn’t count in a bathroom even if it’s a cookie, or you can see your nipples through that T-shirt – I take it all to heart.

Without the smarter, more observant people in my life who love me enough to make me put down the bathroom cookie – I’m not sure where I’d be.  You know, apart from hairless with my nipples showing.

However, there are some nuggets of advice that are both ubiquitous and useful as asbestos tampons. Yes, it seems they could be absorbent…but at what cost? 

The following “helpful” suggestions are the asbestos tampons of wise counsel – better in theory and needing to be stopped.

Have you thought about volunteering?

Inevitably, this is the very first response when I say I’m having trouble meeting people in my new city. 

What I’m really saying is that I’m lonely, and could use some more social connections.  

What I’m not saying is, I’m lonely, and giving up my precious free time outside of full-time paid work to perform hours of unpaid work could be the solution I’m looking for.  Yet, that seems to be what people hear. 

Look...I’ve worked in non-profits for the majority of my career spanning close to 20 years, which seems impossible given my preference for believing I’m only 29. Volunteers are amazing.  They are the backbone and unsung heroes of every community and after managing incredible teams of volunteers for my entire career and as a newly discovered old person, I can honestly say I’m grateful and in awe of their generosity.

What I can’t say however, is why people think volunteering is a fast-track to building a social life or support structure.   

Naturally, it depends on the volunteer opening.  If I were a different person with wholesome interests like gardening, or Jesus or helping children, maybe my passions would align with more volunteer opportunities.  As it stands I’m a morally questionable, child-hating serial killer of plants, so suitable volunteer activities are…limited.

It seems anybody asking this question has this idea of volunteering as some sort of social jamboree, where bonds are formed over shared altruism and large groups of chatty, fun people agree to go to lunch and hang out after performing set hours of unpaid work. 

It also seems anybody asking if I’ve ever thought about volunteering has never actually volunteered.

If they ever had, they might know that once I submit a lengthy application to volunteer, a criminal records check, a resume and three professional references I’m most likely to be put in a room by myself to seal envelopes, sort donations, tidy storerooms or if I’ve sat through an evening or weekend orientation, I might get to work answering the phone.  Or, because many non-profit agencies are so cash-strapped they can no longer afford physical headquarters, I might be making calls or stuffing envelopes alone in my own home.

These are all needed and necessary activities, but not a single one of them is likely to lead to me making a desperately needed local friend who can help me prevent fire-related hair loss, or convince me he’s REALLY not going to ever leave his wife.

Speaking of all things fire-related, if volunteers are needed in the creation of next year’s charitable Firefighter’s Calendar however…I’ll do it, even though it goes against everything I just said.  I won’t enjoy it – I put this out there only because I’m a good person, deep inside. Like, really deep inside.  And because I care.  About fire-related things. 

You should join a gym!

Also said most often as advice on how to meet new people. And they’re right – I really SHOULD join a gym, if only because when I punch them in their clown hole, I don’t want to pull a muscle.

Gyms are not typically social places.  People want to get in, get out and enjoy an hour or two just for themselves, by themselves.  I get that. When I’m at a gym I don’t want to talk to people.  I’m there to regret every carbohydrate I’ve ever eaten, pray I don’t fart in yoga class and wonder if my crotch is sweating more on average than anybody else’s and if so, why.  I don’t think I’m alone in this – it’s one reason everybody is wearing headphones.  

You should date against your type.

Soooo…if I want a guy who makes me laugh, I should look for someone with no discernible sense of humour at all? If I like a man who’s intelligent and can carry on a conversation, I should give it up for a dude with the IQ of patio furniture? If a guy with confidence and a bit of swagger has always flipped my skirt up, maybe I should keep my damned skirt down and go for more of a dish-rag? Maybe a guy who’s terrible in bed? Or a guy with a micro-penis? Maybe no penis at all? Maybe a woman?

I’m frequently indecisive, it’s true.  I recently spent 20 minutes in a Wal-Mart aisle trying to decide on peanut butter.  I have a favourite brand of toilet paper, but buy whatever mascara is on sale – proof perhaps that I’m naturally more discerning about what comes near my va-jay.  It’s often the only thing I’m sure about. 

I hope that when friends tell me I should look for the opposite of my type, they’re really saying that I should look for somebody who doesn’t cause me pain. Somebody better. Anybody who isn’t the guy I currently pine for. Or any guy I’ve ever pined for.

But that’s not what I hear.

I hear friends telling me my standards are too high.  That whatever virtues I seek in a partner, no matter how reasonable or valued those qualities may be, even in their own relationships – they’re above my station.  That I’m not deserving of the same joys or the same attractions that form the foundations of other relationships without question. That there's something about me that just isn't good enough, so I have to settle - not just compromise, because whatever it is I want, I’m not going to get. 

Can we at least agree he could be good in bed though…?  Just let me have one small standard. 

It’ll happen when you’re not looking for it!

I like to imagine this little gem being used for anything other than wanting to find a romantic partner. 

If I’m hungry, nobody would say food will come to me only when I’m not looking.  It might be because I get dangerously hangry when food-deprived and people are afraid to confront me or even make eye contact, but it’s highly unlikely I’d be lying there, belly bloated with starvation, flies around my eyes, and some idiot suggesting if I just stop wanting food, food will appear.

Maybe I need to find a new job.  It’s generally understood that not looking for a new job if needing a new job is a terrible way to find a new job.  And yet, if I say I’d really like to not be single anymore, there’s a veritable Greek chorus (of mostly smug marrieds) preaching that the best way to find a partner is to not look for one at all.

On the plus side, at least they’re not telling me to join a gym.

Miss me?

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything, and there’s quite a bit I could cover.  There’s the time I lost my job due to physical unattractiveness, my one and only marriage proposal (revoked), the last several years I spent saving lives, my online stalker and the time I reluctantly had my house cleaned by a naked woman.  Obviously, I’ve been busy. 

However, due to popular demand – I’m back.  And by popular demand I mean one person vehemently complaining (hi CH!) and she was likely drunk on pina coladas at the time.  So, this is for her.

This past year I took every single motivational quote I’ve ever saved in Pinterest much too closely to heart and moved away from everything I’ve ever loved in pursuit of a better career, or at least a great deal of distance between me and an emotionally abusive boss. 

While I am working in a higher-paying job that is less likely to kill me both figuratively and literally than my last, I’m considering an entirely new side career – providing advice to idiot men on online dating sites. 

Yes, I’m online dating again, an attempt to be more outgoing only marginally more satisfying than relying daily on the staff at the Tim Horton’s drive-through for what is often my only social interaction. 

This potential side-career is conflicting.  Partly because I’m not sure men would have the good sense to realize when they’re in need of help, and partly because I wouldn’t want to eliminate fair warning for other women.

I also wouldn’t want to pick on individuals – we’re all just doing our best, dammit. Instead, I would focus on particularly egregious…groups.  Like right now, as below.

The One-Nipple Wonders

Hi! It was nice to see you making an effort with your profile and getting creative! The shirtless bathroom mirror pic has been overdone to death, and I appreciate your effort to pivot boldly toward something different – holding up your shirt to expose just one nipple.

It intrigues me. It makes me think.  Is there something special about that particular nipple? Does it do…something? Do you even have a matching set, or are you just really proud of the one on the right?

It’s tasteful.  In my long, harrowing and filled with suffering online dating experience, men who post pics showing both nipples are too abrupt. Right away, they’re sending messages like, NSA? DTF? Or using actual words, wanna fuck?

Women like a bit of nuance. Does he just want NSA? Or is it 50/50?  With two nipples I’m sure of where I stand, but by coyly only showing one nipple – I’m thrown off my game.

And I like it…but only if it does something special.

The Proud Fathers

Oh heeey. Oh, look at that! So many cute photos of you and all your children! Seriously, how many children are in these photos? What are you, some kind of cult leader? Who has this many kids all under the age of five?? Never mind – you’re virile! 

There’s probably not even that many children, but I can’t tell them apart very well.  My eyes just kind of glaze over and then I get distracted wondering if I remembered to take my pill.  Did I? Pretty sure I did.  God I hope I did. 

I see now it says right there in your write-up – three kids.  They’re your biggest priority, blah blah, can’t live without them, blah, love spending time with them…blah.

Look. I get the impression you strongly feel these kids are a selling feature. Why else would your kids’ faces be appearing anywhere on a dating app? Unlike single mothers who are often put on the defensive about their children, you seem to feel women will love this shit.

Maybe some do.  And then there are those of us whose ovaries are cold, blackened and dead like our souls. Kidding! They’re not actually cold.  That would be physically uncomfortable.

Not every woman wants children.  Some women don’t want their own children, and they surely as fuck will not want somebody else’s, so quit it with this shit.

However, if you wanted to show me pictures of you cuddling puppies, I’ll be over here taking off my clothes.

The Wild Ones

Hello there! Congratulations on displaying a profile picture that shows your face and not immediately asking if I’d be up for a threesome.  These are sad, desperate times we live in but enjoy the accolades nonetheless.

Your photo didn’t make my skin crawl so let’s see what we have in common! I see that your interests include, “hanging out,” and “Netflix.”

Ummm…

Dude.

This is default existing for most people fortunate enough to live in North America.  It’s like saying your hobbies include respiration and digesting food.  Everybody does these things all of the time. 

Nobody needs to talk about it.

This is your chance to make yourself sound exciting.  Woo me a little. I park really far away from the mall when I go shopping so I say my interests include hiking.  See how this works?  

If you can’t even pretend to be interesting, there’s very little hope you’ll ever achieve actual interesting. 

Find a motherfucking hobby.

The Pollies

Jesus Christ.  Yes, I know what polyamorous means, thanks for asking. It’s not condescending at all that you would double-check to make sure I know what it means, because it is a long word with a shit-ton of vowels, so it’s possible I’d never heard of it and basic illiteracy prevented me from answering your first three messages. Or fear of vowels. 

No other possible reason.

How delightful your “wonderful loving primary partner” is totally OK with you seeking “fun options!” When I do set out to be an option for somebody separate from their wonderful and loving primary partner, my biggest priority would be making sure she was happy too. You’d be happy, she’d be happy and I’d be a fun option. Polyamory is awesome!

Yes, I’ve actually read about polyamory, separate from simply knowing what it means.  It’s not condescending at all that you would assume I’m making assumptions based on something I don’t understand and this lack of understanding prevented me from answering now four messages in a row.

I’m glad it’s working for you, and I especially hope it’s working for your “primary partner.” I hope she’s getting hers.  I can’t think of a single reason why she’d need some sort of break from you otherwise, so I hope this arrangement works wonders for you both.  Only, it never worked out for me.

Holy shit, what did I just say?? Why yes, I know all about polyamory after being the fun option for close to ten years if you round up.  And it hurt me.  It hurts me still. 

Find another fucking  fun option and don’t message me again.

Things I Have Learned in 2013 - Part 1

To be clear, I learned some important new things in late 2012, but was too preoccupied eating everything that wasn't nailed down over Christmas, then coming down with the flu, then watching approximately 18 hours of the Shawshank Redemption since it was playing on multiple TV channels over several days, then spilling ginger ale on my goddamned iPhone in a fever induced flail, which I don't recommend ever doing, then missing New Year's Eve because I was still embedded in my couch, clutching a bucket, and watching the last half of the Shawshank Redemption.  Again.

In short, I was busy.  Due to my catching the flu, a few things I learned late in 2012 have only been fully considered in 2013, now that I'm no longer sprawled on death's doormat. 

So in no particular order...

Bitches be crazy.

Starting with my Naturopath, who I just fired.  From September to December, I paid her office a considerable amount of money.  I desperately need and want to lose weight, and she was adamant she could help me. 

She placed me on a very strict dietary program, which she swore was tailored for my needs, and a virtual silver bullet for weight loss in the "metabolically resistant."

The diet proved to be a bullet alright, only not for weight loss.  At an excessively curvaceous 5'11 tall, I was getting by on 300-400 calories a day - only by December I had stopped getting by at all. 

I'd feel dizzy and sick at the gym, and instead of steadily increasing weights and repetitions, my stupidly hot personal trainer recorded several days where I actually regressed. 

Going to the gym began to feel like punishment for the teaspoon of peanut butter I'd been unable to stop myself from guiltily shoving into my mouth the night before, instead of an activity I once enjoyed. My mood was tanking. I'd feel sick instead of hungry all the time, and sicker still when I wolfed down whatever half-servings I was permitted.

When I complained that the inflexibility of the program didn't seem sustainable, or that I missed having a social life, or that I could no longer afford the "medical food" prescribed as an integral part of the weight loss program and conveniently available for purchase at her office, she would call into question my commitment to my health. If I wasn't ready or willing to make the sacrifices, then I wasn't ready to lose the weight. 

However, she realized a little compromise might have to be made, especially ahead of the holiday season.  The program was perfectly sustainable, and I could even have dessert if I wanted to on occasion. 

For example, if I wanted to have half of a nanaimo bar, all I'd have to do is spend an hour at the gym working it off the next day, and there would be no issue.

If that wasn't enough sweets for me, I could even indulge in some chocolate!  She suggested a brand of organic dark chocolate, made locally on one of the gulf islands.  Each small bar is six squares, and once a week, I could treat myself and have two squares of chocolate.

One half of a nanaimo bar. A whole two squares of chocolate.  Once a week.

This is when I realized - bitch is crazy.

Fat shame me, starve me, make me measure my lettuce and expect me to work out every day on less caloric energy than stored in a single Tic-Tac, and as long as I have hope that I will fit into smaller pants before I hit menopause, I will keep going.

Mess with everything I hold sacred about dessert however, and I will strike you down.

When is half a nanaimo bar ever classified as a full dessert??  If the size of the dessert in question measures smaller than the average amount of delicious goodness I might accidentally drop down my cleavage while eating a normal serving - it's not dessert.

Also, I don't care how organic, expensive, or dark and rich two squares of chocolate might be.  I don't care that the chocolate was made on a gulf island, likely chanted over by hippies and stirred with a unicorn horn given how pricey this particular brand is to buy - two squares a week is less than the amount of chocolate I might accidentally absorb through my skin while walking by a Purdy's on a hot summer day. 

So in other words, fuck you Naturopath. 

I stopped the diet, and started eating like a normal person again through Christmas.  As of last week, I've cut down my sugar and carbs, and we'll see what happens when I weigh myself next.  I may weep, or I may be pleasantly surprised - but at least I'm no longer sick and dizzy.

I'm averaging triple the daily calories I was eating in the months before Christmas, and in the last week alone, my stupidly hot personal trainer has seen enough improvement in my strength and balance that he's revamping my whole program. 

(He's really pumped, because apparently we now get to do "a lot more fun things!" Somehow, I sense the fun things he's picturing us doing together are likely drastically different than the fun things I'm always picturing us doing together, but he's sweet nonetheless for being so excited at my sudden and drastic progress.) 

Starving myself cut down my strength, but it did very little to cut back my weight.  In nearly four months on the program, I lost only nine pounds.  Near the end, my weight had actually started to creep back up. 

Despite sticking obsessively to the plan, I started gaining a half to a full pound a week - results the Naturopath attributed to the extra teaspoon or two of peanut butter I admitted to eating a week, just to stop my hands from shaking.

I'm not giving up my efforts to be healthier, and I'm not crazy for trying.  I was crazy however, for thinking I could do it without food.  And if anybody would like to split a dessert some time - get your own, or I will stab your goddamned hand with a fork. 

Wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow...

My back went out again.  Saying that one of your most important body parts just went out, like it was quickly going to grab a coffee or check the mail is probably one of the most misleading ways to describe something so utterly disheartening.

The list of things I can't do right now is long, and includes walking upright, sleeping, bending over to shave my legs and anything Gangnam Style.

Fortunately, shaving my legs won't be necessary.  Possibly ever.  In the space of two days, I've become what I've always feared most - an Old Maid. 

(To be fair, I've also always feared becoming shipwrecked, naked in public, burned at the stake and a political Conservative.  I have many fears, but becoming an Old Maid happened to occur first.  Frankly, it could have easily been a toss up between shipwrecked and naked in public given that I live on an island and give increasingly fewer fucks about what I'm wearing. Luckily, there's still time.)

My back going out again is actually the most positive aspect of this whole sordid story.  Even though it's bad, it's not as bad as it was the first time.  I'm able to work, sit on a toilet long enough to get things done and I haven't fallen over yet.  These are all vast improvements over the last time this happened.  Clearly, months of going to the gym is helping my body cope a little better.

In fact, I'm still going to the gym.  My stupidly hot personal trainer devised a new program for me that we can do while we wait for my spine to unclench. 

It's painful and embarrassing to be surrounded by hard bodies pumping serious iron while I bust into a sweat just trying to lift a leg up and down, but the other day my trainer lifted up his t-shirt to his chest to show me some sort of surgical scar, and I swear to God my back very nearly healed itself in that instant.

It's true. I've developed a very sad and pitiful crush on my personal trainer, which is only in keeping with my Old Maid status.  He's gorgeous, and so nice to me it nearly makes me cry.  Granted, I'm paying him to be nice, but it's still alarming that I would fall for a guy simply because he's kind to me.  Alarming, but not surprising.

A friend of mine asked if I would pay him to sleep with me too should that option arise, and the answer is OH MY GOD.  FUCK YES.  As an Old Maid, I have no shame. If I have to pay for a once in a lifetime opportunity such as that, it would be money well spent - the cat hoard will just have to go without name-brand food for a while. 

Likely, it would take a lot of money however.  Should I ever get the impression that that's an option, expect to see a link to my PayPal account on this site.  Bitches better cough up.

Deviant fantasies about my personal trainer aside, it's the reality of my current love life, or what once passed for a love life, that have pushed me over the edge from spinster-curious to full-fledged vaginal cobwebs.

Alex is a father now.  I'm not sure why that's still so surprising to me, since popping out a kid is usually the expected outcome following nine months of pregnancy.  It's not like I thought she was just constipated.

I found out on Facebook.  I didn't think he'd step out in the middle of the eight hour labour just to text me it was happening, but I was kind of curious whether I'd hear about it directly from him at any point.  So far, still waiting.

There on his profile page, was the deliriously happy couple staring lovingly into each other's eyes over top what I could only determine to be an aggressively swaddled sun-dried tomato.  It was the standard post-delivery hospital shot that's a requirement of giving birth in North America. 

A few things stood out.  First off, she had just been through eight hours worth of labour, and I can promise you, she looked so much better in that photo than I do right this minute.  In fact, every photo I've ever seen of her on Facebook is stunning. (Yes, I like to snoop on occasion.  Let's not judge.) 

It's to the point where numerous people comment to congratulate Alex on how jaw-droppingly beautiful his girlfriend is. I wonder what the comments would have looked like if I had ever been his girlfriend.  "Wow - way to go Alex!  She's really...tall."

The second thing that stood out was how happy he looked.  How happy they both looked.  

I studied everything in that picture.  His hand on her back.  Her cheek against his.  He'd been there with her and for her the entire time, and it showed.  What is it about her (besides being beautiful) that could make a guy want to be there with her? That makes THAT guy want to be with her? Not just through labour, but every day before and after?

Thankfully, after a day spent pointlessly moping, I was sure I had the solution to ease my pain.  A few hours scheduled with the firefighter.

The firefighter.  A man I once described as the vagina whisperer. The only guy who could make me forget all the things I'm missing out on, mostly because he makes me forget my own name.

Only...after two hours of having him naked in my bed...I was still fully dressed. 

He didn't kiss me. He didn't touch me. I touched him plenty, but he didn't touch me.  Not even by accident. Not with any part of his entire body. 

Sitting next to a stranger on a bus will get you more physical contact than he engaged in with me that entire encounter.  I mean...do I have pieces left behind??

Right up until he had to leave, I was waiting for something to happen.  Anything.  A peck on the cheek?  A  high-five when he was all done? 

Nothing.

It's not as though I'm a stranger to selfish douche bags.  In fact, the firefighter was once a revelation simply because he wasn't a selfish douche bag.  However, even the most selfish of losers in the sack has never taken great pains to make sure his arm doesn't accidentally brush against mine.  Which is what he did. Several times.

A few explanations as to what might be happening:

- I'm the world's dumbest and therefore poorest prostitute.
- I'm one of India's Untouchables, and he's only just become religious. And Hindu.
- Pieces left behind.
- My weight gain disgusts him. He'd rather not look at me, let alone risk making it all jiggle.
- His wife has drafted a few new rules and boundaries, and nobody's shared these with me.
- He's a piece of shit, and I'm a fucking moron.

My friends often seem to think that I don't know that I deserve any better when it comes to men and relationships.  They think I settle for scraps, because I don't know they're scraps. 

The truth is, I know it.  I know I deserve better. I know that what I accept in my life is pretty much laughable.  I don't accept it because I don't know it's pathetic.

This however, is even more (or less) than I can put up with. Now that the scraps have even run out, it's Old Maid all the way.

Old Maids don't expect very much, so if they lose what little they have, it's no big deal.  Old Maids are used to being entirely on their own, and not needing anybody else for anything.  Old Maids are long past giving a single fuck.

I'm actually looking forward to the conversation I'm about to have as an Old Maid with the firefighter. After all, it's not like I'm the one with anything left to lose.   

 

Curiosity Killed the Catty

I might be an awful person.

The other day, I was leaning on the CLOSE button in an elevator, pretending not to see the woman with the SUV Heavy Artillery Anti-Aircraft Assault Stroller and screaming progeny barrelling my way.  The doors closed just in time, but the experience got me thinking.

No, I do not feel bad deliberately closing the elevator doors on Mommy and whatever was making that godawful piercing shriek - 30 seconds of not losing my mind in an elevator should not be too much to ask. 

I also feel pretty good about going out of my way to park in Expectant Mother parking spots when grocery shopping or visiting Wal-Mart.  First off, how the fuck does anybody know I'm not pregnant?  Second of all, I've had sex before too, and never expected preferential parking afterward as a result.  A parade perhaps, given that it might have been a while in between encounters, but not special parking.

(Clearly, I may be experiencing some misplaced anger toward pregnant people.  Overall, I think I've handled Alex's impending baby-daddy status very well.  Maybe not so much on the day he told me, but it had been a while since I'd thrown up for any reason, so barfing up breakfast immediately afterward wasn't a big deal.  It's important to keep your stomach on its toes anyway - almost like a fire drill for the esophagus.)

Since then, I'm handling it so well, I've even gone on Facebook to see if there are any photos of the happy couple and impending...belly.  Normally, I avoid looking at his photos for the same reasons most people avoid looking at car accidents, but I'm handling things very well, so I thought I might verify that this was really happening. 

And it is. 

Some say growing new life is miraculous.  Particularly for her, who is clearly pregnant, but still appears less pregnant in a tight dress than I do.  She seems to be one of those magical pregnant women whose boobs are bigger, belly is perfectly round, but the rest of her body remains size zero.  I've been more dramatically constipated than this woman is pregnant.  And yes, I just said pregnant five times in one paragraph, and I'm not changing it.  She looks exultantly happy in every photo.  Alex looks very proud.

More than one person has asked me what I'm going to do about this situation.  Frankly, I was unaware that there was anything to be done.  I had no part in this happening, I have no part in whatever happens now. 

What I suppose I'm really being asked is whether I'm finally going to stop talking to him.  This would seem the healthiest option...and yet...clearly more than one person doesn't know me very well.

The fact is, I'm curious. Curiosity can be a good thing, and it can also mean getting your head stuck in a hole or sitting in an ER with something in your ass that has no place ever being that close to a human colon.  It's really only the outcome that determines whether curiosity is positive or negative.

Alex doesn't seem to think his life is about to change in any significant way.  He still wants to know when I'm coming for a visit, as if he'll still have the luxury of time and energy to leave the house and lie about where he's going with a kid around.

When I suggested the logistics of us seeing each other again are probably about to become much more difficult to work around for at least the next 20 years, he didn't share the same concerns. 

"This is me we're talking about, and I'll find a way to see you," was his exact response.

This is indeed, Alex we're talking about.  Alex, who loves to play hockey and ski every weekend in the winter.  Alex, who loves to golf and spend days and nights on the lake in the summer.  Alex, who likes his house looking like a show home, and whose truck is so pristine it still has new car smell after four years.  Alex, who is too embarrassed to ever buy toilet paper in public for fear the cashier will picture him on the toilet.  Alex, who has had more sex than the entire Roman Empire.  Alex, who despite his promiscuity, secretly has one of the most crippling obsessive-compulsive germ phobias I've ever seen.  Alex, who once brought an entire bottle of bleach to the five-star hotel I was staying in because I said the room had a jacuzzi tub and I wanted to take a bath with him.  Alex, who spent an hour scrubbing that bath tub until his hands were raw just so he could sit in it with me without having a panic attack.  Alex, who is about to be introduced to life with a baby.

And so I'm curious as to how this all plays out.  Partly because I'm an awful person, and partly because I'm not.  I  love him, I want him to be happy, and he always said he eventually wanted kids.

Eventually is here, and I'm excited for how much he is going to love that little yard ape.  And if it turns out the kid has his eyes, I could even love it too. 

Before I walk away from him, which I will do eventually, likely in slow motion with something exploding in the background and a wind-machine blowing my hair about fetchingly, I want to know what happens next. 

I want to know Alex as a father.  I want to know if his life really changes, and what he'll do if it does.  I want to know whether he's suddenly OK with germs after the first diaper blow-out, or whether he burns his house down and bleaches the remaining soil.

Yeah - I might be an awful person. 

Turducken, maybe?

"You are not a turkey loaf."

In addition to everything else my new personal trainer puts up with, patiently having to explain to me that I have the same muscle and bone framework as every other human being, and that I'm not missing key components such as entire muscle groups, has got to be the most exasperating.

While it's true that I have muscle areas that are extremely difficult for me to isolate, this does not mean they don't exist.  Me trying to explain my physiology by comparing myself to a boneless turkey roast didn't help my case any further, although to be fair, I said I was a roast and not a loaf.  A loaf would be ridiculous.

After so many months through last winter of near immobility, a number of my muscles just don't fire normally.  This can actually be great, because my trainer will then "show" me exactly what muscles are supposed to be contracting by putting my hand on his arm, leg, or back. 

I don't care that my trainer is 21 years old, adorably puppy like and I'm neither of those things - this is delightful.

Even though my trainer has a girlfriend that he talks about often and sweetly, he and I are in a long-term committed relationship.  Yes, I'm paying him a lot of money to be in this relationship, but me having to pay for a man over top of me so I can lay there and pant has always been kind of inevitable. 

I see him for three hours a week, which is more than I see any of my friends.  While it's not a sexual or romantic relationship, he knows when I'm having a bad day, haven't shaved my legs, and have left the house with mismatched socks.  Basically, he's probably the closest person to me these days.

He is also arguably one of the best looking guys I've ever seen in real life, but it's hard to be attracted to him when he looks like that, and I end each of our "dates" looking like a spandex clad tsunami victim. 

A month or so ago I was diagnosed with a thyroid problem.  The problem being, my thyroid had quit this bitch.  When a thyroid works over time, it's hard to keep weight on.  When it refuses to do anything at all, it's a whole other world of misery.

Even while doing Weight Watchers, I was gaining three to four pounds a week for months on end. I'm sure the Weight Watchers corporation collectively heaved a sigh of relief when I gave up and stopped going to meetings, because I must have really been fucking up their numbers.

Since that diagnosis, I started seeing a Naturopath.  She's devised a new diet and supplement regiment, and while it's very strict and low-calorie --  it's working.  In one month, I'm down nine pounds.  This is progress.

Five days a week, I'm in the gym.  Three of those five days a week, I'm there once in the morning and once at night.  Most of my sessions are cardio, except for the three hours my trainer spends a week trying to convince me I'm not a turkey loaf. 

I can honestly say I've never worked harder at anything in my life.  My days are focused on my eating schedule and going to the gym.  That's it.  Oh, and texting people.  Texting has replaced my social life, which only makes sense, since it long ago replaced my sex life.  My phone gets more action than I do, and I'm not just a little bit concerned it's contracted chlamydia. 

The isolation factor in doing what I'm doing may actually be the most difficult part about it.   Few people understand how important it is to me, and the sacrifices I'm willing to make. No, I won't go to brunch.  No, I don't want to drink. No, I can't skip it just for a day.  No, I don't want to go to Costco just to eat the samples.

With every pound lost, I feel a little bit more like me, which means I'm not so much fighting to get my health back, as I am fighting for my life. 

And that has to be worth a few free samples at Costco.