Confessions of the Fat Girl #7
I am offended and maybe even hurt. I am still trying to decide.
You see, on a fluke several months ago, I joined a “singles online” thingie. In the olden days, ya know, they did this sort of thing all the time… long distance relationships through the postal service. Sometimes the couple completely knew and loved one another before ever laying eyes on each other.
I have tried this sort of e-dating adventure before. In fact, I have met five of my e-penpals and, for the most part, liked them all. It starts out great… we share some electronic laughs and get to know one another without being all warped about “chemistry” and such. Then we talk on the phone. And then… the big question, “When can we meet?”
(At this point, you may be wondering why I have posted this in “Confessions.” It will make sense in the end. I promise.)
The first penpal flew from Boston to Salt Lake to embrace me. All the wind beneath his wings stopped blowing as soon as he stepped foot off that plane. Yeah. We didn’t have any chemistry. It was so weird because we connected on every other level – letters, emails, photos, endless phone conversations. In those arenas, we seriously could rock the house. But in one another’s presence? Nope. Nada. Zilch. Nothing.
Second penpal was another man who was willing to fly to me. This time, from Toronto, Canada to Salt Lake. After spending a week with him here in my homeland and sharing him with my family, I could have sworn I would eventually marry him. I found myself questioning the actual possibility, however, when I spent two weeks with him in his homeland. With children and ex-spouses on both sides, as well as legalities, it was virtually impossible for either of us to cross the invisible line that divided our lands.
Heart broken, I threw in the towel and I closed my online-meet-and-greet-and-find-your-true-love account for some time. Then, my friends roped me into it again, but I got smart and narrowed my selections considerably. The man had to be from Salt Lake or Idaho, where I was residing at that time.
Third penpal was… well… more about him later.
Fourth penpal was this hot Italian/Brazilian number who had moved to Salt Lake for religious reasons that, looking back on it now, I am certain were false. He and I tangoed for about three months. He was a yumm-a-licious guy who talked to me in Italian and cooked me Italian food. He made my head spin, but I found out later, he had a “serious-girlfriend-almost-a-fiancé” on the side. I had to wonder why he had been playing the field with me if he was so in love with her.
Fifth penpal was a nightmare in a muscle-tee (it was 2005! Muscle-tees went out in the 80’s didn’t they?!?!) and a black leather full-length duster with matching black leather pants that were so tight they squeaked when he sat down. He was bald. I have nothing against bald guys. In fact, I think bald can be very sexy. But he hid his baldness beneath hats and bandanas and such in all of his pictures, he never mentioned it and he was a not-so-sexy kind of bald. He was one of “those” guys that is not cool but thinks he is. Yeah. No chemistry there on my part.
After him, I said absolutely never, never, NEVER again!
(Okay… now that all the set-up is done, the relevant part of the story is going to go pretty fast. Ya still with me?)
So, as I said, about eight months ago I joined another online group. This time, though, I did it more to help a friend spy on her cheating boyfriend. (Yeah. Now there’s a healthy relationship in the making!) I created a profile because the site required it. And then I began my sleuthing.
Amazingly enough, my profile started getting hits. It didn’t even excite me though. Been there. Done that. Then, I started getting “flirts.” Ah. That was new. However, the site required me to pay a membership fee if I wanted to flirt back or correspond in any way with anyone. I didn’t want to pay to waste my time and energy again. Or my heart.
See, mostly, I was remembering penpal Number Three. He was this drop-dead-gorgeous guy whose pictures undersold him by a long shot. When he and I met up, he was so damn attractive that I actually lost control of my mind and developed a speech impediment. I could not speak in complete sentences. I could not formulate a congruent thought. I could not even carry on an adult conversation. It was insane.
Thing is, I was not at all connected to him in person. Yeah, he was great to look at, complete candy for the eyes, but he was so wrapped up in himself, his looks, his body and his façade that he wouldn’t let anyone near him. I had no desire to pursue any sort of relationship with him then or ever, but at least I attempted to be cordial.
He, however, seemingly hoped I would immediately disappear. He was unquestionably not attracted to me – and, actually, repulsed by me. The energy he put off was scary. I felt like a puppy that had been kicked one too many times in the gut by a heartless master and then left to die. This guy actually loathed the sight of me.
All he saw was Fat.
It was such a blow to my femininity, my ego and my heart. It was nice to soften that blow by the Italian/Brazilian whom I think could say anything in his smooth-as-melted-chocolate way and I would have been wont to believe it. Me being so conscious of the unattractiveness burned into my brain with the laser beams of Number Three’s eyes, I actually chose to believe Number Four’s sexy, accented line, “Angie, you are a most beautiful, sexy woman. You greatly undersell yourself by saying to me you are fat.”
Yeah. Tell that to Number Three.
Long story, longer, about a month ago I finally decided to pay for a membership to this new site because one really “cute” guy had flirted with me three different times. He and I were hitting it off beautifully. I laughed a lot as I read his notes. He willingly answered my off-the-wall questions as I hoped to bore into his soul. He bounced back equally as insightful questions. I thought it was going great.
“How long are we going to do this penpal thing? Am I ever going to get your number?”
I guess I should have been grateful he wanted to talk, maybe even meet. But, remember? I have been here before. Five times before.
I am even more “cushioned” than I was when I met Number Three or dallied with Number Four. And my heart is so many more years tender than it was “back then.” As insurance, I directed him to the directory for my “Confessions of the Fat Girl.”
That was two weeks ago.
I haven’t heard from him since.