L-O-V-E: it's more than oversized teddy bears. Or is it?

With Valentine's Day just around the corner, I thought it might be an appropriate time to write a post about everyone's favorite subject, L-O-V-E.

For those of you who read this blog, this may seem like a slightly odd topic choice for me, given that I probably mention my long-time singlehood at least once in each post. For those who know me personally, this will seem like an extremely odd choice, given the amount of eye-rolling and fourth-grade-esque, finger-down-throat gagging noises I make when confronted with mushy things. (I'm not joking, I actually used the term "gag me with a spoon" within the last week.) 

In fact, many of my friends and family members might think I am cynical, jealous, or worse yet, downright bitter about love. This couldn't be farther from the truth. I love love. I also really love fancy heart shaped candy, so Valentine's day is a big win-win for me. 

This week, I finished Aziz Ansari's book, Modern Romance. Basically, Aziz conducted studies of focus groups and enlisted some well-respected relationship psychologists and scientists to help him piece together data about dating in our time. It is really hard not to see the results as shocking. For instance, cheating occurs in 70% of committed, monogamous, non-married relationships. Apparently, the number greatly decreases after couples say "I do", which I guess answers my time-honored question of "why get married at all?"...

Anyway, ouch. That piece of data tells me that there is just about a 2/3 chance I will be cheated on if I ever decide to make it past the one or two dates stage with someone. However, the book was generally pretty positive about the outlook for love in the modern world. More places to find it, more time to find it, more chances of not settling, more matches on Tinder. Wonderful. I closed the book and walked out into the wide world, ready for love to sweep me off my feet. 

Ok, no, I didn't (I was coming from the gym after finishing the book, looking smashing in a sweat-stained baseball cap, so prospects for love had to wait till after a shower). I did start thinking about love and it's many forms, and also how the Hallmark holiday that we use to celebrate it is a mere two weeks away. If you have ever seen the movie Love, Actually, you can quote Hugh Grant's character in the opening credits: "Love really is, all around." 

I have occasionally teared up after clicking a video clip on Facebook of a soldier coming home to his dog (after months of being gone), and the dog jumps into his arms. It's even worse when it's the guy's kid, seeing him for the first time in years. Waterworks, every time. Oh, love!

Or when an organization I support (such as the Girl Scouts of America or Planned Parenthood) starts a crowd-funding page to recoup money lost from pulled grant money, and they end up raising three or four times more than their original goal. In that moment, I love all those people who donate. 

When I tell the story about my mother and stepfather being married for 26 1/2 years, and that he popped the question after only a few weeks of dating (but not before he asked my grandmother's permission (this was 1989, not 1960, so that's a pretty big deal)), my heart just sings. 26 1/2 years of marriage and no one was injured or killed. LOVE, people. 

I work day shifts at a bar and restaurant, and much of my daytime clientele is elderly couples. I have begun to notice that often, a husband will stand next to the booth while his wife removes her purse and jacket and gets perfectly situated before he sits down, in spite of the fact that he had neither of those items to contend with and could have just as easily taken a seat first. Definitely love (unless she's just a tyrant, and after years of being beaten into submission by that same handbag, he has learned to be obedient). 

When I see all the Valentine's day merchandise explode into store shelves about two days after Christmas, I roll my eyes and make my standard gagging noise. I have often thought "if someone ever brings me a giant white teddy bear holding a fabric rose that says 'be mine' on his enormous pink tummy, I will kick them out of my home" (and honestly, I might. A warning to potential suitors: I live in a studio apartment and there is NO ROOM, I repeat NO ROOM for oversized plush). However, people who critique gestures of love are probably not very good at love in the first place. It could be the cheapest box of Palmer brand chocolates on the store shelf, but when someone buys you something on a day that is meant to celebrate love, it means they love you (and thought of you). It also means you have chosen someone who bothers to know what day of the month it is, which is always a good sign. (But seriously guys, spring for the Whitmans. You won't regret it, since the lady in your life is probably still going strong on her New Years resolution, and you're going to end up eating them anyway). 

To get back on a serious note, love is wonderful in all of its forms. Love (when mutual) is the only thing in the world that requires no effort to feel (and makes you feel good all the time). There are so many people in my life that I love, even if none are in a romantic sense. If you're single, try thinking of that on Valentine's Day, instead of dwelling in the despair of having no one to buy you heart-shaped chocolate. 

And don't worry, that shit goes down to 50% off the next day and you can buy it all for yourself. Something else I love: a good sale. 

If you are reading this and thinking it sounds like a shameless ploy to get heart-shaped candy delivered to me in two weeks, then you are correct. Send me a text and I'll give you the address.

It will be the one with the giant white teddy bear in the hallway. 

The Three-Letter-Word

I can't remember a time in my adult life (read: over age 15) during which I wasn't trying to lose weight, or at least thinking about it. 

I'm thirty years old, so that's a pretty long time to be in a constant state of striving. Even in college, when I chose to forgo working out and eating salads for late night pizza and 20 oz plastic wine glasses full of Black Velvet and ginger ale (in answer to your inevitable question, yes, I have always been this classy), I was thinking about my weight, or rather, my size. While walking home from the bars with my roommate on a frigid night in my New York college town, dressed in seasonally-inappropriate skirts, a car full of boys pulled up, rolled down their window, and cat-called something sexual (and lewd). As I had probably consumed half a dozen beers and shots, I screamed something back and flipped them the bird, to which they started to pull away, yelling "we weren't talking to you, Fatty!" Of course they weren't - the comment was aimed at my shapely roommate. I laughed it off and we stumbled home.

So why, 11 years later, do I remember every detail of this event? It left a lasting impression on me, a little whistle (no pun intended) in the back if my head, saying "you're even too big for drunk college boys to shout at". 

When I was a pre-teen, my older sister and I did not always get along, a fact that I am sure is shocking to anyone with siblings. I did terrible things, including reading her diary (only once, I still contend) and picking on various aspects of her teenage appearance (I once posted a drawing on her bedroom door that stated that it was the home of someone named "Zitty Zitface". Very original.) In response, my sister took to calling me the worst possible thing she could think of, referring to me simply as "Fat", as if it was my first name. I should note, also, that I was not particularly fat at age eleven, but even as children, we knew that there was absolutely Nothing Worse than being so. 

Again, this was a very brief period in my life that has never left my memory- not because it was cruel of my sister to call me a name (believe me, I deserved everything I got), but that the tiny three-letter word was the worst insult either of us could imagine. 

I had a huge crush on the same boy from eight grade straight through high school graduation. We were acquaintances, friends even, but it was widely known that I pined in nerdy, tomboy silence and certainly had no chance with this guy. During sophomore year, well into my tenure at a school that required us to play team sports (I was a three season athlete at the time, so probably in the best shape of my life), a close male friend told me that the object of my affection had mentioned me. I was shocked and couldn't wait to hear what he said. While reluctant, my friend finally told me that the boy had said: "she has a pretty nice body, I'm just not so into her personality". I should have been crushed. I should have cried myself to sleep and vowed never to speak to this guy again. Instead, I was elated. He thought I was physically attractive. Personality could be worked on, I remember thinking. I could talk less, use smaller words, be less eccentric or outgoing, be less like me.

Reading the above sentence really makes me hate my teenage self. 

Fast forward to a month ago, when a friend and I were discussing the need for more physical activity and healthy eating in our lives. I work with about twenty young women, so you can imagine how often these conversations happen. I don't know how we came around to it, but I found myself admitting out loud that I would gladly give a finger (or two!) off my left hand if I could just be skinny. 

Reading the above sentence really makes me hate my thirty-year-old self. 

I have spent much of the last ten years telling people I don't mind being single (true), that I won't settle for someone unless they love me for my zany, independent self (true), and that I firmly believe there is at least one guy out there who will think I am physically perfect exactly as I am (false). If I am being truly honest here (and it pains me to do so), I will admit: I don't really exercise and try to eat right to make my body healthier. I do it to make my body prettier. 

Ouch. 

I had a thought yesterday which, coupled with a fabulous editorial I read online this morning, inspired me to write this post. Here it is: what if I get skinny and nothing changes? 

What if I continue to be unhappy with my body, miss out on bread, pasta, french fries and dessert for the foreseeable future, fit comfortably into more stylish pants, lower my BMI to the point that my doctor stops telling me it's "something to keep in mind", buy a bathing suit that exposes my midsection for the first time in my life, and I remain single and (generally) uninteresting to the opposite sex? 

Worse yet, what if I lose weight and I'm still not happy with my physical appearance? 

We put so much emphasis on skinny being the ultimate goal, and I am no exception. I can't stand on my typical soapbox and preach to you about self love on this one, guys. I am confident in my intellect, personality, humor, and skills. But my life experiences, likely coupled with American society and the constant images of what is "attractive", have stripped me of (nearly) all physical confidence. 

But they say recognizing there's a problem is half of the battle, right? So I've got to try. It has to stop some time. I have no intention of throwing up my hands, diving head first into a plate of gravy fries, and canceling my gym membership (ok, that's a lie, I am definitely going to plunge into the fries at some point), but hell- we girls have all got to stop looking in the mirror and hating what we see. It's ruining us. It is hampering our lives and ambitions and absolutely keeping us from being our best selves. 

And as far as there being someone out there who loves me exactly as I am in this moment? That person had better start being me.