O.P.P.

Other Peoples' Perceptions.  Of me.

Sometimes (alright, often) I think I need my head examined.  I like to think I'm an intelligent, rational person, but there are a lot of moments where that rational is lost.  I care waaaaay too much about what other people think, or in my case, perhaps what I think people think.

Last night, for example: I'm the only sober person at a house party.  My husband (who I'll call Marc, since that's his name) and I were invited to a birthday party for one of my pseudo-girlfriends.  We chat regularly and do hang out, but I'm not a regular part of her group.  Nevertheless, we were excited to be included (as I always am).  I'm fighting a sinus infection, so I opted out of the drink to be the designated driver, and let Marc get his party on.  The evening was going great, I was being my "funny, confident, outgoing" self, and then the inevitable happens - the sex talk starts.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not a prude...  the issue I have (particularly when I'm sober, and others are not) is that I get reeeeeeeally self conscious because really, who wants to hear gross me talk about sex.  Obviously you get a mental picture in your head when you're listening to these stories (right??), and I can guarantee that no one wants my fat ass to be a part of their mental picture.  So I sit there and laugh, and giggle, and har-dee-har-har along with everyone else's stories, while I hope and pray that no one  looks at me and remembers that I'm disgusting.  In my slow-motion dream sequence everyone is throwing their heads back in joyous laughter, and then they look at me and it's like a big record scratch, and everything stops.  That awkward silence, and finally someone changes the subject.  This brings me back to my first thought - rational.  Would this really happen?  Not likely.  Do I really think it would happen?  Not really.  It could though, so the fear is there.  The scenario is not entirely impossible.  Once again, fat ruins my fun.

Let's talk about my husband.  He is cute, and he's not fat.  He's a little bit of a hunky-hunk, if I do say so myself.  We've been together for half of our lives.  Est. 1995, to be exact - back when I was a 34DD, and a size 28 jean.  So, he's had the hot me.  This is a picture of us from 1997.  I realize I'm not a stick (as I've never been, nor will I ever be a size 2.  I do like my badonkadonk.  I just want it on a smaller scale), but this is who I picture in my head.  For the record, I wanted a much sluttier dress, but my mom wouldn't let me get spaghetti straps on account of my hooters.

Big ups to 1997!

Remember those booths where you used to be able to print your own greeting cards?  He made one for me once that was kind of a jokey tabloid looking page, and inside he wrote "You're so hot you burn my hands"...  I wish I had kept it, but at least it's still burned into my memory.  I cling to these kind of memories like white on rice, because it just reinforces that the skinny girl is real.  She isn't just something I made up.  I was hot.  That's why he was with me.  Well, that's not the only reason obviously.  I do know that much.  But I know when people see us together now they must be thinking "why is HE with HER?"...

I have a lot of strange behaviours.  If we're out at a bar for example, I always encourage Marc to go dance with other girls, and then I pretend I think it's hilarious.  In reality, I think I'm doing it just so he can have a chance to be around someone sexy.  Someone smaller.  Someone he could pick up if he wanted to.  Someone who could give him a lap dance without looking like a freak show.  It's not normally strangers that I direct him to.  A lot of times it's my friends, so I know it's safe, but it still gives him a little bit of "this is what it would feel like to be with someone normal sized."  That's really weird, right?  Seeing it here in black and white sounds really, really pathetic.

I think I need to put a sad face emoticon in here this morning.  :(  Can you sense the worthlessness?  It's actually painful for me to read this.  How would I feel if I knew my daughters hated themselves as much as I hate myself?  Ouch, baby.  Very ouch.