We go together, like a wink and a smile...

In a less complicated world, I wouldn’t be blogging right now. I would be at home, and at 9:52 p.m. (the current time) I would likely be reading. At this moment, the guy I had a school girl’s fall crush on is at a bar up the road, with three other people…I know this via Twitter. A friend of a friend, at 7:18 this evening, sent me a “wutz ^ tonight?” text message. Via Facebook I found out that my eighth-grade marching band pal and her husband recently returned from vacation, and that four more people RSVP’d to my ten-year high school reunion – which I probably won’t attend.

Digial communication is weird enough. It’s casual and plentiful, which makes it less personal. Never a fan of abbreviations or misspellings, “LOL” and “Wt RU doin” are not my favorite things to see. When it comes to dating and digital communication, things get even weirder. Looking at several dating websites, I’ve found an interesting catch. Most of them are free to join, and you can send potential mates an impersonal communication. To actually send someone a message, you have to throw down some cash and join. These little, free sorts of communication are called flirts, winks, smiles, etc. A generic template is sent to the recipient, stating something doltish and flattering, such as “your profile made me smile/wink/feel flirty.” It’s a “gee I’ve got nothing to lose” way of approaching someone.

The first day I registered for a dating site, I was glowing over these little comments. Then I realized that I never got a further, more probing, response. Then, I also realized, that when looking at a photo of another member, it’s painfully easy to hit the smile/wink/flirt button. I did so, unintentionally, three times in half-an-hour.

So, I’ve been ignoring these little notes. I assume the people who send them are having technical difficulties, or on the free trial program. I also feel like, if someone is genuinely interested in me, they should be able to at least string a sentence together to convey so. I know I’m larger than many women, I often have chipped nail polish, I occasionally drop movie theatre popcorn into my cleavage, and I’m a little on the particular side, but damnit, I want someone to string together a WHOLE sentence to win my affections! If nothing else, I want peace of mind. I’d like assurance that a fella wasn’t looking at my picture, critiquing my clothing choices and lack of perfectly-coiffed hair, when he accidentally hit the “send smile/wink/flirt” now button.

Given my aversion to faux compliments, and paranoia surrounding them, just imagine how delighted I was when my first personal message rolled in. I was thrilled. Having looked at many profiles, I was finding that there were some literate people on the internet, and I was psyched. My fingers flew over the keyboard to open up my VERY FIRST personal message, from an educated, literate, confidant, attractive, employed, articulate prince of a fellow, who wanted to meet ME.

Staring at the computer screen, searching frantically for a wonderful, flattering, romantic gesture, I found the first word of the message! “Hey.”

That is actually overdone, as the message only read “hey”. No punctuation or capitalizations were included. It was not only the first word of the message, it was the whole message.

Now the profiles on this website are packed with information. There are plenty of details about a person spelled out on his or her individual page. I just wanted something more. I wanted effort. So, with the swipe of a mouse, I deleted “hey” and all the people who had winked/smiled/flirted with me. I might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but I’m not desperate, and not going to cling to a wink, a smile, a flirt, or a “hey.”

In honor of every girl who gave out her number and hoped he’d never call, for every woman who moved in because “the rent is too damn high,” for every lady who thought she needed a plus one, and for every fat gal who never thought she’d do better…I’m just saying “no” for all of us. Goodbye winks, smiles, flirts, and heys, I’m holding out for something substantive.

Gettin' Bloggy Wit' It

Obviously, I have begun a blog. Friends of mine have expressed surprise that blogging did not come earlier. Every time I have felt writing was inevitable, and I was on the brink of something entertaining and refreshing, my inner shy gal would pop up. This evil, wildebeest of an inner shy gal fears rejection more than terminal illness. This fear is deep seeded and applies to a smorgasbord of situations.

I am vowing to fake out the wildebeest and feign emotional ennui on the wildebeest’s behalf. I’m sure no one will hate me on behalf of anything I write, but the thought is there. Truth be told, I have larger scale problems than my shyness and the possibility of someone having hurt feelings. Much larger, like the size of a pair of jeans or one size-D breast sort of large. We’ll return to these tales of woe shortly.

Hindered by shyness, I have always been cautiously behind in life. I’m sure I was the last of my friends to lose her virginity, though I never compared notes out of absolute mortification. The only alcohol I consumed in high school consisted of two post-prom wine coolers in the basement of the valedictorian’s house, while her parents were busy running their carryout Chinese restaurant. My high school prom date a good friend I played arcade games with and walked home from school with, on the few days I didn’t stay late to work on the high school newspaper, attend swim team practice, or participate in theatre shenanigans. When I sauntered into the house during the early morning hours, as a junior in high school, it was because I had lost track of time while playing Disney Trivial Pursuit in a friend’s basement. My mother never questioned these things, and I never had a curfew. I never had a blood alcohol level above the legal driving level until I was 22, tried pot for the first time at 24, and never moved onto harsher substances, or developed unfortunate chemical dependencies.

I never dated in high school and I haphazardly flirted my way through college. I remember my first kiss with too much detail, because it could have happened on two occasions, depending on criteria. The first time I smooched a lad, I was in the first grade. It was the local bad boy with all the spiked hair 1989 had to offer. After that, I was seventeen before any hardcore smoochery happened. A guy I found unattractive and thought was ridiculously full of himself had a thing for me. I decided he would be my practice smooching pal, since I was so behind the learning curve. He even bought me dinner at the Ram’s Horn once, where he worked as a busser. Smoochin’ lessons hardly lasted long, as I grew tired of doing anything other than kissing his pretentious, know-it-all self.

I am now 27 years old, and still behind the learning curve. Friends of mine are married and have children. Everyone I know has been in some sort of committed, long term relationship – with the exception of my weird third cousin, Claude. My problem is that I will not accept just anyone. I would much rather be single than date someone I do not feel strongly about. This has resulted in lots of first dates, a few second dates, and very, very few third dates. The shy card has also been a problem.

A few years ago, I tried to nab a coworker. A mutual friend had slipped up, and let me know that this big, hunky fella was interested in both me, and another gal. I never made my intentions properly known. I hoped he would pick up on all of my grandiose gestures of adoration, like saying “hi” to him and other social wonders. Needless to say, he picked the other girl. They lived together for a bit, he bought her an engagement ring, and she cheated on him and broke his heart. I never would have done such a thing. Of course, she was thinner than I, and as a result of another pseudo rejection, I hated my paunchy body even more. Since I had hated my body since the age of nine, I also continued to pack on the pounds, because really, who cared? This has been my body-issue for as long as I can remember.

Within the last six months, I have refrained from gaining weight. I am healthier, currently, than I have been in quite some time. Unfortunately, improved health does not instantly mean one turns into some sort of toned, sexy blond with a tan. I am still pasty, and somewhat Jewish/Mediterranean looking, with pounds and pounds of excess flub. A renewed commitment to health does not mean that men are coming flying out of the woodwork, offering to spot me at the gym, and telling me their favorite salad joint. I’m still a big, single gal.

Age has done a few shitty things, as well.

The first shift was noticeable a month ago. Despite, according to my bathroom scale, having lost three pounds, my jeans looked a little odd. They looked snug, but not in their normal “put down the pint/pints” sort of snugness. The second shift occurred yesterday. Something looked off kilter - something that used to be a C, and at some point morphed into a D, and left its pal in the dust.

I’ll tackle the pants first. Something in my abdominal fat shifted. It’s sitting differently than it did before, and my pants look strange when I wear a few of my favorite shirts. These shirts were essential pieces of the “look as thin as you possibly can” shirt and pants combos. Without the pants, none of it works. With my current waistline, which I fear will be the waistline of my future, there is a problem.

Problem number two, to be quite frank, is my left boob. At home, I can be a bit of a slob. I wander around the house in a bathrobe and pajama pants far too often. If it’s slightly warm, I trade in the robe for a t-shirt. While wandering in the t-shirt and pajama combo, I walked past a mirror. Lefty was way out to the left and looked too long. WAY too long. A fat girl’s best friends, her (hopefully) gigantic breasts, were starting to let me down; no pun intended. If nothing else, I occasionally hoped that if I hiked the twins far enough up, and tossed on the right top, my knockers would distract a guy long enough to forget my waistline, and he would fall hopelessly in lust with me. This was not going to work if lefty continued her pursuit downward. Action was needed.

After ransacking my wardrobe and coming up with new clothing accommodations, I sat my single-self down, dog resting on my feet, and powered up the laptop. It was time to crop some pictures, making myself look as thin as could possibly be feigned, and make myself available. I’m tired of being single, and this should probably be remedied before Righty joins Lefty in her travels south, and before my abdominal fat gets any weirder. Therefore, I put myself online. I signed up for a few free websites, and then plunked down $144 in exchange for six month’s access to a paid dating website, which promised to match me via “dimensions of compatibility” to several someone’s that I could potentially find long term happiness with. So, here I am. I’m largely dating and dating largely. I’m also blogging. While working on toning up and slimming down, I’ll continue throwing my tubby ass to the masses. I’m going to aggressively find out “what’s up” with the world of dating online, and there’s going to be (what I hope) a pretty entertaining blog as a result of these endeavors. Having gone out with a few people already, let me tell ya, I think there will be no shortage of material.

Thanks for visiting, please come back soon :-)