need, want, have

If I am comfortable with myself, and I think that I am
beautiful and have a wonderful guy and an excellent life full of bonbons and
rainbows, why do I want to lose the weight? Why did I go through weight-loss
surgery? What the hell was I thinking?

I mean, I was thinking the usual things–health, well-being,
living long enough to do the things I know I need to do, like ski naked through
the streets of Sundance and make love in a race car and sky dive into the Grand
Canyon and maybe have a puppy (note to Guy: that is a hint). But there are
other reasons, shallower reasons that sometimes I don’t like to talk about,
because they make me embarrassed. Because who wants to be shallow? Who wants to
admit that sometimes they think less about the meaningful things in life like
health and happiness, and more time fantasizing about sexy boots?

Sometimes, I fantasize about sexy boots. Even before I was
in the morbid village of obesity land, I could not fit my calves, which were
more like full-grown cows, into knee-high boots. That made knee-high boots the
only kind of shoes I ever wanted. That made my life extremely hard and very
depressing, living without knee-high boots. I could not wade into streams and
puddles to save drowning children and kittens. I frequently developed terrible
cases of frostbite when I tried to wear dresses in cold weather, without the
protective boot layer that other women got to employ. My ankles were a buffet
for poisonous snakes and my knees belonged to the flesh-eating bugs, and I
can’t tell you how many times I contracted Lyme disease in my shins. It was
really very hard to be me. 

It was especially hard to be me in flat shoes. I am a glamorous
girl who enjoys waking up covered in glitter, who drinks champagne like water,
who wears a feather boa to the corner store, who believes that the entourage I
deserve is out there waiting for me, waiting to cover me with kisses and oil me
with attar of roses and stage motherfucking walk-offs and also feed me
strawberries. This person who I am inside, she does not wear ballet slippers or
loafers or Mary Janes no matter how cute they are. And they are really pretty cute.
But still. The important thing is
that the she inside me, she should be wearing stilettos. She should be
wearing heels that will make the Manolo weep with the
beauty of it all. She should not be worried about her knees, and her hips, and
the square poundage focused on the balls of her feet and the steel-tipped heel of
her shoe. She should not have to kick off the heels, the beautiful heels she
wore so optimistically, after 10 minutes of dancing and have to sit down
because it hurts too much to be upright any more. 

I didn’t want it to hurt so much to be upright anymore. I
wanted to sprint across Speedway meadow and make a spectacular tackle in the greatest game of touch football
ever. Everyone would be amazed by my sports prowess, my athletic grace, my
speed and strength and ability. She is like a panther, they would murmur. A
super panther of ultimate doom! They would further elaborate.

Holy crap, they would whisper, and feel a little warm in
their special places. And they would
dance up on me in the club, and I would say, no, I don’t want no scrubs and I
would wildly swing my hair and shake my ass and do my groove thing, however one
does a groove thing, and never ever have to stop to breathe or sit or rest or
feel self-conscious, it would just be music and dancing for the whole of the
night, all the way ’til morning, when I would pop up from bed, covered in glitter,
and go for a five-mile run, and then meditate and shower and put on my
high-heeled knee-high boots and go straight to work where I would be peppy and
awake and dressed extremely fashionably.

Because that is what will happen, when I lose the weight–it
will be like door after door opening up to me, in the giant mall of life, and I
will be able to fit through all those doors, and I will not have to fashion
clothes out sacks and string or pay $1,000 for a single cute top
that will last all of a month and a half. Instead, I will be able to pay $1,000 for a single cute top that is so totally a classic and will
last forever and garner me the admiration and love of everyone who crosses my
path, because they will say, "Whoa, you are so designer!" and I will be like,
"Whoa, I totally am!" Also, I want to just buy a fucking T-shirt at the Gap,

It occurs to me that it is not entirely shallow–well, maybe
the thing with the glitter is a little shallow–these secret things I think about,
these tiny little flames of want that burn behind my eyes and hurt sometimes,
and sometimes blind me. What I think I am waiting for, what I am hoping for the most is to be normal, for a given value of normal. To do what it feels
like everyone else gets to do, to be able to stop standing out from the crowd. 

And yet, I clearly still want to be extraordinary, covered
in glitter, fabulous. I want to be me, only better, as if I weren’t already
pretty damn good. It is a mindfuck, this losing weight thing–you start to think
that you are not just helping yourself feel better, but improving yourself. Fixing something that was broken. It is a
slippery slope. I do not want to say well, I don’t need high heels or
cardiovascular awesomeness on the dance floor
, because oh, I do. I just don’t
want those things to crowd out everything else. I want them to become a
benefit, a bonus, a reward for a job well done. I don’t want them to become the

8 Replies to “need, want, have”

  1. More glitter! Fewer pounds per square inch! No more dents in the floor when I walk across the room in stilletoes!
    Having my grandfather’s calves, I suspect those white go-go boots are going to go to you, girl, rather than to me. Cos even if they do fit around my, er, muscular calves, I seriously doubt that they will fit my orthotic.

  2. I so lust after knee high boots. I too have frozen my legs in skirts without the protection of boots afforded to other, less calf-endowed women.

    I think it’s ok to want the glitter AND the highbrow healthy stuff. Glitter rocks.

  3. I would say I’m not the glittery type – but I still want (and can’t have) kneehigh boots. I have come to the conclusion that I can have chunky calves, or I can have chunky muscular calves, but that’s it.

    To make it even more difficult for myself, the boots I lust after are the flat riding-boot kind that only look good if you have long elegant legs. Which I do not.

  4. So unfair that I *still* can’t wear knee-high boots, of which I similarly lust for. I console myself with cowboy boots. Maybe I should get some with glitter. I did find one pair that fits, with a secret spandex seam or something. I’m sure that is cheating and I don’t care.

  5. forget the weight thing. you’re great the way you are. if you want to do it, wear, be it, do it now. glitter optional, champagne highly recommended.

  6. You are fabulous.

    Oh, to have knee-high heeled boots in which one could dash about the city… I considered having some English riding boots made (once upon a time I sat on horses as they leapt over things), but there I would be with hundreds of dollars of boot looking rather like an Austrian shepherd.

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