I’m drunkish. I feel obligated to write for you. But you’ll take obligated, won’t you? Yeah, that’s human nature.
Stringing thoughts together might be a challenge. But. It’s not like I get graded on this, right?
It’s been a weird day. I’ll get into that in a minute, but you need the prelude first.
I was up at 5, for starters. Oh, what a horrid thing that is. Then I weighed myself. Down 3 pounds this week. Heh, I’m sure I’m rectifying that terrible inconvenience tonight, though.
I’m now drunk and full on the bounty I acquired with about 18km of cycling after work today. An incredible freak of a February day. People were out tanning. Beautiful. Nothing like a sunny Friday to inspire a rash of “mental health” days in Vancouver. Parks and beaches were SUSPICIOUSLY full for a Friday afternoon.
I rode over to Commercial Drive for a foodie-hits-the-haunts kinda afternoon. I hit up some of the great shops, like Uprising Breads and Falconetti’s*. I netted delights like like Yucatan Chicken sausage and Jalapeno Cornbread, and eventually weighed myself down a ridiculous amount, considering I’m she of Rehabbing Back Injury. Duh much?
Well, before you jump to my defense and say what a smart gal I am, let me shoot down that foolish notion of yours, okay?
But before I totally deflate my pride, I will briefly report this: It’s been a fucking long week. I’ve been tired. Then I got up at five this morning so I could end the week with a great bike ride. And I kinda forgot to hydrate for about three hours there. And I cycled 90 minutes.
So, I was dumb, no? Which is important to establish. You know, for causation. And all.
I get to the Drive and hit up my fave deli shop. There’s this hot Indian guy I notice and kinda smile about as I continue with my shopping.
Suddenly I see all these foods I wish I could afford. And even if I could, I’ve got a back injury and can’t cycle it all home yet (even though I have one saddle bag; had to backpack stuff too though, so, not good). I mean, marinated Calabrian hot peppers to be used as an add-in condiment to stews and such? UNGH! ME WANTS.
Anyhow, I went into this whole needy-despot mode and got all tired and brain-hurty and dehydratey and stuff. I resisted the avjar and green peppercorns and artichoke pate and… sigh. My soul wept. So much denial has to severely harm souls.
Must have today, anyhow, because I became pretty out to lunch in a “in your budgetting fantasies” kind of way.
I was at the deli counter to order a little cheese and sausages, and he was there. HE was there looking at bevvies before I approach the counter. I took a number. HE lingered, choosing nothing. I placed my order. HE was still there, looking at nothing but glancing in my direction. Oblivious am I. I wander off, start trying to figure out what else I should acquire, while standing at an unused checkout. HE comes over and takes a little long to look for The Right Bunch of Bananas. Which HE then drops. Next to my foot. And picks up. Brushing the back of my calf.
And I take the cue to go look at tomatoes.
This is The HotIndian guy. Pair of jeans, athletic jacket, neurotically-trimmed beard (the only kind I approve of; big fan of goatees and soul patches though). The guy *I* thought was hot.
Lovely tomatoes, it turns out. Worth it? Not really.
I even caught him looking at me as we stood in opposite checkout lines! I did nothing! I put my basket down and unpacked. ARGH! GOD! [GROAN] What have I done? Not fucking much, it seems. Sigh.
I may have been cute to the odd guy in the past, but I’ve never been “attractive” before. I’m not used to HOT guys trying to get my attention. It used to be just dweebs and freaks. And then it was not-my-types who dug me. For a while it’s been an interesting mix. Only in the last couple weeks or so have I really noticed men, who I would have thought were “out of my league” before, checking me out. I mean, I’ve lost 10+ pounds since my last “cute” picture, so I’m sort of still processing how I look these days. And, let’s face it, we shouldn’t be our own judge and jury.
I’m not USED to guys trying to pick me up in public places. Not like Mr. Hottie. And the thing is, I’ve been curious lately about Indian guys. Land of the Kama Sutra? HELLO! I’ve never been with one. Don’t know why I’ve been pondering it, but lord knows I have.
I got out of the store before him, and was going to try and catch his eye and grin, but then I freaked out and thought I lost my keys. Which, of course, I hadn’t (duh-redux), and then he was gone.
This is just another area where I’ll have to reconcile the fact that I ain’t the girl I used to be, and people see me differently. And not in a bad way.
But the problem is, I’ve always been kind of oblivious to the world in an I-don’t-give-a-shit kind of way. You know, the girl who subconsciously goes from tapping her foot in line to dancing a little?
Well, unfortunately, when you’re FAT, it looks like you’re trying to get attention or you’re just trying too hard. Doesn’t matter if that’s just “you”, it doesn’t seem plausible that a Fattie could want to be seen moving or something.
But I’m that girl. I dance. I have groove. I whistle in public. (I like to whistle that song from Kill Bill.) Now that I’m thinner and comfortable in my skin and I look healthy, etc, I guess being “dancing-her” means I’m perceived as comfortable and confident instead of “trying too hard”.
I’m still kind of oblivious, though. You know, in that I miss hot Indian guys trying to pick me up with the old drop-the-bananas-as-an-excuse-to-touch-her-legs gag. How I didn’t clue in for 10 minutes just hurts my head. I’m considered a sex blogger. His BANANA touched MY LEG.
Freud would be amused that the main thing I returned home with tonight were sausages. Lots and lots of sausages. And a bottle of cheap red. Delis and markets, you say?
It’s ironic that I should lose 70 pounds to only reach the conclusion that I seriously need to spend more time in deli shops.
*Falconetti’s is bar & grill that specializes in homemade-handmade sausages, the best kept secret on the Drive being you can BUY the sausages raw at 60% off for take-home cooking. You go up to the bar and ask if you can order some sausage. Whatever’s $5.50 on the menu is $2.21 to take home. A BEAUTIFUL thing. I have Thai chicken & Yucatan chicken, but they have bratwurst, etc, and make it all themselves. They’re talking about opening a meat shop, but you didn’t hear that from me.
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