SelfAbsorbed.ME : ‘It’s Your Life, We Just Write it Funnier’

Let me begin by saying, being a woman sucks. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t enjoy many things about being a girl, things like makeup and clothes and pretty pink ponies, because I do (except the ponies.) It’s just that it seems in today’s modern world and in a city like New York especially, feeling good about how you look can be pretty challenging.

I would consider myself to be a woman of average proportion. I’m 5′5″ (average height for an American female), I am not overweight or underweight, and yet I often find I can’t walk down the goddamn street without feeling like a hot pile of physical failure. I think women anywhere in America are subject to a retarded amount of pressure from the media to look a certain way or to fulfill stereotypes about female beauty, but there is no city quite like New York where you pass it on the street.

In Anytown, USA, you can look at the models in Glamour and say, “oh well, these women aren’t real, they’re simply airbrushed to look beautiful and thin, so there’s no need to worry about being compared to them.” That’s what I try to say to myself every time I am unfortunate enough to be faced with some idiotic women’s magazine in a doctor’s office or newsstand, and anyway, I realize that these unrealistic standards are only as effective as we allow them to be. Then I turn around and am surrounded by goddamn catwalk models outside of Grey’s Papaya or wherever the hell I happen to be stalking my next meal.

Seriously? I just got finished giving myself a little pep talk about how you bitches aren’t real and how starving myself to be thin isn’t worth it because I’ll be so cranky and hungry that I’d be likely to go on some kind of stabbing spree, and here I am surrounded by tall thin goddesses who are somehow also able to chow down on hot dogs and ice cream while still making an ensemble made from a burlap sack and glittered leggings look hot. THANKS.

Most of the time (in the isolation of my own apartment with flattering lighting and mirrors) I feel pretty okay about myself and my appearance, but like any girl, I too suffer from insecurities and have my own bad hair/face/skin/body/butt days (sometimes weeks.) Even though I know that outward appearances are all a bunch of bullshit and real value is on the inside blah blah blah, we all want to look our best and avoid some moment in the future where we look at old pictures of ourselves and think, “Man, I used to look good.”

It has nothing to do with men, either: it’s entirely how you feel about yourself, and recently, I was feeling pretty shitty. I decided that it was time to get serious and go on a diet.

I also had a plan to go to the gym, but then I remembered, “Hey wait, I have a job at which I work 45+ hours a week and a lot of other important shit to do. One thing I can spare is forcing myself into an awkward environment where I’m certain that weirdos in mesh shorts are staring at me creepily as I use the hip adductor.” Or in other words, “Hey, fuck that place.”

Dieting in New York is just as impossible as not feeling crummy about yourself when you pass supermodels on the sidewalk, which is why you just can’t win. If you’re cutting calories you might as well get swine flu and confine yourself to your apartment, because you can’t eat anything good, you probably shouldn’t be drinking, and you’re generally about as fun to be around as a raw vegan at a barbecue (cue comments from angry vegans).

Not only do you have to restrict what you eat, but in order to do so, you basically have to restrict what you do and where you go, unless you have the discipline and willpower of Wonder Woman. Eating and drinking are majorly social activities. What the hell else are you supposed to do with friends on a weeknight? Play shuffleboard? Watch Rock of Love? Do a crossword? Talk to each other and connect on a deeper emotional level? Yes, you could, but you damn well better be chowing down or getting drunk at the same time, or else it will be a very dull and empty evening. Bye bye, social life.

Given the impossibility of enjoying life while on a diet, mine lasted approximately one week. Just as you pass gorgeous thin women on the street, you also pass hot dogs, taco stands, bagel shops, and more Dunkin Donuts than you can shake a stick at. Endless, painful, excruciating temptation. And while it may be easy enough to avoid the obviously bad-for-you things like fast food and street meat, most delicious meals in restaurants (even ones that seem healthy) aren’t doing you any favors either, and in my opinion, if it doesn’t taste good, it’s not worth eating.

There are certain things I just need in order to keep my sanity at a certain level. Pad thai. Sushi. Pasta. Cheese. I love my fruits and vegetable, god knows I do, but sometimes the carbs and dairy just call to you with their sweet siren song, and it’s impossible to resist, so far be it from me to deny my taste buds the things they so desperately yearned for. Though I am still curbing my alcohol intake significantly (for other reasons), I just couldn’t see the point of going through life in a world where I couldn’t eat ice cream and eggs and Velveeta cheese product and generally just stuff my face.

A lesson that I learned (and that I learn every freakin’ time I try to trick myself into losing weight) is this: I enjoy food. And I enjoy eating. And I have no self-control. And if I have to hate on stick-thin gorgeous women to feel better about myself and the chicken nuggets I just absolutely have to have, then so be it. They get enough admiration anyway.