Virgins, Midgets and Morbid Obesity: Brought to You by TLC

TLC is obsessed with virgins. Not too long ago, we got to feast our eyes on this delight when the network was so kind as to share the trials and tribulations of a bunch of adult virgins on The Virgin Diaries. Apparently there’s a part two in the works, and let me just tell you, I cannot freaking wait.

But somewhere between classics like Little People, Big World and The Virgin Diaries, TLC showed us a virgin of another color, taking us to the opposite end of the size spectrum: 650-Pound Virgin. As someone who enjoys a good freak show, I remember sitting down to watch and being transfixed. And at the end of the show, after the 650-pound virgin (his name is David) shed 400 pounds, became a fitness fanatic and embarked upon a new life as a functioning member of society, there was one thing everyone could agree on: David was now a regulation hottie. There was a line around the block to turn the 650-pound virgin into a 250-pound nonvirgin.

But as is often the case with reality television stars, David’s fame quickly faded into oblivion, and many (myself included) forgot about him. That is, until recently, I stumbled across a clip of David on the Today Show from a couple months ago. And I’m sorry to say it, but the 650-pound virgin turned 250-pound hottie is now a 530-pound nonvirgin.  In the interview, he talked about how even though he fixed the outside, he didn’t fix what was happening on the inside, and that led him right back to where he started, using food the way other people use drugs to escape. Everything in his voice made it clear that he is seriously depressed, possibly suicidal and needs to work on a lot more than just his physical health.

Before I continue any further, I need to make a disclaimer of sorts. I have never been an addict and I have never experienced living with/being close to an addict. I have opinions on the matter, but I can’t be sure they’re right because I’ve never experienced this situation.

That being said, I was oddly disturbed by a comment David’s girlfriend made in the interview. They had met and fallen in love when he was at his physical peak, and she’s stayed with him even as he put the weight back on. There is no doubt in my mind she loves him. As they spoke about how he is getting back on track and trying to lose the weight again, she seemed super supportive. But then she said “This is what I’ve been waiting for since he started gaining weight, for him to want to change.”

Hold the phone, lady. Yes, any addiction expert will tell you that you can’t help an addict change until they want to change. But let’s say your loved one is a heroin addict instead of a food addict. What would you do when their addiction is about to kill them but they don’t want to stop? Would you say “Okay, whenever you’re ready, dear?” Of course not! You would put them in the hospital or in a detox program so they at least don’t die while you’re waiting for them to see the light and decide to make a change. You do what it takes to at least keep them alive.

Kudos to David’s girlfriend for being supportive, for sticking by him and for not running away the minute things got difficult or the minute he got “less attractive.” But who says being supportive and putting your foot down when your partner’s unhealthy behavior is spiraling out of control are mutually exclusive? I feel like there should have been some point, well before 530 pounds, that she should have said, “I love you no matter what you look like and I’ll do everything in my power to help you through anything, but I’m not going to watch you kill yourself, so we’re going to therapy right now or I’m out.” Isn’t part of the process of dealing with an addict making it clear to them that there are going to be consequences if they don’t make a change?

I have no doubt that David’s girlfriend’s intentions weren’t to harm him, but at what point does support become negligence? If I, a total stranger, can tell from a five-minute interview with the guy that he is, without a doubt, heinously depressed, shouldn’t the person closest to him have the power to do something about it?

True change comes from within. I get that, I really do. But when someone has slit their wrists and is bleeding to death in front of your face, wouldn’t you get them to a hospital?

Putting the Kibosh on Loneliness

I often find myself here. Hay, guitar, being a man and everything.

I'm baaaack. I thought I could stay away, but I missed it too much. Today I had a fit of empty creativity and decided I wanted to write a book. In the past few months, I've decided I'm going to write both a young adult novel in which the girl doesn't end up with either of the boys because she's a strong, independent woman, and a dating self-help book. Odd match... I'll start with bringing my blog back for now. And hopefully, it'll be getting a facelift in the near future!

Speaking of facelifts, I've done a few to my life since I last wrote. I've started a new job, cut off all my hair, and... well, I guess the job's really the big one. I also took a pretty big break from dating, but in the past few months I hit the dating scene again... with a vengeance. I'm not talking different dates every day of the week, but let's just say my dates have said "oh yeah, you told me that already" on more than one occasion because I just can't keep track of who I'd told what. You'll notice, though, that this means I went on multiple dates with people. Not my typical one date, find something I hate and blow it to pieces nonsense. Progress!

Anyway, I went on a few dates with a Jewish lawyer; the thought of kissing him was repulsive, so I put the kibosh on that. Then I went on a bunch of dates with a nice guy who I finally decided wasn't actually shy, just boring. Then there was a guy who was just a little too aggressive about taking me rock climbing and whose sexuality seemed a little questionable, so that didn't go too far. 

And then I met a guy for what was supposed to be coffee, but turned into coffee, a walk by the lake, gelato and margaritas. He was out-of-my-league cute and I don't even have low self-esteem, smart, polite, hilarious and I felt like we'd never run out of things to talk about. I would go so far as to say it was the best first date I'd ever been on. And while typical me would have gotten a rush of anxiety and nausea and lost interest when he texted me within 20 minutes of leaving, I felt sweet relief and excitement.  Typical me would have been pissed off and thought it inconsiderate when he asked me out for drinks last minute, but this me eagerly said yes. And this me even willingly gave it another shot after a somewhat disastrous second date. This me had a crush on this guy, and this me wasn't afraid of it for once.

Though less afraid, there was a part of me that was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. There's always, something, right? Well, in this case, it turned out to be unresolved baggage from his last long-term relationship (though I suspect it may have had something to do with my religious beliefs, or lack thereof, but that's a whole other story). He told me about how special I am and how well we worked together but that he's just not where he thought he was, etc. etc. etc. 

I don't find it interesting that this was out of nowhere, I don't find it interesting that I'm pretty sure he liked me even more than I liked him - what I find interesting is what happened when I called my mom to tell her about it and found myself actually sobbing. I'm not talking a few stray tears here, I'm talking ugly, snot everywhere, incoherent sobbing. 

Let's back it up here. Was I sobbing about the fact that it didn't work out with him in particular? No. I mean, I liked the guy a lot, I enjoyed being around him and I wanted to see where it went. But I'd known him a couple weeks. I may have shed like one tear for him, maybe two, but this was just so far beyond being about him.

"I *gasp* just *gasp* CANNOT *noseblow* do this EVERY TIME!" And that was just it. At that very moment, I truly believed I could not handle another disappointment. It was the fact that I had gotten myself a little excited about something that didn't work out... sound familiar? Of course it does. As my father always says, every relationship and potential relationship you have will end badly until your last. But it's hard to remember that when you've just had your ego stepped on a bit. 

And then came the kicker: "I'M GOING TO BE ALONE FOREVER." This is the scariest one. What woman hasn't feared having a roommate or a cat forever? I remember, at a rather low point in my life, watching the first episode of a strange, short-lived show about a support group for suicide survivors, and the female character came home from work, fed her cat, made brownies from a box and started crying. Then she tried to kill herself, which is a little extreme, but with the exception of the suicide part, what woman hasn't played that exact scenario in her imagination, fearing it could become her reality? 

But that very thought is the one that has sent me back to reality: what woman hasn't? I seem to be meeting a lot of single women these days, and more often than not, we bond and develop friendships over this same fear. When one of these new friends and I were in a similar situation recently, it seemed every time one of us would send the other a text, the response would be the same: "I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT." In fact, one friend and I even recently discovered we both take showers as a way of passing the time when waiting for a guy to text us back. The conversation basically went like this:

ME: Sometimes I take a shower and hope by the time I get out he'll have responded.

FRIEND: OH MY GOD ME TOO.

ME: Or I'll leave my phone at home when I go run errands and say "I just need to disconnect for awhile," but really it's just so I don't give myself a heart attack checking my phone every three seconds.

FRIEND: YES!!!!

ME: WE ARE OUT OF OUR FUCKING MINDS.

Just today, I read something from a single woman who becomes paranoid that her friends and family think maybe she's just secretly a closeted lesbian since she still hasn't found a guy. And you know what I thought? THANK GOD I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO THINKS ABOUT THAT! It was so amazingly comforting to know I'm not alone, to know that even my deepest darkest singledom paranoias are shared by others. Talk about a relief!

So it's a few days later and I feel great. I don't believe the "everything happens for a reason" bullshit, but I do believe that eventually, someday, I will be in the right place at the right time and meet someone who is also in the right place at the right time and end my days as a single woman. But even if it takes awhile, I know I'm not alone in the confusing, tumultuous world of being alone.

It's good to be back.

Spring cleaning my standards

My brain, essentially.

Not too long ago, my friend and I embarked upon an exercise in which I listed my requirements in a mate and he calculated roughly how many men there were in the world who met my standards. It started off pretty reasonably: male, heterosexual, fluent in English. But as we got further into the exercise, I began to grow a bit concerned, as the number shrunk dangerously lower and lower with each requirement.

A few weeks later, I devoted an entire afternoon to cleaning my apartment. I did a deep clean of the bathroom, kitchen and living room, removed my sliding windows from their tracks, took them down, scrubbed them and returned them to their place. As I stood admiring the fact that I could actually see the sun shining into my apartment for once, it hit me: maybe my apartment wasn’t the only thing in need of a good spring cleaning.

The next night, I had a dream about a guy I’d met once, who I’d dismissed because I didn’t feel he had his life together enough. He was between college and grad school, and seemed great in all aspects but one: he wasn’t already settled into his career with his whole life figured out. It wasn’t a monumental dream or anything, and I don’t even really remember what it was about. But this guy made an appearance in it, and I woke up with my mind racing.

I made my commute to work in a daze. As soon as I got to my desk, I signed onto Gchat and IMed a friend. “I had an epiphany. I had a dream, and I need to relax my standards.”

I realized that such a declaration required some explanation, particularly first thing in the morning. As I told my friend, relaxing my standards doesn’t mean accepting any less than I deserve. It doesn’t mean lowering my standards in terms of kindness, intelligence, humor or ambition. My dealbreakers still stand. But what I couldn’t get over was this: Who am I to require that someone be “settled?”

I myself am far from settled. I’m almost 24, and sure, I have a job in my intended career field, I live on my own, I’m financially independent and can generally take good care of myself. I can tell you where I’ll be and what I’ll be doing tomorrow, next week, next month and in six months. But beyond that, I have absolutely no idea. I have a general career direction, but I change my master plan pretty much on a monthly basis. Six months ago, I was studying for the LSAT. Three months ago, I was going to get my master’s in Europe. Today, I was thinking how much I’d like to move to California, though that probably has more to do with my desire to be very thin and relaxed and wear a lot of white clothing and summer hats than it has to do with a master plan.

And did I mention I pay the government hundreds of dollars in student loan interest payments every month, simply for the privilege of owing them money? And up until I changed jobs and started making enough money to be able to breathe a little, I borrowed and repaid the same $50 from my sister on pretty much a weekly basis. I’m not settled. Who the hell am I to refuse a potential match because they aren’t either?

No, this doesn’t mean you can expect to read about a string of dates with people living off unemployment, and I don’t expect to have to write any more about paying for my own dates. It just means I’ve come to the refreshing realization that, at the end of the day, I really just want to be with someone who treats me well.

As my friend told me when I shared this epiphany with her… getting “settled” together is half the fun.

A momentous occasion...

If the President were on my date, this is what he'd look like.

Why the update so soon after the last? Well, ladies and gentleman, I had an experience this weekend that sent me running for my blog. The minute it happened, I knew I had to share it with the world, and quickly. This was the blogworthy experience of the century… perhaps it may even be the epitome of my blog.

This weekend, I officially had the worst date of my entire life.

Now, I feel terrible writing this, because I know the gentleman in question is an avid reader of Sara for Sale, and I know he’s going to read this and probably feel pretty surprised and rather salty. But I’m hoping maybe he will learn something from this that will help him in his future dating endeavors and prevent him from becoming someone else’s worst first date ever. Also, I don't really care about hurting his feelings. Sorry dude, but you had it coming.

Let’s start from the beginning. We were meeting for lunch, and he suggested a place in my neighborhood, one of my favorites, actually. I took this as a good sign, and had high hopes for the date, as he had already passed a significant test by accommodating to my convenience instead of suggesting I meet him somewhere closer to where he lives.

But that’s about where it peaked. Within five minutes of sitting down, I wanted to leave. I admit, the initial repulsion, I can’t blame him for. He wasn’t unattractive, he wasn’t dirty, he didn’t have an obviously disgusting habit or anything like that, but he just rubbed me the wrong way immediately. Again, I won’t fault him for it, because there was nothing he could have done differently, but the vibe was immediately not a good one.

But that’s about where the “no one to blame” ends and the “all his fault” begins. As we looked over the menu, he suddenly exclaimed with such passion that I half expected to look up to see him being attacked, but no, he was still looking at the menu. “$13 for mac and cheese?!”

After I picked my jaw up off the floor, I said, “Well I’ve heard it’s really good, it’s made with really nice cheeses and has bacon and all kinds of stuff in it.” I also made a mental note to not order it and looked back at the menu to choose something else, but I was too distracted by my current state of shock over the fact that this guy, this guy who chose the restaurant, decided it was okay on a first date to express his disgust over what he thought was the unacceptably high price of a menu item. Was he trying to impress me even the tiniest bit?

Not only did he prove he had no knowledge of food or the fact that the ingredients used to make good, high-quality macaroni and cheese cost more than the powdered cheese product and unenriched, starch-ridden macaroni noodles used to make Kraft macaroni and cheese, but clearly he also knew nothing about the tact and discretion necessary to make a good first impression. Besides, what did he expect me to think? Oh yes, let me date you and look forward to a whole relationship of you complaining about spending $13 for a meal! Not to mention, he has a good job at which I’m guessing he probably makes more money than I do, yet I still am able (and happy) to take myself out for a nice meal from time to time, meals that cost more than $13.

He ended up ordering it, at which point I decided it was safe for me to do so as well, so I did. As we waited for our food, the boring conversation continued. We talked about work, he told me some stories he’d already told me in our Gchat conversations, and I babbled a lot to avoid the awkward silence that would have ensued if I hadn’t. At one point, he asked me what kind of food I liked, and after I answered, he pointed out that he lives near a bunch of restaurants that are “too expensive” for him to patronize. I resisted the urge to grab the nearest fork and stab myself in the eye so I could have an excuse to leave.

When the food came, I was tempted to ask him if it was worth all $13. Instead of offering to run down the street to my apartment where I probably had a box of Kraft sitting around somewhere, I held my tongue.

Soon, the end was in sight. He asked the waitress for the check, and I had an internal battle. You see, I usually don’t offer to pay on a first date. Nine guys out of ten would never let the girl pay on a first date, and I think it makes it more awkward to offer when we both know I’m not going to pay. I do know some people who think differently. I know some men who would prefer that the woman not offer and agree that it just makes the situation awkward, and others who prefer the woman at least offer, even though they do not intend to let her pay. But I’ve never heard anyone argue about whether or not a man should actually let a woman pay. I don’t know a single person who believes a woman should pay anything on the first date. Honestly, the whole situation just makes me uncomfortable and is part of what makes me the most nervous about first dates. Sometimes I decide I’m going to offer, but when the time comes I just clam up and don’t. I’m always relieved when a man is prepared and hands his credit card to the waitress just as she brings the check.

But given this guy’s complete lack of tact, I knew I really needed to offer this time. So when the check came, I reached in my purse and pulled out my credit card. As I reached out to put it with the check, he said “Actually—” and I hesitated, expecting the rest of the sentence to be “don’t worry, I’ve got it.” But silly me! “Actually,” he said, “it’s exactly 50/50 because we had the same thing.” I dropped the card with the bill instead of dropping my jaw to the floor.

As we left, he said, “Well we should definitely do this again sometime.” I don’t like to lie, but I just said “Uh huh, sure, talk to you later, bye!” I probably almost got hit by a car crossing the street, but I needed to get as far away as possible, and immediately. With equal urgency, I called my friend and blurted out “I just went on the worst date of my life!”

Thinking about it later, I wondered if maybe he’d been equally as bored as I had, and didn’t want to waste his money on a girl in whom he had no interest. Rude, but understandable. But just a few hours later, he sent me an email with an article about something we’d talked about and said he hoped the television shopping trip I was going on with my roommate was fruitful. Obviously, he was not running for the hills like I was.

Needless to say, I won’t be responding.

Like Sammi from Jersey Shore, just call me Sweetheart

Oh, you know, just rememberin' and stuffs

Do you ever feel like maybe your memory is an excessive stalker, tracking insignificant memories from the past? It’s like certain details stick with you and maybe they shouldn’t, maybe no one else remembers them and you’re creepy for it. Maybe you check the Facebook page of someone you aren’t even friends with and look at their photos. Or perhaps you simply think of someone from time to time who you’re sure never thinks of you, recalling a conversation or a shared moment.

I do, a lot. I’m a pretty sentimental person, and my memory can be overactive, hanging onto the smallest bits and pieces, refusing to let go. It’s not like I have some super memory and vividly remember everything that’s ever happened to me, but I’ve always thought I remember more than most people. From time to time, I say to a friend, “Oh, remember that one time when…” only to be met with a puzzled expression.

Well, I took my sentimental self back to my college last weekend. It had been awhile since I’d been back, and it was homecoming weekend, so a lot of people were in town. Ah, the memories. You know, the memories only I remember and the memories everyone else remembers.

I caught up with an old friend who was also in town for the weekend, and we were reminiscing about how I didn’t like her when we first met. You see, she was friends with my (at the time) recent ex boyfriend, and rumors were flying around like crazy about all kinds of things. Considering it’s years later and we were drinking and gossiping together, we’ve obviously worked things out since then, and she’s just finishing up grad school at the same school my ex boyfriend transferred to, where he’s working in a coffee shop.

In discussing the rough beginning to our friendship, we came to the topic of this boyfriend, and she brought up a nickname I’d pretty much forgotten about. You see, when he and I started dating, my ex’s roommates started calling me “Sweetheart.” I had no name, just Sweetheart, as in, “Hey, when’s Sweetheart coming over? What are you and Sweetheart doing tonight?” They called me this so exclusively, in fact, that I sometimes wondered if they even knew my name.

When we broke up, my endearing nickname took a turn for the worse, and they began referring to me as “Skeetheart.” Charming, huh? Though Skeetheart stuck pretty solidly in my memory, I had nearly forgotten I’d ever had my more affectionate nickname. Until now.

“You know,” my friend said, “I see him all the time at the coffee shop where he works. And you know how coffee lids are made by a company called Sweetheart and it says it on the lid? With the little heart next to it? Well, every time I’m there and he puts the lid on my coffee, he says ‘Ugh, Sweetheart,’ and rolls his eyes.”

I couldn’t help but feel a bit victorious. He may have broken my heart, but now he’s the one who has to think of an old nickname I’d nearly forgotten while he does his job. I guess I’m not the only one who remembers things I shouldn’t!

But that wasn’t the end of my weekend of bizarre nostalgia. Just a few hours (and a lot of drinks) later, I checked my phone to see I had a text from a number I didn’t know. “Hey, how are you?” I stared at it for a few minutes before realizing I recognized the area code: the finder of “the one.”

Now here was someone I really hadn’t thought about in months. I mean, he was pretty inconsequential and was out of my life just as soon as he entered it. If I hung onto every memory of everyone I liked for a hot minute, I’d be inundated, and not in a good way.

I still wanted to be sure it was him, so I asked who it was, and he said “I read your blog post about me from months ago.” Talk about a buzzkill. Literally. I drove us home at the end of the night.

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

“I just wanted to see how you’re doing.” Not acceptable.

“Why do you care?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.” Also not acceptable. I was not a happy camper. I excused myself and stepped outside so I could concentrate.

Refusing to take “I don’t know” for an answer, I pushed harder. I mean really, who just randomly decides to talk to some girl they passed up for “the one” after months, just because? Plus, it’s completely unfair to me for him to just stir that pot willy nilly. I further expressed my confusion.

“My lady has been mean lately.” Your lady? Really? I’m not your sister, your therapist or your friend. Tell someone who cares.

“Why is she being mean? I thought she was ‘the one.’” I couldn’t resist.

“She is. Sorry to bother you.”

I returned to my friends, dumbfounded, annoyed, angry, everything. And only now, a few days later, does it hit me. Not only did this blast from the past think of me randomly, but he read my blog. I deleted him from my Gchat friends months ago, and we were never friends on Facebook. And there have been numerous blog posts since then, so he had to read back quite a ways.

Now, I’m not saying he spent hours stalking me or anything, but this had to take at least a tiny bit of effort. I mean, the blog post didn’t just appear in front of him while he walked down the street, and a text to me didn’t just magically write itself in his phone, though that’d be kind of cool if it did.

All I mean is these little incidents, these little reminders and memories, they don’t make us creepers. Because as much as we deny it, we all remember these tiny little things, these nicknames, these insignificant people. I don’t know why a keen memory is something to keep secret – we all have them.

You know that Stars song, “Your Ex Lover is Dead?” The guy sings about meeting someone again with whom he once had some sort of romantic connection, and he says “All of that time you thought I was sad, I was trying to remember your name.” Well, he’s a liar.

It's February 14th and I'm single

Well, it’s Valentine’s Day, so it’s probably necessary that this single girl write a post about how much this day sucks for people like her, right? Or about how we should always be thinking about those we love every day and not just on a holiday invented by greeting card companies, right? I’m supposed to spend my night gorging myself on chocolate and watching stupid movies and thinking about ex boyfriends and cuddling with my cat and crying myself to sleep, right?

Wrong.

I am admittedly not a person who loves being single. I don’t go on all these dates because I think it’s fun and like meeting new people — I go on them with the goal of not being single anymore. Sure, getting drunk and making out with boys in bars can be fun under the right circumstances, but it’s not such a valuable (or frequent) part of my life that I’m willing to give up being in a relationship so I can keep it. So if you’re looking for some empowering, independent single life love fest, look elsewhere.

That being said, you also won’t find me in a chocolate coma with mascara-streaked cheeks tonight either. Instead, I’m going to the gym with my gym buddy and fellow single girl friend, then coming home, eating vegetables and watching my silly Monday night television. Which is probably the same thing I’ll be doing tomorrow night, and the same thing I’d be doing tonight even if it weren’t an inconsequential holiday that doesn’t apply to me.

It’s kind of like how I don’t change my routine when it’s Ramadan, another holiday that doesn’t apply to me. In the past, I have also treated Valentine’s Day kind of like Jews who get together for Chinese food and a movie on Christmas – I get together with other single girlfriends and go on Valentine’s Day girl dates! One year, my friend and I went for a fancy dinner and then came home, got in our pajamas and drank 40s of Miller High Life in bed. Just last year, one of my dearest friends happened to be visiting from North Carolina on Valentine’s Day, so we got dressed up and went on a girl date for dinner and drinks. I particularly enjoy this approach as well.

So there will be no crying for me today, no mourning my lost loves, no chocolate, no chick flicks, no rants about how we need to express our love for friends and family every day of the year.

It’s February 14th and I’m single. But you know what? I was also single February 12th and February 13, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be single on February 15th too.

Don't judge

I'll post something soon, but for now, I'd just like to share one of my favorite Lady Gaga quotes from her Vanity Fair interview.

"I had a boyfriend who told me I'd never succeed, never be nominated for a Grammy, never have a hit song, and that he hoped I'd fail. I said to him, 'Someday, when we’re not together, you won't be able to order a cup of coffee at the fucking deli without hearing or seeing me.'"

So perfect.