Monthly Archives: April 2013

Body Dysmorphic Disorder

Here’s some insight into my dysfunctional mind:

I used to be somewhat attractive. I don’t say this to brag about myself, because well, if I were bragging I’d use a more exciting way of describing it than “somewhat attractive”. I say this to explain that my mind and the way I react to things hasn’t quite caught up with my deteriorating physical appearance. I was driving home from work today and sitting at a stoplight near my apartment. I was sitting in my disgustingly old car amid the piles of hoarder-stash I keep in there for some reason (not psychological reasons, put the phone down) and trying to figure out where to place the seat belt, as is usually my “in the car” practice. I can never tell if it’ll be more comfortable to put the belt under, above or right smack in the middle of my squishy and protruding tummy. You tell me if you’ve figured it out. I was also having some issues up top but those are “busty girl problems” and I’ve had those for a while. Anyway, I was making a delightful face while adjusting something below the belt (literally) and I looked out the window and happened to see a jogger go by.

I think I was 22 here and tan for some reason

I think I was 22 here and tan for some reason

She was tall, thin, presumably pretty (she went by sort of fast so I couldn’t tell if she had acne scars or buck teeth or anything) and rocking a pair of skintight spandex leggings. I realize I always say that leggings are not pants but I give a pass to runners. Mostly because if they heard me make fun and tried to chase me, I’d likely just sit down and cry instead of run away. Back to the point. She was MILES ahead of me in the hot race (and any legitimate race, I’m sure) but that didn’t stop me and my super gross self in my super gross car from mentally judging her immediately.

Ow ow!

Ow ow!

Don’t shake your head and try to telepathically tell me that I’m not gross. I am always at least a little gross. Today I happen to be a lot gross because I slept on wet hair and went to work with it in the same shape as my pillow. I am not wearing any makeup and ever since I started “doing my eyebrows” I haven’t felt the need to pluck them, which looks ridiculous when I go au natural.

So this girl. She’s jogging down the sidewalk, trying to maintain a healthy lifestyle and clearly doing a great job. She’s running, she’s beautiful, but what is my first thought? Is it, “Hey girl, good for you! Way to keep that heart rate up!”? No. Me and my lumpy self zone in on her cheeks that are sort of flapping in the wind. They’re not jiggling. They’re like…doing the wave. You know those super-charged hand dryers in public bathrooms? Of course you do. If you haven’t been amused by one in your lifetime you’re a dirty liar. They create ripples in your hand or arm (or face…don’t judge me) and it looks hilarious. That is what was happening with this girl’s face. It wasn’t particularly windy and she certainly wasn’t sprinting like an African olympian but she was obviously running at such a velocity that her cheeks were doing the wave. So I have no idea what was going on, but it was enough of a something to make me not hate her and allow my delusionally chunky self to laugh at her. I’m rude. All I can say is that I must have transitioned so quickly (not really) from someone who was cute and fashionable to someone who Hulk-rips the arms out of shirts just because I talked myself into being able to shop at Forever 21, that my mind hasn’t fully realized the change yet.

I ripped the arms out of this Forever 21 shirt mere hours after this photo was taken.

I ripped the arms out of this Forever 21 shirt mere hours after this photo was taken.

I’m way too judgey for a chunker but I’m hoping it reads more “niche-funny” than sad and pathetic. Don’t tell me which one it is, because I’d prefer to live in my judgey mind than a deep depression.

Two If By Plane

I love travelling, but I hate the “getting there”. I would just like to appear at my chosen destination and take advantage of every moment I have outside of my real life. Unfortunately, my travel-reality is that I have to spend as little money as possible and quite often that means taking the most time possible to get somewhere. This is true for flying as well as driving.

Somewhere over Newark, New Jersey

Somewhere over Newark, New Jersey

Friday‚Äôs flight to Boston was really a flight to Newark, New Jersey, a short layover and then another flight to Boston. Once I landed in Jersey I had a slight panic attack at the realization that I was two terminals away from where I needed to be to board my second flight and I had only 10 minutes to get there. If you’ve never flown into Newark (because why would you?), don’t. The terminals are as far away from each other as they could possibly be and you have to take a train to get from one to another. Oh, and you have to go through security. Again. I took my belt off more times on Friday than has ever been necessary in my sex life. Mostly because I don’t wear belts when I plan to get sexy. But still…

I made it to the terminal on the other side of the world in time to stand in the cattle call line to board. Once on the plane I breathed a sigh of relief while noting that it was bigger than the puddle jumper I had just gotten off and thought maybe I wouldn’t have to do breathing exercises for the whole flight to stave off nausea. Instead, what I got was to sit in intimate closeness next to a 30-something man in camouflage and his young son. The man, standing over me in the aisle, asked his son with hopeful eyes: “Bud, do you want the middle seat (in an excited and very much ‘you totally want this seat’ voice) or do you want to have to sit by the window?” The kid didn’t take the bait and the man dejectedly took the middle seat, cementing our thighs together and creating an extremely uncomfortable vibe.

I wasn’t overly bothered by the closeness because, that’s just what happens on a tiny plane when you have a giant bum. I’m used to it. What I wasn’t prepared to deal with was his obvious discomfort at the situation. It’s like he thought we’d have to get married as a result. So, noticing that the adorable lady in the row across the aisle was all by herself with two empty seats, I asked her if she’d mind getting the hell out of my way so I could get away from Duck Dynasty and his son. She didn’t mind at all.

Snuggle up to this

Snuggle up to this

I part rolled, part stumbled into the window seat in her row and made a comment about not wanting to press my thigh against the strange man while I thanked her. She understood. In fact, she understood everything I ever thought or said. We had (almost) all the same opinions on everything in life. She was me, if I was skinny, hot, well-dressed and going to Harvard. I’m not hating on her hotness. In fact, I’m grateful for it. Her hotness got her (and me by extension) free mini-bottles of wine and a hilarious rapport with the flight attendant. Sitting in the back row pays off, as long as you’re sitting next to someone the flight attendant would like to have sex with. And boy did Freddie ever.

We chatted away the entire flight and most definitely annoyed the back half of the plane. Although, they’re all better off for hearing our commentary on Lena Dunham’s failed (albeit well-intentioned) attempts at feminism and an in-depth look at The Hunger Games. We made snarky comments and laughed at each other’s snarky comments so neither of us felt like a jerk. Even though we were definitely being jerks.

I knew she was legit when she didn’t even make fun of me for going all the way to Boston to see New Kids on the Block.