Perhaps you’re wondering if the princess has:
A: Fallen in love
B: Fallen off the face of the earth
C: Fallen under a large heavy object, thereby preventing her from blogging
Alas, dear readers (all 26 of you!), the answer is D: None of the above. What happened instead is that I strained a muscle in my arm trying to high-five myself for dating at my own level. After a liberal application of Bengay and a few more dates with the ill-fated Frog #11, I re-strained the same muscle when I beat the living crap out of myself for thinking that this wart-covered creep even existed in the same ecosystem as me. Sorry, Mark . . . I clearly need further instruction on dating at my own level.
Using the benefit of my superhero hindsight, I can see there were amphibious warning signs. I mean, he didn’t come right out and “ribbit” or anything, but let’s be clear. I couldn’t figure out if the guy was interesting or a massive tool. His respectable job and willingness to pick up the check on occasion distracted me. You see, he was no run-of-the-mill frog but rather, a unique type of highly evolved frog with strange chameleon capabilities. At least, that’s the story I’m telling myself because the alternative is that I’ve been out with some real flippin’ losers if all it takes is a free sandwich to turn my head.
Frog #11 and I casually dated for about two months. This means – gasp! – he wasn’t the only frog on my lily pad (that sounds dirty but I assure you . . . it’s not. Really, Mom.) . We exchanged text messages, we went for walks, and we’d meet for a beer every now and again. He had some very disturbing hang-ups about food, so going out for a meal was out of the question. This frog regularly went 12+ hours without a meal and encouraged me to “unfriend food”. Blasphemy! Food, drink, and fingernail biting are the only vices I have left to enjoy. And then . . . I took a two week European vacation.
I was lukewarm on Frog #11 when I left on vacation. I was still trying to solve the “asshole or interesting” dilemma, but I agreed to keep in touch via email while exploring the Alps. We exchanged several messages – all very sweet – and made plans to connect upon my triumphant return to the US.
Now, if you’ve ever spent two weeks in Europe – particularly if the Energizer Bunny is your travel companion – you know that jetlag is no joke. Upon returning home, I found it impossible to remain awake and in the upright position beyond 8 PM. Conversely, I was suddenly a serious morning person. As in, “it is 4 AM . . . let’s go!” I was tired, not thrilled to return to the daily grind, and frankly, bored with Frog #11. I was planning to give him the “I’m just not that into you” speech when that jackass beat me to the punch.
You don’t have to love me. You don’t have to like me. You don’t have to think I’m cute. You don’t have to laugh at my jokes. (You should do all of the above, but there’s no accounting for some people’s taste.) But for the love of all that’s holy, you most certainly do not dump me via text message, telling me that “I’m just not really feeling it. You’re a cool chick and all, but frankly, you’re just too big.”
There were many witty and shrewd retorts on both my fingertips and the tip of my tongue, but I decided to play the classy card. I responded and said, “Thanks. Good luck,” and promptly signed up for three months of personal training sessions.
A few of you have heard this story already, and the response is always the same. There is a sharp gasp, followed by some version of, “He did not mean you’re FAT. He probably just meant you’re too tall.” Allow me to say this. There’s a reason they call the plus size store “Big and Tall”. They sell clothes for people who are both BIG (translation: fat) and tall. Furthermore, Frog #11 is no slouch. He stands a good 4-5 inches taller than me, even in heels, so unless he has some kind of Oompa Loompa fetish, he was referring to my weight, not my height.
Am I fat? Hell, no. I’m 5’11 inches and I currently weight 149 lbs, which gives me a BMI of 20.8, which squarely qualifies me as normal. I’ve weighed a lot less, and I’ve weighed a lot more, and I’m damn glad to be tall, because it means that plus or minus 10 pounds isn’t obvious on my frame.
Although I know that Frog #11 is just a jerk with bad break-up tendencies, he got into my head a little bit. My pants started to feel a little snug. My shirts started to ride up, showing off what started to look disturbingly like a muffin top. Those cute Capri pants I bought last summer . . . wouldn’t zip. So even though I’m still convinced of my hotness and of the blindness and/or gayness of anyone who can’t recognize my brilliance and good looks, I realized I was no longer feeling like president of my own fan club.
After crying into my beers (okay, and the wine, too), I decided to put up or shut up, and I joined a gym. I started working out with a trainer, lifting heavy objects in repetitive fashion while alternately squatting and/or lunging in a lurching, wobbly and unattractive manner. Do I enjoy it? Absolutely not. But I’ve embarked on a healthy lifestyle in an effort to get re-elected to my own fan club – and to get those darned Capri pants on before the snow falls. Besides, my trainer is both single and awfully easy on the eyes!
© 2011 Princess D
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