Dating, part 4: Dieting

I lost 54 pounds before I started graduate school. I started in January of 2001. In fact, I spent my 22nd birthday visiting the graduate department I would later attend. And felt self-conscious and miserable and huge. While I made a decent enough impression in spite of that, it wasn’t what I wanted for myself anymore. I was well within my optimal weight range by May.

I was self-aware enough to know that being overweight was malignant for my entire worldview. While I could go on for another series of posts about what it meant for me to hate how I looked then to be embarrassingly narcissistic, then to gain some weight back to be here, I won’t. At least for now, because that’s not the point.

Dryden made a comment on a recent post that said he has a thing about mirrors. And, like many of the things he says, it resonated with me, albeit in a different way than I think he meant. So I was reminded of how I used to be. I’d look in mirrors, but it was weird – I’d check clothing, perhaps apply a bit of make-up (though what’s the point when you feel like that about yourself?) but I’d never – never – make eye contact. As if by meeting my gaze, I’d be forced to acknowledge that everything that makes me cool – everything I liked in my personality – was forced to live in this repulsive thing.

If you’re thinking, wow, that’s pretty bad. Well, it was.

I dieted, and to me, dieting is complete control. I dropped below 1200 calories a day immediately, did aerobics for 2 hours a day (morning and night), drank water like a camel – constantly finding a drinking fountain to refill my bottle, sitting it on my desk in class to remember, always focused in some major way on fixing my body. Because naturally that would fix everything else.

Losing weight, especially large amounts of it, for me, was awesome. I received this recognition, and bought prettier clothes, and noticed men maybe objectifying me a bit, and because I'd never had that, it was kind of nice. I wrote my weight on my calendar every Tuesday and Friday. I read you’re not supposed to check every day, and I like to follow the rules. But you see the progress – the 3 pound/week average – and start calculating the weeks you have left before you’re thin – happy – complete.

I loved it. I get into goals and plans and discipline, so it really worked for me once I got started. So I focused, forced this change to occur, and I was better for it. Healthier, certainly, with higher self-esteem and confidence and all those good qualities I’d wished for. I preened in the mirror daily, because look how hard I’d worked, how special and pretty and great I was! This body, well, it was one I wanted to live in. The type of thing that I could look at in the mirror and be happy to see my soul living inside.

There’s always a problem though, right? While I didn’t notice at first, or for awhile afterward, there were inherent drawbacks to what this weight loss had done to me.

I really like food. Really. A lot. Milk chocolate Vanilla Buttercreams from Fannie May, ones I could remember tasting for the very first time with Grandma in the mall. Awed at the sweet creaminess. Or Mom’s rolls – because there’s something so inherently comforting to me in the smell and texture and taste – gentle and soft and easy. Pizza delivery – calling and having someone arrive at your door with food full of flavor and it’s easy and satisfying and comforting. And there were more, obviously, because, like I said, I’m fond of food.

Dieting killed that love. I had so completely indoctrinated myself into this mindset that everything was just part of the plan. I traded all the pleasure of eating for the knowledge that I was doing something good for myself. Yogurt and carrot sticks and protein – I saw them as nourishment, something you had to give your body so it would function correctly and continue to utilize the fat you’d stored so foolishly before. Traded the sharp sweetness of soda, sucking milkshakes through straws, even indulging in wine or alcohol at all (because my references said there were calories, and calories should be only used for the good of your body) for hydrating with water. Gallons of water every day.

So all those things that used to bring pleasure – the sweet, the creamy, the intensely fatty – now were not a factor. I didn’t miss them, didn’t want them at all. I would turn up my nose at fast food, wondering, in all seriousness, how people could do that to their bodies. Shame on you, I’d think as I drove by the restaurants. You should be drinking water instead! Forgetting that hamburgers and french fries bring a certain joy to my life. Rather than noting the value of small amounts of fast food - the convenience perhaps, or memories attached to having certain dining experiences, I was so used to doing without that I couldn't even see the appeal.

I hope that some of you are shaking your heads and frowning at me, thinking, well, dear, you did it wrong. Because I did. It was extreme and effective and I found satisfaction – not pleasure, satisfaction – in the results.

My last relationship was, God help me, dieting. Good for me, going somewhere, moving along. We talked about marriage, would have twice weekly phone calls and would generally see each other once a week. Sometimes twice, but usually that was a bit much for me. But I didn’t have to look for anyone anymore! And it was a relief to be settled, at least for awhile, and to not have that voice in my head tell me that I would always be alone.

Being with him, and I loved him – please believe that I did on some real, but incomplete level, because though I screwed up and I hurt him, I have to acknowledge the presence of something. But being with him was pretty devoid of joy and excitement. There was a schedule of when we’d talk and how we’d progress. Like the BMI index that I had bookmarked on my computer in college and would carefully check each week. Watching with satisfaction as the line that represented me continued its progress into the normal range.

I would see him, and it was like eating carrots and yogurt. Not awful, not at all - easy, good for you, and with a purpose. So there was something in me that liked it, knew I was resisting and should talk myself into offering him more. Because this man, who left an important meeting to celebrate my birthday with me, who brought candy and a video on Valentine’s Day when I said I’d rather not go out, who remembered every name of every friend I’d thrown at him, asking questions, listening, caring about what I said, who walked my dog with me in the winter, then into the summer again, who helped me over snow drifts on the way to an art museum, he was dieting to me.

I was terrified of losing a vital part of myself for him, of finally loving him enough to say, this is great! Good for me! Of the metabolism shift that occurs so you’re too energized to nap, too involved with your water to enjoy a piece of chocolate, having too much respect for someone to push for something a little dark and thrilling because you know he’d be uncomfortable.

I started encouraging him to date other people, and I vividly recall how he looked when I said that. So I backtracked. No, that wasn’t what I wanted, but I might have to leave, for work, and I didn’t want him to lose an opportunity because of me. No, we were fine, together, great. It was all fine.

I wonder now how much of my mad rush from grad school was motivated by George, and how much related to dear, sweet Ryan. Because I would have lost it – that joy, that rush, that intensity that makes me go wow. And while it would have been OK, I guess, I didn’t want to live my life dieting.

So I left, and I hurt him, and he won’t answer email I send or return calls, and I hate it. Have, in fact, punished myself by not allowing any real relationships to form in my new city, because someone like me - who throws over a Ryan for just the possibility of someone more, selfishly terrified of any loss of future joy - doesn’t deserve another shot.

But I do – I know I do. The regret that I feel over him, that I might always feel, has recently been eased by the knowledge that this pleasure I so badly wanted – the chocolate with the water, not instead of it – might be out there. That there’s someone who makes me feel safe and comfortable, but also shaky with excitement – well, that’s worth waiting for, worth making some mistakes and figuring yourself out and working toward.

The strange new certainty I have that I’m waiting for something real and special and joyful has, quite honestly, left me wandering around in dazzled amazement. Because it’s out there, and I’m not sure if or when I’ll find it for myself, but knowing that I believe in something real and valid is a comfort.

Ryan was the 10th date – the end, pretty much, though there was an 11th man, now that I think of it. A throw-away date that I’ll try to recall more within this series later. But Ryan has been on my mind lately, and I wanted to start with this because I feel awful – miserably petty and greedy and mean – having written it. So I’m getting it over with – posting it so that in some small way, I might honor what we shared in my mind, and apologize to myself for screwing up so badly.

Because while water is crucial for life, chocolate seems necessary for living it.