There's no way to deny she's lovely

There are a lot of derogatory comments that one could make about my appearance. Since high school, my weight has fluctuated between a healthy size 8 (where I am now--my "normal" weight) and a pushing-obese size 12. Most recently, my weight tipped the scales after the Bush campaign when I completely blew my ordinarily-regimented lifestyle to help the President win an election. Priorities. So 18 months ago, it would have been pretty accurate to call me fat. Even today you could remind me that I'm not exactly slim--I was blessed with my Mom's curves. But I don't look bad--seriously, I don't.

You could also point out that I'm breaking out pretty badly right now from a nice cocktail of chemotherapy drugs and stress (induced by my professional and personal lives simultaneously going nuts) and that would be pretty accurate. But I'm hooked on Philosophy Crisis Intervention products and some retinols from the dermatologist and that's keeping everything in check.

I've had bad haircuts (the really short job freshman year of college), bad color (chocolate brown in the winter of 2005), probably bad makeup and once upon a time (early in high school when I was still using my mother's cast-offs) made bad clothing choices (in my defense, this was at the tail end of the grunge era and so if I wasn't in my cheerleading uniform--which we had to wear to school like three times a week, I was a strange mix of as much grunge as my Ralph Lauren-wearing mother would let me get away with, resulting in an ugly preppy-grunge experience). You could have called me out on any of those: I've had bad hair and bad outfits. Haven't we all?

The one thing I have never been called is "plain". I am not plain. In the interest of not sounding narcissistic, I am going to try to tone this down a lot but I am naturally very attractive. According to Cosmo, I am "cute-sexy": big blue-grey eyes, dark blonde hair (which I highlight so it's lighter blonde), classically pretty facial features, full lips (more Scar-Jo than Angelina), a killer smile (thanks to thousands of dollars spend on orthodontic work when I was in middle school and Crest Whitestrips). I used to be a dancer and now I run five days a week so I am in decent shape and my skin gets enviably golden in the summer. I'm pretty and I know it, and so does everyone else.

I am also very conscientious of my wardrobe. I know my body and what sort of clothes flatter it. I know what colors I look best in. It's the result of a subscription to Cosmo, a decent eye for style, a family that loves to shop, and a lot of trial and error (reference the previous comment about preppy-grunge). Furthermore, I take pride in being the kind of girl who is almost always appropriately dressed for any event. Cocktail reception on the Hill/Army Ball/tailgate picnic at a steeplechase in Potomac--check, check, check--I look good. I am not the kind of girl who is going to wear jeans a and t-shirt to a nice restaurant (at least not without a blazer, pearls and heels--did I mention I have the ability to make a t-shirt look like a million bucks?) but I'm also not going to get all slutted up to go to the gun club and watch my boyfriend shoot through 20 boxes of ammo.

So imagine my surprise when my boyfriend told me last week that he wasn't confident our relationship would last because he didn't see me being someone he was attracted to in ten years because I was too plain.

What he was trying to articulate (and failing miserably) was that he wished I would dress up more often and bring some sexy underwear to bed. And if he had said it like that, it would have been fine. Of course I would have countered that if he wanted me to dress up, he should take me places where I wouldn't be out of place wearing a nice dress, and that place is NOT the sports bar that we always end up going to on Saturday night (and even then, I wear jeans, a cute top and heels). And if he wants cute underwear, we need to get down to business as soon as we get back from dinner and I'm still slightly buzzed from the wine. You can't keep me up until 2AM watching stupid action movies that star the Rock (is that really his name?) and then expect me to be ready to change lingerie (since the lingerie that looks good under clothes is different than the lingerie that looks good on its own) and jump in bed with him. Here's a hint--if I'm curled up in your lap, sleeping off the bottle of pinot we shared at dinner, sex is NO LONGER on my mind.
But to tell me I am plain?!?! That's not even close to being the truth. My chin almost hit the floor in shock. Before I could point out that I had a bar full of men downstairs who would line up at the CHANCE of buying me a drink (I was in a hotel room on a business trip), he threw out "you save your A-game for work and I get the practice team."

Work gets A-game because my livelihood depends on A-game, but you want A-game? Game on, asshole.

Friday night came around and I put on a black dress, heels and eyeliner, pulled my hair up (in a real up-do that involved pins and hairspray--not a hair shark) and demanded to be taken to wine tasting and dinner at a tapas bar. And then I demanded that we stay to listen to the jazz band at said tapas bar (knowing damn well that he hates jazz). And then I demanded to dance (knowing damn well that he can't run in cadence and clap his hands at the same time). Because those are the activities that one does when she is dressed up.

Saturday night, I played even dirtier. I put on a strapless red number that I bought to wear to a girlfriend's wedding next month, spent 75 minutes straightening my hair and doing makeup and announced that I wanted to eat halibut while sitting on the river, knowing damn well that there were only two places where I can do that, and neither one of them was inexpensive.

Two dirty martinis, a shrimp cocktail, halibut, asparagus and the "special" ring-ding dessert at Chart House Savannah, the bill came. One hundred fifty dollars and I was actually a little disappointed that I didn't drive it up higher.

Sunday morning, I repeated the whole ordeal in a white sundress at champagne brunch. Only after "discovering" religion and forcing him to sit through mass with me. And then when we were done, we went antiquing instead of to the gun range because I wasn't dressed to sit around the nasty-ass gun range and watch him play with his toys.

If he wants A-game, I can play the A-game. But he should be careful what he wishes for. Several times he told me I was being "combative" or "pretentious" and unfortch, that goes with the territory--if I'm feeling physically high maintenance, I am also feeling emotionally high maintenance. If he wants the girl that I was this weekend, I am more than happy to oblige, but he can't complain when I start to play the part, so to speak.

String me along

When I was younger, I absolutely loved pepperoni pizza lunchables. I don’t eat them anymore. There is something juvenile about the whole process of spreading sauce on the crackers, then putting the cheese and pepperoni-flavored sausage on top. I just can’t get past this.

Shrek had a similar problem with string cheese. I found this out one very tragic day. We were at the grocery store, and I was getting some snacks and sodas. When we walked past the yogurt aisle, he nearly wet his pants at the site of the string cheese. “Oh my gosh! I love string cheese!” he gushed. Being the nice person that I was, I offered to get him a package of it. It seemed like an odd food for him to jizz his pants over, but, hey, everyone likes at least one really strange food.

Well, when I got home, I found out that he was grossed out by the idea of pulling pieces of cheese off the main chunks in strings. Rather than resolve to eat a snack which disgusted him less, he just ate string cheese by eating it in two huge bites. And, he didn’t stop with one. In the time it took me to eat one string cheese, he had eaten the rest of the package. This ranks as one of the top 20 grossest things I have ever seen. Come to think of it, the other 19 grossest things I have ever seen also involved Shrek.

It blew my mind that he could eat a snack of 7 string cheeses, and then have the audacity to make a huge deal out of me eating too much. For the record, I was 5’8” and 110lbs (soaking wet) at the time, and he was 6’4” and 250lbs (and it sure as hell wasn’t muscle). I never made a big deal about this. I am only bringing it up now to point out that if one of us should have been concerned about the other overeating, it should have been me. I have never in my life had a weight problem (I am currently the biggest I have ever been, and that is a whopping size 4). He had always had a weight problem. He was the fat kid who was always the first one out in dodge ball. Granted, he was not morbidly obese, but he had a good deal of chub. I would never comment on his love handles though, because I felt it was not my place to criticize him for that. I honestly don’t know how much smaller he thought I should have been. I don't know how much smaller he thought I physically could have been. Unless he goes to a third world country and finds some emaciated woman on the brink of death, he will not find someone to date who was smaller than I was when I dated him.

I haven’t seen Shrek in nearly 2 years now. Where ever he is, I hope he is dating some fat chick.