Why I Should Be 500 lbs... (or, Chubby Girls Can Find Boyfriends Too)

I thought about writing another dating post, but then I realized that it was time to write about something I really enjoy: food.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I really like food.

I will eat anything, anywhere, at any time.

In fact, I like food so much that I just bought a Kate Spade donut sweatshirt (but it's pretty freakin' adorable, so that too).

But, it's funny, even though I sometimes (all the time) complain about my body, I refuse to diet.  I'm not sure why, but maybe the thought of taking something away that I enjoy is, like, the worst idea ever.  Even though I can't eat as much as I used to (because my body will burst into millions of tiny pieces), I still require a meal that has, at least, two courses and, let me just say, a salad will never satisfy me the way a burger can.

I like to think this borderline obsession with food has become a quirk of mine.  Sitting at a Ukrainian restaurant with my new Polish friend, he commented how cute it was that I loved food so much.  Of course, this was after I mentioned that I would eat an entire pie if given the chance.  Are girls really that afraid to talk about food these days in a gluttonous manner?  And, in a culture filled with weight anxiety, has this actually become a treat to the ears?

And I'm not talking about food fetishes (I like food, but not thaaaaat much).  In a strange way, food, for me, is a real bonding experience.  It's the one subject I can openly talk about and only sound halfway ridiculous while doing it.  You can share it, make it together, eat it together, etc...  I just really enjoy the social aspect of it (unless I lock myself in my room and eat Chinese all by myself while watching "Say Anything").  And everyone understands it, unlike when I go off on fashion things. 

I'm also not a food snob.  I'll eat anything from a gourmet meal to street meat, no fucks given.  But I also have issues savouring things that are supposed to be savoured.  I eat quickly, mostly because I'm super hungry and/or excited.  I label this as an "issue" because, at a dinner party, who are you supposed to talk to when you've finished and everyone else is still eating?  You realize not just that you're more than a fast eater, you are also unskilled at understanding people with food stuffed in their mouths.  Subtitles extra.

I don't think a good meal is a waste of money (even if it does end up in the porcelain palace a couple of hours later).  In fact, there is nothing better than a good meal, in my opinion (besides shoes and maaaaaybe sex).  If done right, a good meal can leave you in a wonderful, euphoric state (granted, this depends on what sort of pants you wear).  A good meal is something you talk about for years to come, to anyone who will listen.

I've started playing a game with people, asking what they would order for their last meal before they're executed and, it's funny, so many people, including myself, go back to a homemade dish.  Food creates nostalgia, it has the power to bring people together and, in some cases, it even comforts.

While this might not be "the food for thought" you were looking for, I can tell you this...

I love food and I ain't giving no fucks if you try to tell me otherwise.

I know what you are, but what am I?

Write... delete... write... delete...

How do you write a dating post without sounding like fabulous lunatic, Carrie Bradshaw?

While this will hardly be my only post on the subject, and trust me, there will be many documenting my adventures and misadventures (there are a lot of those fuckers), I want to develop a foundation of sorts for what I'm dealing with here.  I want you, the reader (if there are any), to understand where I'm coming from, what I'm feeling and why I do the shit I do.

Think of this as a sort of prologue.

I'll admit it.  I've become a serial dater.  It just kind of happened.  I discovered the magic of online dating and used it as a man-buffet.  At first, for entertainment.  And then, I realized my reasons for doing this ran much deeper than a free meal and good make-out sesh.  I wasn't looking for anything serious because, let's face it, when I started this hobby, I was still pretty fragile (from events that will remain unwritten until I feel like I can do so properly, which I'm not sure I ever can).  Meeting these different men wasn't so much about finding a "mate" as it was about reworking myself.  I had fallen apart and needed a way to piece myself back together, sort out who I was.

This sounds awful, depending on men to make myself feel whole again.  I totally realize that.  But, honestly, I feel like it's much more complicated than it looks.  Let me explain.

1) As I said before, I was not looking for a serious relationship, but I also wasn't just looking for a fuck-buddy either.  I wanted a friend.  Lots of friends.  I wanted to keep myself busy with all of these friends.  Going back home after being away for nearly six years... I had very few friends left in the city.  Except for my bestie and a few old high school buddies that I saw once or twice, I had no one.  And, in a city like Montreal, making friends after being gone for six years doesn't come easy, especially when you've changed and so many have stayed the same.

I knew that if I didn't entertain myself somehow, I would go crazy.  I would sit and think of everything that happened and be sad and hurt and never recover because I would spend the whole summer wallowing in self-pity and M&M's.  And that happened often.  But with these new suitors to grab food, drinks, movies, etc... with when my bestie was occupied (or sick of my moping), I distracted myself.  A distraction that came with little commitment and, usually, a fun activity (or sexy times).

2) No one ever turned down a compliment.  As someone who had suffered a blow to whatever self-esteem, self-respect, self-anything they had, I needed to try and understand what was so great about myself.  And when you receive a flood of invitations from potential suitors, using positive words that you hadn't heard in about 6 months, you latch on to the idea that someone, out there, might appreciate you for whatever reason.

As someone who struggles to take a compliment, receiving a flood of them from strangers (or eventually lovers...) is confusing and kind of nice.  The quick and easy confidence boost I needed to realize that I was still everything that I thought I wasn't.  As I said before, this sounds kind of bad, but sometimes, in a dark place, you take what you can get and go with it.  My therapist had no complaints with my logic, fyi.

3)  I was lost.  I didn't really know who I was anymore so I felt that this was a good opportunity to test out different facets of myself.  Interacting with these guys, who had no idea about what I was, what I am and what I wanted to be... it almost acted as a trial run for what aspects of myself worked best.  There were remnants of me in each meeting, each action, but I had a chance to start fresh in a subtle way.  Be the person that faded away, but better.

I feel like testing the waters on my "multiple personalities" has really helped me heal... in a strange way.  I'm no Frankenstein's monster, stitched together with coarse thread and feelings, but I feel like through piecing together my trials and tribulations, I've become someone I can tolerate again.

(Side note: I really wanted to order Chinese while writing this post.  Like right now.)

As I continue to date in New York, the blows and the successes haven't gotten easier.  I still have trouble accepting rejection as a "it's them, not you" scenario, I still struggle with how to sum up my reasoning for online dating (because sometimes "man-buffet" doesn't really cut it) when asked and, more recently, I have trouble approaching my past with my present and potential future.  But, what I do know, is that you have to roll with the punches and use each situation to your advantage.  Living in the past won't help, but being afraid of the future doesn't do much either. 

How To Survive Your First Gala

So, I attended my first gala event on Tuesday night, as an "assistant" to my photographer friend.

Let me tell you...

I have never seen so many "Glamazons" in my life.  I felt like a hobbit (in heels).  It was glorious and depressing.

Everyone was dressed to the nines.  Again, even though I was put together and wore tights, I still felt like a hobbit (in heels).  Actually no, a hobbit in heels attending a funeral, because all black is always a winner.

At first, I ran around a bit for my friend.  Grabbing stuff from her bag, getting her drinks, feeling generally useful.  And then... she let me off into the wild... by myself...

It's safe to say I took full advantage of the open-bar (but not too much advantage), but even after a couple of glasses of wine, I still felt obscenely awkward standing around by myself.  No one wants to rub shoulders with a disgruntled grad student/assistant.  And yes, I could have befriended one of the many well-dressed men and maybe have found myself a wealthy husband, but, again, I was drowning in a crowd of glitter, cleavage and evening gowns.

I totally get that the best company you can keep is yourself but, like, there is a time and a place to stand alone talking to yourself and it is not a fancy gala.  People can sniff out your insecurities and then they avoid you like the plague.  Even the hors-d'oeuvres got tired after a while.  I can only eat so many cheese balls and consume so much chocolate fountain deliciousness.

And then I saw it...

Bored and drunk, I sauntered over to the silent auction table.  The only thing that was remotely affordable for this broad came in the form of a Rebecca Minkoff purse.  After chatting, and getting easily persuaded, by the auction monitor, I decided to give in to my materialistic desires and put down a bid.  Because, why not?  I wouldn't win anyway.

After venturing back and forth for a bit, grabbing another glass of wine and feeling sorry for myself, I decided to leave before I stumbled over someone's gown or accidentally elbowed someone in their designer breasts.  I gathered my things, said my farewells to my paparazzi pal and, of course, checked on my precious Rebecca.  No one had bid against me.  I was fucked.  Handing over the bag in exchange for my worn-out credit card, the table monitor congratulated me on my win.  Half ecstatic, half anticipating the regret I would feel with my hang-over the next day, I accepted my new swag.

A swift entrance into the world of philanthropy, sore feet and four glasses of wine later, I had barely survived my first gala.  But I did learn that one should always befriend the coat-check attendant.  By bringing him water, I garnered an all-access pass to cut the line when I needed to grab something.

There was no one to smirk at when the violinist on the bar started playing "The Final Countdown", no one to make snarky comments to when some American Idol alumni and her two male dancers belted out je-ne-sais-quois and no one to stop me when I bid on a designer purse...

But whatever, open bar and snacks.