|Remember this fuckery?
Ok so, I don’t know if you guys remember a few years ago, when Derek Luke (chocolate fineness) and Boris Kodjoe (caramel? fineness), were doing a press junket for the movie Baggage Claim, and the topic of “keeping it tight” came up some way or another. While Derek (who is either more media-savvy, or who was better prepared by his PR folks), declared that he loved his wife no matter what, Kodjoe went into some bullshit ass soliloquy about how he was married to his “girlfriend” and she was married to her “boyfriend” and they had a mutual duty to keep it together for each other. He caught some flack, but Black Female Twitter wasn’t as formidable in those days as it is now. The internets moved on and let him make it. I did not. Cuz that was some bullshit.
I personally have to wonder what the relationship is based on in the first place if weight gain is a deal-breaker, but that’s not the focus of this post. I believe the amount he put on it was “100 pounds”. Ok, let’s roll with that. Yup, a hundred whole pounds is a lot to look up and realize your significant other has put on. Nope, you didn’t sign up for that. Nope, you’re not attracted to them anymore. Yup, you’re in a tough spot because you don’t (hopefully) want to cheat, but this enlarged version of the one you love is not the bizness. You want that old thing back. Got it. Point taken. Here’s the truth of the matter: shit happens.
|“You must be on that new diet, Slim Slow!”
The reason for this post, here it is….So I’m sitting at my desk, minding my own business, when my helpful hubby asks me (for the fifty-leventh time) if I wanna go to the gym. I promptly tell him ‘no’. We’ve had this convo before. Now I know most of you are like “He’s tryin not to cheat on your fluffy ass. Go to the gym already!” I hear you. But here’s the thing…we have discussed, on multiple occasions, that I am not a “couples” workout kind of person. Me and this dude can’t even walk down the street together because his legs are much longer than mine. I get pissed (and winded) trying to keep up, and he gets pissed (and irritated) because he has to slow down. So just what, pray tell, is a gym session featuring the two of us bound to turn into. Exactly.
So, I have been in and out and back and forth with my own gym attendance, because, as I said before, shit happens. I plan to go work out, shit goes down, my evening goes from p90x to this:
And the thing is this: I know I’m fucking up. I know this. I know. I’m getting. Fat. Gahddam. I know this. I also know the use of the term “am getting” is possibly wishful thinking on my part, cuz that ship sailed about thirty pounds ago, but the point is, I know. And while I appreciate the friendly nudge to do the right thing, and while I appreciate the heads-up that you may not be feeling me at this particular point on the scale, you can’t tell me anything I’m not already telling myself. I got me. I will work it out. Do I expect you to wait til the twelfth of nevuary for me to get back on the treadmill? Nope. But I do expect you to get off my nuts long enough for me to work through whatever it is I need to work through to get back on track. Damn straight I do.
In all fairness to my hubs, he’s never said one disparaging or disrespectful word to me regarding my ever-changing waistline, but it’s the kind of thing a girl thinks about. Knowhatimsayin? It’s the kind of thing that bugs you when you’re s/o points out every ninety-eight pound, Blasian chippie (not sayin all Blasian women are chippies), and everything he likes is the opposite of what you are. It’s…disconcerting. And this is the type of thing that leads to insecurities and relationship issues and shit. IJS.
Why am I sharing this? Because I’m trying to get back to what this blog is about. Relationships and such. There’s nothing wrong with having standards. There’s really not even anything wrong with expecting your s/o to keep themselves up. It’s basic self-love and shit. And I won’t go into all the reasons people gain weight, and I’ll certainly admit to the fact that women leave and cheat over appearances the same way men do. I’m just posing questions here. How much weight is too much? Apparently for Boris, it’s a hundred pounds. How long does the person have to lose it before you don’t love them anymore? And do you get a hall pass to cheat if they don’t lose the weight in a timely fashion? Do you get to burn off all together? Fuck the kids and the life we’ve built. You’re fat. I’m out! Is that the deal?
Nobody’s perfect. Everybody’s got some kind of struggle. Life is fucking hard. Do we manage to overcome? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But I don’t think anybody sits down and decides: “I think I’d like to have high blood-pressure. And diabetes. And gout.” Everybody isn’t lazy. Everybody isn’t sitting around eating cookies and deep-fried bacon strips. You have no idea what’s going through a person’s mind about the state of their life, weight, appearance. And, for all you know, that person is in the middle of implementing some pretty monumental life changes, and losing weight is on the list, but they’d like to secure, oh…idk…like a roof over their head. Finish their degree. Make sure their kids are straight. Before they get into the lifestyle changes that are required to live in gymland like some people do. Damn.
Anyhoo, that’s the end of that rant. I just had to deliver my soul. And that is all for now.
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