The Misadventures of an Enthusiast of Love

I went out last weekend feeling pretty good about myself. I had on my favorite accessory (spanx), snug jeans, a low-cut teal top, and my favorite wedges. I walked into my favorite bar in Riverside feeling confident, and I’m sure it could be seen in my slightest of struts.

I didn’t want to be hit on. I didn’t even want to be touched. I just wanted to be. As the evening continued on, I could tell I was not going to get my way.

The first violation of my space came from a man that I’ve always found incredibly sexy. He has a foot long mohawk and lots of piercings and tattoos.  I met him when he was married, a fact that was not shared with me at the time. Our flirtation continued until I found out from a known bubble-buster who tries to take everyone’s man that he was indeed happily married with a 3-year old daughter. My incessant flirting was put on hold…until I found out he was getting divorced. This night in particular he smiled at me, commented on my “boobs,” and slapped my ass with a towel.  Sometimes, this can be nice, but it was not welcomed considering he was doing it when his new girlfriend was out of sight. I was allowing him to treat me like a mistress or a backup, which is unacceptable and not conducive to my finding love of self.

The next violation is what sent me to my car in tears.  My friend was being hit on and enjoying her conversation or whatever while I sat staring off into space thinking about God knows what, when I was accosted by his friend.  The friend was not unattractive, I was just not looking for anything or anyone.  He offered for my friend and I to come over to their house afterward, and I respectfully declined, explaining that I had things to do the next morning.  All of a sudden, he says loudly, “Whatever, I was downgrading by hitting on you anyway, you fat bitch!” I replied with, “Excuse me?! Are you serious?!” Then, I proceeded to go off on a wild tirade about what kind of guy he was if he was hitting on someone he didn’t even find attractive, and how he needed to take a good, long look in the mirror because he wasn’t exactly a model himself. I was heated and could feel the tears welling up. My friend, who was completely oblivious to the conversation, was told that I would be waiting for her in the car.

On the way to the car and once I got into the car, I sobbed, harder than I’ve sobbed in years. My face hurt and so did my pride.  A part of me wanted to believe him, to believe that someone couldn’t possibly want me, they would just have to settle with me. The times I’ve had people say out of the blue, “Your weight doesn’t bother me,” “You look good from the neck up,” and “At least you have a good personality,” were haunting me.  I even recalled my kindergarten bully calling me Ms. Piggy.  Then, I just stopped. I wiped away my tears, remembered the beauty I do have, and sat up straight in my Jeep.  That was the moment that I decided to never let someone make me feel that way again.  That was the moment I came up swinging.

I am a part of God. I am a woman. I am a sister. I am a friend. I am overweight, but I am beautiful.  I have people that love me, so I don’t have to put with those that don’t.