Uh dude, it’s not your body

Lately I’ve had some of the strangest comments made to me.  Now sure, I’ve heard of shit like this happening to other women before, but I guess I was never fit enough that I fell into the category… until now.

Obviously, I’ve lost some weight.  I’m at 36 pounds and counting, and my body looks different.  Like really crazy there’s an entire oompah lumpa gone different.  I’m not “skinny” kids, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m getting smaller.  And it’s pretty common knowledge that I’m not done yet.

I have no idea what my “goal weight” is, but I am aiming for a goal aesthetic.  More than that, I have some performance goals I’m working towards.  And imagine that, getting faster and stronger also equates to getting physically leaner, and in my case, smaller.

So I’m trucking along.

But lately people, especially men, have found it not only appropriate but necessary to say things like:

Don’t put on too much more muscle, you’re going to start looking manly.

Or perhaps even more ridiculous and offensive:

Well whatever you do don’t lose so much weight that you lose your boobs (or sometimes your ass).

Husband, thank God, hasn’t said anything so idiotic.  I think he knows that I would smother him in his sleep.

But somehow, that makes it even WORSE.  These are random dude friends who somehow think that they have a right to not only make these types of comments on my body, but that I actually give a shit about what they think or how they feel about the way I look.

*sigh*

Sure, there’s a part of me that wants to be attractive to others.  But kittens, I’m not doing this for anyone else but me.  If I were, there would be no way I would be this successful.

 

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bad parenting

When I close my eyes it feels like my eyeballs are going to “flame on” and burn a hole through my eyelids.

Oh the joy of running a fever.

It would seem that my unfortunate favorite pastime of licking the shopping cart handles at my local Wal-Mart has caught up to me and yet again, I’m sick.

This time I managed to escape without my typical strep throat, but I’m still stuck with a nasty sinus infection coupled with tonsillitis and a cough that could wake the dead.   According to the doc I’m in for 17-20 days of this fun, but he took pity on me and gave me some cough syrup with the good drugs in it, so at least I get to be in a coma for a solid 50% of it.

Luckily, trips to the doctor (ie our friendly neighborhood urgent care clinic) always result is some excellent stories, so you my readers are in luck.

People watching at the doctor’s office is pretty much some of the best people watching around.  Yesterday was no exception.

As I was filling out my paperwork, a woman about my age entered with six (count them SIX) children ranging in ages from two to eight.  That’s a lot of back to back procreation my friends.  The two eldest needed to get their physicals for school.  She and her brood sat down so that she could fill out paperwork and for the next 10 minutes I witnessed what could only be described as the seventh circle of hell.

Was it the seventh?  Is that the one where screaming waterfighting minions take over?  Maybe that’s the fourth.  No matter…

Her six children ran screaming through the waiting room.  They discovered the drinking fountain, and proceeded to have a water fight.  They climbed on chairs and counters, then jumped off exclaiming that they could fly.  Their mother didn’t even look up, or bat an eye.

I cowered in the corner for fear they might start breathing fire or announce their plans to take over the world.

At this point, one of the nurses came out and told the kids they could not behave that way.  She explained to the parent, and her children, that jumping off the furniture was dangerous and could cause accidents, and that having water all over the floor in a medical facility was a real hazard.  The nurse then proceeded to get paper towels from the bathroom to clean up the mess, all while keeping a watchful eye on the children.

Only when she finally walked away did the mother finally speak up.

What pearls of wisdom did she have for her children?  How did she use this moment to teach them the appropriate way to behave?

She hollered at them, “Ya’ll are so BAD!  I hate all of you!  I can’t take you anywhere.  They always ask me to leave because of you.  Is that FAIR?  IS IT?”

Her children were quiet for a solid 10 seconds before they started their antics again and she went back to ignoring them.

I was more grateful than I can even describe that I had my headphones with me.  While children make me crazy, in this particular instance, it was the mother I wanted to throttle.

Please don’t send me into a fit of blind rage

compliment

My momma taught me how to take a compliment.  Now mind you, I haven’t always been the best at it, but I like to think that when someone says something nice about me I smile sincerely and accept their praise just like a “lady” should.

Regardless of what my mom tried to teach me at a young age, as I got older I realized how irritating it was to tell a girlfriend that they looked great only to have them come back with some stupid nonsense about how they’ve gained 10 pounds and their hair is a mess.

Just. Say. Thank you.

Really, it’s not that hard.  I wouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t mean it, so don’t make me feel stupid for being nice to you.

So I try not to ever put anyone in that position.  If they think that I look like a pile of hotness and are brave enough to tell me, I thank them.  And depending on who it is, I might skip away gleefully that they even noticed that I had actually bothered to brush my hair AND my teeth on the same day.

All of that said, there is one “compliment” that I flat out can not stand.

This “compliment” will send me into a blind rage that mimics the fury of a tiny hungry baby plus t-rex trying to pick up something off the ground with his wittle baby arms all smashed together.  It makes me angrier than when my husband withholds sex.  Or when I’m not allowed to drink.

This is ANGRY people.  A-N-G-R-Y.

Have I built it up enough?  Are you dying to know?  The so-called “compliment” is this:

“You’re not a bad looking girl.”

You might be surprised how many times I’ve heard this.  I wish I could stereotype who-the-fuck says that kind of thing, but sadly, it seems to be prevalent across every demographic of the male population.  I’ve got it from the old toothless bastards wearing denim overalls in public.  I’ve received it from men who were attractive enough that I actually considered dating them.  The garbage man, the dude that repaved my drive way, a swim instructor I once had, and countless others have felt the need to compliment me by telling me I’m “not bad looking.”

For any of my millions of followers (ok, so there’s 200 of you and I love you as if you were millions) who don’t get it, let me explain.

I can handle cat calls.  I can handle whistles or honks as I’m running or riding.  I can even handle skeezy men at bars attempting to grope me before I break off their fingers.  These men are at least trying to show appreciation for how attractive I AM… not how unattractive I’m not.

So I’m not bad looking.  So what?  Doesn’t mean I’m good looking.  I could be not bad looking, but instead grotesque and hideous and oh-my-god-are-you-contagious?

I could be not bad looking because holy-shit-you-can’t-even-look-directly-at-me-without-your-retinas-burining-out-of-your-head.

I could very well also be not bad looking as I am actually quite attractive and damn it if you’re not trying to hump my leg while you’re standing here talking to me.

If the latter is the case, go with the attractive part.  It leaves little to the imagination, and is actually a nice thing to say.

You’ll get a genuine smile and a thank you, even if I’m at the same time feeling around in my handbag for my .22 just in case.

But if you find me hideous and are just trying to think of something to say because you can’t possibly keep your mouth shut, keep your mouth shut.  I really do carry a .22, and even T-rex could figure out how to get his puny arms into my purse if  properly enraged.

There are worse things

kids

I accidentally swallowed a cherry pit yesterday.  I’m concerned that this will result in either (1) even stranger things happening with the already strange poo I have going on or (2) a cherry tree will grow in my stomach and sprout out of my mouth.

I’m actually more concerned about the latter, no matter how unlikely it may be.  In fact, the idea of anything growing inside me really freaks me out.

Yeah, that includes babies.

I’m not sure it will come as much of a surprise that I don’t want children.  Now please, please don’t get all offended.  I’m not saying I don’t like children, or that I have any negative opinions of anyone who chooses to have children, or anything of the kind.  I simply do not want them.

You may have noticed my immediate need to defend myself once I expressed my desires.  This need has evolved over the past 10 years of being torn to bits in various ways when I say I don’t want kids.  Since I’m not actually a heinous person who chews the face off everyone I eat (most of the time), I’ve grown accustomed to people’s reactions when my lack of desire for a family comes up in polite conversation.

But in honor of my potential cherry tree baby on a Monday, here’s what I really want to say when confronted with the top three remarks every person on the planet seems to have when I tell them I don’t want kids.

Remark 1:  What do you mean you don’t want kids?  Kids are wonderful, they bring you a lifetime of joy.  If you don’t like children you must be evil or an atheist or something.  You kick puppies don’t you?  You evil Satan worshiping whore.

What I say:  No no, I love children and I go to church religiously whenever my grandmother guilts me into it every 5 to 7 years.  Children are wonderful and beautiful.  I’m just not worthy of having such a beautiful cherub to call my own.

What I want to say:  Of course I don’t want kids.  Look at yours.  One is eating you shoe the other just vomited on your shirt and both are screaming for you attention.  I can’t even hear the second half of your judgmental rant because of all the noise they’re making.  I walk around my house stark naked pretty much all the time, kids would totally cramp my style.  Am I selfish as shit?  Sure, but don’t worry, I’m happy.  Very, very happy.

Remark 2:  No children?  Who will take care of you when you get older?

What I say:  I know, it will be such a problem!  I guess I should start saving for retirement now.  You’re so lucky that you’re such a wonderful parent that your children will be there for you then just as you are there for them now.

What I want to say:  Probably a hot male nurse named Sven.  I’m well invested, and because I don’t have hundreds of thousands in expenses of raising a little mini mutant and putting their ungrateful ass through college, I’ll probably be a millionaire here right quick.  I figure, by 50 hubs and I will retire and move into some swanky community where all I have to worry about is what designer swimsuit I’m going to wear to the pool and my spa appointments today.

Remark 3:  Don’t worry, you’re still young, you have plenty of time to change your mind.

What I say:  Yes, you’re right.  Of course you’re right.  Thank you so much for believing that my uterus hasn’t yet dried up and my hopes of future spawn haven’t yet died out.

What I want to say:  Unlike you, I’m not a total flighty twit.  First off, I’m not that young.  I’m turning 30 this year and I haven’t wanted children, EVER.  I am fully capable of making a decision and standing by it.  I would never be condescending as shit towards you for your decision to start a family, and it’s really effed up that you feel the need to be so towards me about my decision not to.

 

In closing, I love that you love your children.  Heck, in some cases I love your children.  But seriously, I don’t want any.  Stop trying to sell me on the idea, all it does is piss me off and force me to bottle up my emotions and then drink heavily until I can’t feel my feelings anymore.

You do your thing, and I’ll do mine.  I’m happy that you’re happy.  Be happy for  me too.

Verbal throat punching of the day

When I ask for an opinion, I actually want it.  Shocker, I know.  When I ask, “how do these jeans look?” I really don’t want the poor unfortunate soul on the receiving end of that question to tell me I look fabulous if I don’t.

When I ask someone where they want to go to dinner or for drinks, it’s because I truly have no preference and am open to suggestions, not because I want them to be selfless and insist we go wherever I want to go.

I’m not setting a trap to make anyone feel guilty.  For the man in my life, I’m not trying to start a fight.

Sometimes it amazes me that we’re in a culture where not everyone actually wants an honest opinion.

Sometimes, it comes back to bite me in the ass when I give mine, because, THAT’s WHAT YOU ASKED FOR!  (and by you I of course don’t mean YOU my loyal friends, I mean the YOU that’s causing this rant to begin with who is possibly not even intelligent enough to read and likely won’t ever get this message)

So here is my broadcast to the world.  In this matter, I practice what I preach.  Do not ask me if I like your haircut if you know it’s ugly.  I won’t be cruel, but I will be honest.

Don’t ask me if you have something in your teeth and then become so embarrassed you begin to cry when I tell you that yes, in fact, you do.

And for the love of GOD, don’t ask me if anything that you’re wearing makes you look fat.  Whatever you’re wearing likely makes you look exactly as you are.  Sorry kids, but if you’ve got a little extra chunky in your monkey then yeah, it probably makes you look fat.  If you don’t want to look fat, don’t be fat.

I’m working on it myself, and you’ll notice, I NEVER ask that question.  My ego doesn’t actually want the honest answer to that.