He swipes right.
You swipe right.
It’s a match.

He’s smart, funny, doesn’t have serious mommy issues or a speech impediment (SOLD). You begin texting each other regularly with some intermittent FaceTime, which feels promising insofar as your usual online exchanges go. Normally you don’t invest any time. “Digital chemistry” is just that; digital. You would much rather meet up for a drink and decide in the first 5 minutes that there is zero chemistry.

So the fact that you are willing to practice patience given your schedules and inability to meet up right away says something; you really like this guy. This song and dance goes on for about 5 weeks (a personal world record). Finally you coordinate your schedules and plan to meet up in the Distillery District where you live, so you can give him his first tour of the Christmas Market. You’re both pretty excited.

In the 5 weeks that you’ve been talking, you cover everything from politics to infertility. And then 3 days before you plan to meet up, you’re on the phone and you realize you’ve never asked him that question. Yes that question.

“So what is your biggest turn-off?”

To which he responds (and without hesitation), “Loud, fat women”.

POW

Sucker punched.

Dead silence.

Your immediate, idiotic thought is “what about quiet fat women?”.
So you take a deep breath and in two succinct minutes, you tell him your story.
You tell him about your dark history with food.
And that you used to weigh 305 lbs.
And about all the reconstructive surgery post weight loss.
And the Breast Butcher.
And the scars.
And the eating disorders.

Pregnant pause............................

He finally responds, “Well...you’re not fat anymore and you look great from what I can tell”.
You’re too devastated to carry on this convo so you make your exit and say, “See you Saturday”.

Loud, fat women.
Loud, fat women.
Loud, fat women.

You keep repeating these words in your head.
You don’t know what to do.
You’ve always had zero tolerance for weightism and body shaming.
But you really liked---like this guy.
But how can you go out on a date with someone whose biggest turn-off is the entire essence of your being?
But IS it the entire essence of your being?
Are you even making sense?
Are you only defined by your past? Have you not evolved?

So you tell yourself you’re being dramatic and overly sensitive. You sleep on it. 
You decide to let it go. Fuck your superego.

And then comes Saturday.
He never calls. You never hear from him again.
And you’re relieved. Ish.

Did you overwhelm him with honesty? In your defense, it didn’t feel like you came on too strong….but you probably scared him off anyway. So what do you do? What any curious elder millennial would do. You creep his Facebook. And in your social audit, you’re immediately hit with a barrage of irate commentary on obese women and Amy Schumer.

Quelle surprise.

This.
This is why you will never transcend.
This is why you’ve never been in love.

You want acceptance of your former self more than you want adoration for your new self. You feel like a host to an imposter. A parasite. A fleeting parasite in a size 6. Ok maybe an 8. You’re crippled by fear of meeting someone who will accept you as you are but not as you were because you live in the past.

You call yourself a romantic?
What’s romance without self love?

It’s been 8 months since your last food episode.
You should be proud.

But then this happens. This one disheartening Tinder experience which has everything to do with you and nothing to do with this bro-troll (or any men for that matter).

And you’re triggered.
So you relapse. Hard.

I won’t elucidate.

But here’s the silver lining.

This experience taught me symbiosis between my old body and new body. This was a lesson in self oppression and corporeal imprisonment. And while the pendulum sometimes slips, I always fight for a reset towards equilibrium.

This is my vow.
A marriage of two bodies, literally and figuratively.
Old and new, coexisting in peace and love.
Til death do us part.