The English instructor recently used the analogy of "searching for a date at a pub" (his words, not mine) to getting a poem published. "You want to know who you are as a poet, adapt within reason, and don't take it personally when you discover that not every editor will be interested in publishing your work. If you play the game, your odds improve."
Of course, I couldn't just leave that alone. I had to expand on it in my own little way. I recently read an article from Forbes about emotional intelligence, and I wonder if I come across as an "over-sharer" since he gives away nearly no personal data, and I, well, I say all sorts of shit that maybe I shouldn't say to one of my ex-professors. I replied, "Just between you and me, I never had many moments of self-doubt while scouting out the livestock at the local bar. Very few moments of self-consciousness. But I always seemed to get whatever I wanted...Imagine if I was able to have that confidence today, and in every area of my life. I would be insufferable."
Perhaps the bar scene is just kinder to women than men, but I don't remember ever being rejected by someone who I wanted to sleep with. In contrast, I was silently rejected by the New York Times for their most popular column, Modern Love. Sure, men sleep with me (does that say much?), but few of them ever wanted to see me in the following week. Or is it the other way around? Did I initially reject them? Honestly, I don't remember. So, for me, the bar scene is a little easier to navigate than trying to get something published.
I tell myself that if I go out and fuck some stranger, I will feel better about my weight because then, I will know that someone would want to fuck me while I remain (unfortunately) overweight. I am now a statistic, and granted, I have something going against me (the Seroquel), but still, I blame myself, and recently, despite working out four or five days a week, I continue to have a hard time looking at myself in the mirror. Before I put on this dress (my only dress that fits), I look at myself in the reflecting glass, and I couldn't tell if those were fresh stretch marks across my stomach or burns from the heating pad (honestly, they both leave lines of red marks). I'm hoping for a burn.
All of that naive confidence came crashing down. It's useless. I don't understand how in the past, I made a living by taking off my clothes now that I'm, dare I say it?, fat. How did I do it without wondering if someone would notice my cellulite? What happened to me?
My physical therapist told me a couple sessions ago that it looked like I had lost weight (I was wearing black, and there is no way he could notice a four pound weight loss, which I quickly re-gained). The most surprising part is, if I was at the weight I was before I started the Seroquel (when Stanford was worried I didn't weigh enough), he would have never made that remark. You don't tell a skinny person that she/he appears "skinnier." No, you just leave that shit alone.
I want to tell people, both men and women, I want to yell at them, "Hey, I wasn't always this fat, okay? In fact, most of my life, all but the last year, I was rather small!" But you can't make a big deal out of something, unless someone else does (which my neurologist did, but nevermind).
All of this comes back to the English instructor somehow, who I think about on a daily basis. If I followed his lead, I would never talk about exploiting men at bars. Somehow, I feel this compulsion to tell him everything inside my head.
Except for, "why don't we fuck and get it over with?" Because I have a deep, consistent feeling that he would be offended.
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