Boylimic

Several years ago, I dated a rather nice young man—actually, one of the very few nice men I’ve ever dated. Yet sadly, despite all of the chivalrous qualities imbued in this boy, he had one very tragic flaw.

He was bulimic.

At least, that was what I suspected because this guy vomited all the time. It was like dating a 5’10” cat that puked all over your house. He claimed he had a strong gag reflex (feel free to make your own comments there) but how could I not conclude he was experiencing some sort of body dysmorphic disorder that caused him to regurgitate only on the occasions when we went out to eat at a restaurant?

What was worse, he didn’t try to hide it. It wasn’t a simple bow away from the table to the men’s room. He would wait till we left the restaurant, any restaurant, and puke in the bushes of the parking lot.

The tipping point was his birthday, when I took him out for a very nice, very expensive steak dinner. And yes, just like a cat that eats your plants, he threw up in the bushes within minutes of us leaving.

If I’m paying for your meal, you keep that shit down.

This pattern of digestion refusal began to make me question what it was that he found so disturbing about himself that he felt the need to lose weight, even though he wasn’t heavy. Did he see me with those same delusional glasses? I’ve never been a big girl, or at least, that’s what I thought. Did he see me as someone who should be joining him bush-side for a romantic moment of communal barfing?

Our relationship was not profound enough for me to take on an additional neurosis of that magnitude.We didn’t work out.

Lesson learned: Seriously, if I’m paying for your dinner, you better digest it.

Like the Wind

There are some women who are natural born athletes. They are the pinnacle of fitness, gliding through a race and leaping over the finish line like a gazelle. Even drenched in sweat, they appear to be exuding sexuality.

I am not one of these women.

As a runner, I lack both speed and grace. My stride is crooked, my pace is slow and I’m pretty sure I look vaguely like I’m having a stroke. This past weekend I ran my tenth 5K, and as I sprinted to the finish line, I was well aware that my hair was standing up in a sweaty halo, my face was bright pink and yes, my nose was running.

This was not the picture of fitness I was hoping to portray.  Any hope of meeting a sporty guy who might possibly want to take me out for a bottle of Gatorade was dashed as I whipped my inhaler out of my pocket.

So I headed to the beer garden to forget just how truly disgusting I felt. And honestly, why run a race if there’s no reward at the end like a frosty cold beverage?

It turns out, I am not a sexy girl.  I don’t always look perfect and yes, I am ridiculously proud of my absurd beer socks, which are not at all sophisticated. (yes, those are my legs pictured, and that is my rockin sweat band).  I am the girl who makes jokes about Alderaan and randomly sings Talking Head songs for no apparent reason. But I guess, I know me, and maybe that’s sexy enough.