I didn't want to weigh this morning, but I did it anyway. For the sake of the Blog.
Thursday night I made a chicken casserole. I had it at a Christmas dinner earlier this month and decided to make it for dinner myself. It's pretty basic. Chicken, campbell's soup, sour cream, and crushed crackers on top. And a stick of butter. Yeah, a whole stick. Well, I substituted panko bread crumbs for the crackers cause I didn't have any Ritz on hand. I looked at the "1 stick of butter" several times trying to figure out what to do about it. I then decided to use less-than-a-whole-but-more-than-a-half-a-stick of butter. I melted it, poured it on and baked the dish in the oven. Two hours later, after eating said casserole, I was miserable to say the least. I stayed home on Friday with a still upset tummy.
This also leads to the feeling of guilt (which I've had more than a few times lately) about my eating habits. I equate it to quitting smoking. When I fail to resist the urge to smoke, I feel really bad about it later--and sometimes while I'm doing it--because it's bad for me. There are no redeeming qualities. None. Not one thing about smoking a cigarette is good. But, I do enjoy it. Love it, even, when the circumstances are right. Granted, the enjoyment is fewer and farther between times and I really don't like the idea of smoking stone cold sober (stress is still a HUGE trigger though) but the fact remains, I enjoy a good smoke like I enjoy a good glass of wine. Or Jack and Coke.
My point with all this is unhealthy eating (like NEARLY a stick of butter in a recipe) is so totally ungood. No redeeming qualities. Nothing good can come from it. Thus the Friday ick-fest. This also takes it's toll mentally. I'm left alone and to my own devices to obsess over what I've done and whatnot. Anyway, it can leave a person in a rather insecure state of mind.
This all leads up to a party Saturday night. SAG (that's Skinny Athletic Girl just as a reminder) and I are going to this shindig together. We decide that if it's a bust, we'll head out on the town. No worries. Well, it's a bizzare group of people and tons of free good booze. So, we stay. Bonus, there's a boy here that I find mentally stimulating. He's very much an adult and easy to converse with and makes a hell of a drink. Laid back, educated, funny, basically, someone either to spend a "safer" fun-filled night with (don't judge!) or consider expanding to a more regular friend thing and possibly connect on facebook. That's what you do these days, btw. You friend people. You don't exchange numbers. It's hard to get used to.
As you may already know, I'm certainly not a wall flower. I'm a confident 30something woman. My size very rarely is a thought in my mind when I'm out on a town and meeting people. Never has been. (Online dating is a whole other topic all together and one we'll discuss at a different time). Remember, though, I'm still fighting a few fresh food demons here.
So, I'm talking with Mr. Potential all night, floating back and forth among the guests who aren't necessarily people that I'd be around regularly but still having a good time. Yes, I may be a bit of a snob, but seriously, who isn't? As the night progresses, things get weird. People are drinking more and well, I realize that the folks I do know are dwindling. SAG has gone to a show and I decided to stay (let's face it, because of Mr. Potential) and continue with the merriment. Before I know it, the hostess is making out with another chick and a male gay couple inform me they like taking women to bed.
W. T. F. I should leave, but for whatever lack-of-judgement reason I do not.
Let me state here that whatever someone's preferences are or are not when it comes to bedroom, does not bother me. Truly. However, I was not prepared for where this party was heading. There's no judgement here, but it was a freakin "Christmas Party"! None of the Christmas parties I've ever attended have ended up like this.
I decide to go outside, smoke a cigarette with Mr. Potential (I've been drinking) and down a shot of tequilla (I've been drinking). Tequilla is never a good thing. I still don't know how I got the shot in the first place. Then, a 6-foot Amazonian 23-year-old comes outside and starts talking about ulcers and migranes. I have a tendancy to give free advice even in my most sober of states. This night was not one of those states. I try to coherently tell her she's way to young to have migranes and ulcers and she tells me it's because she had gastric bypass surgery at 17. She says this like three times before it hits me. "17?!" I say, (again, standing next to Mr. Potential) "17! she says and then procedes with this statement: "I can tell that you're overweight...".
She said some other things after that, but I don't recall actually hearing the words.
Let me let you know how this went down in my head. Have you seen "The Christmas Story"? Remember the scene with the flat tire and Ralphie gets to be a big boy and help his dad change it? And he somehow drops all the lugnuts and also drops the f-bomb "Oh Fudge" line? Well, that slo-mo-drawn-out-hyper-pronounced speaking is how it sounded in my head when I hear the "you're overwieght" part from 23YO Glamazon Chick. To say awkward is an understatement. I'm maintaining my composure, actually trying to sustain the conversation like it's not a big deal, and about 1 minute later, Mr. Potential wanders back inside and I drink more. Like any sensible girl would. Oy. Vey.
I am now so far out of my comfort zone. Straight people are gay. Gay people are straight. And I've been pronounced "overweight" by a 23YO Glamazon in front of Mr. Potential. Bye Bye Healthy Ego. I'm reeling inside. My emotional pshyche is in a tailspin. My head may even be spinning a little from the whole adult beverages thing, as well. And then, the tequilla shot kicks in. Needless to say, tequilla jafg isn't a pretty jafg. She's mean. And now that she feels exposed/rejected, she's on a warpath.
Here's the deal, when you're drunk you make an ass out of yourself. Sometimes, it's remembered as the life of the party, and other times it's remembered as "that crazy chick last night". It's going to end one way or the other. Trust me, this comes from years of experience. I usually stay on the side of life of the party. I'm proficient enough in my 30something years to know where the line is between the two. Well. Saturday night, I crossed it.
I can't really bare re-living the humiliation of the rest of the evening which lasted about 20 more minutes. There were some inappropriate comments I make to The Man Formerly Known as Mr. Potential which led to overheard inappropriate comments and then I left. What the FUDGE was I thinking? I wasn't. I was hurt, embarrassed and wanting to pick a fight. The last part can be partially blamed on the environment and on the tequilla. But, Holy Crazy Parties, I was so not prepared for that evening.
Look, I have tough skin and have dealt with emotional blows enough that I can somewhat quickly recover; or successfully compartmentalize, anyway. Humiliation, either self inflicted or from external sources, isn't easy to admit. I'm trying to find something funny about all this, but really, right now, I can't. I'm a grown-up. I've put my "big girl panties" on so to speak [which really takes on a whole new meaning in this context] and moved forward and won't be attending any more events at that house again. But I'm still licking my wounds.
Thanks for listening. I can't say that I really feel better, but at least I got a blog post out of it.
Also, Mr. Potenial will forevermore be referred to as Mr. Douche.