Some things are allegorical

The fellow I’m seeing at the moment is very sensitive about his weight.

When I first met him for a drink he announced that he was on a no carb diet, which is an interesting, if not slightly theatrical, first date topic of conversation. He struggled to explain the benefits of cutting out an entire food group, with a lot of “ums” and “I thinks” thrown in.
“I shouldn’t even be drinking beer,” he stated. “But, I think you’re worth it.”

Gee, thanks. Swoon.

I told him that alcohol is a diuretic, so if water weight was his concern, beer wouldn’t hurt too much. He didn’t understand the concept, and after trying to explain it I gave up and offered him a sandwich in the hopes that it would get some synapses firing.

I caught up with him again recently and he was wearing an awful pair of skinny jeans. Pink ones, I believe. Pease don’t judge him. Or me. He is a nice guy. I joked that his pants were a bit tight- only because they were, ironically, much skimpier than the pair I chose to wear. He immediately became defensive, so I decided to keep the joke about the hue to myself. The following morning I was admiring a tattoo on his ribcage. He proclaimed, “don’t look at my stomach, I’m very sensitive about it.” At that point I suggested that it may be time for him and his pink pants to depart.

I find this situation odd for a few reasons. Firstly, I’m fucking him, so I must find him appealing in some way. I now understand the innate frustration my male friends speak of when girls complain endlessly about their weight. Also, isn’t it stereotypically meant to be the girl who is obsessed with this nonsense?

Personally, I am not overly picky about a guys image. If he can challenge me and make me laugh I’m halfway there, and physically, as long as he is taller than me and looks like he can pick me up I’m happy. Chemistry is a funny thing, and all of my exes have been quite different, I have dated smart guys, athletic types and artistes. The wrapping on the present doesn’t phase me much- you can’t have a conversation with a six pack, and a set of biceps won’t make you laugh. Besides, I lie more on the side of Botticelli than Victoria’s Secret myself, and I would hate to be held by some unattainable standard of beauty, especially when I have, you know, a brain and an opinion. The latter in spades. I’d like to think my appeal lies elsewhere.

Secondly, I don’t diet. I used to. Once upon a time I dieted long and hard. Some of it was healthy, some of it wasn’t- I once ate nothing but boiled leek for an entire weekend…well, I made it ¾ of the way through before buying a Big Mac and a bottle of red wine. The phrase and then I gave up seemed to describe all of my dieting efforts. So, after spending most of my twenties hating the body I was in with a fervour that should only be reserved for Tony Abbott, I gave up. Funnily enough, the second I stopped dieting I started losing weight, and I generally stay the same size now. That’s all the excuse I need to periodically eat chocolate for dinner.

So, to meet a guy who diets, is obsessed about his weight and wears tighter pants than me is…odd. Really odd, actually. What ever happened to masculinity? Where is the alpha male? What happened to the guys who politely laugh at a girls bad jokes in the hopes it will get them into bed? Are they around? If you are out there, I would like to meet you- my mum tells me that am pretty and I can cook.

A friend of mine recently told me that his girlfriend suggested that he go on a diet and lose a bit of weight. I found this statement endlessly intriguing because, to me, it highlighted a very important double standard between the sexes. Only a girl can get away with saying something like that. If a guy ever suggested to me that I needed to lose a bit of weight my reaction would be, “well, I guess I can’t give you anymore blow jobs. Semen contains 36 calories, so if you are concerned about my midsection, I think that may be a good place to start.”

So, I’m not sure what to say to my pink friend. I asked a mate for advice and was told, “Dump him, find yourself a man who looks like he could slay an elk, roast it on a spit, and tear the flesh from the bone with a fervour that I guarantee will be matched in other areas. Food is allegorical for sex. I don’t date women who exist on salad because they are the most unenthusiastic, boring women in bed.”

As if I needed another excuse to eat chocolate.


2 thoughts on “Some things are allegorical

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