A Squishable Man

I happened to notice that Joe Manganiello has a very defined, well-formed physique.

I thought having an eight-pack was physically impossible, but according to Google images, it’s not. As much as I appreciate Joe’s physicality, I think hugging him would be like hugging a brick wall. I suppose you have to decide for yourself if the brick burn would be worth it.

That’s why I was doing a Google image search. I wanted to see if he was always made out of bricks.

Yes, sometimes I spend my evenings doing intensive research like this. What of it?

And if I’m such a thorough researcher, where’s the image of him, you ask? Well, I didn’t want to exploit him more than he already has been. The guy is more than his muscles, right…??

Anyways, I discovered that I couldn’t find an everyday, average body on the guy. He wasn’t always so sculpted, but apparently, he has always been…healthy.

I actually prefer a man with a little bit of squish to him.

I’ve talked about the subject of hugging before. Wine Guy was a 9 out of 10. Yes, he disappeared on me, but I still have to give him his props. But he wasn’t a perfect 10. That score goes to a guy I met briefly at a dinner party, years ago. I almost forgot about him. When we hugged goodbye, I discovered that his whole body was made out of memory foam.

Ah…

I have no idea what made him that way. He was deceptively normal looking.

“He was so soft…” I remarked to my then-boyfriend, who strangely enough, had nothing to say in response. Nor did he have anything to say about my hand gestures as I tried to further describe the guy’s squishiness.

The only things Perfect Hug Guy and Wine Guy had in common were their average weight for their height (about 5’7″) and that they probably didn’t work out at all.

Hm.

This may warrant some further intensive research.

——————————————————————–

Postscript: It has come to my attention that I have been spending way too much energy wondering about the location and appearance of my future man/men. The fact is, there is no telling when he/they will show up. A gentle nudging from my friend Mae woke me up. It’s a good thing, too – disappointment was beginning to chip away at me.

So I’m redirecting my energy towards the here and now and giving nonexistent men a rest. I have more pressing issues to deal with anyways, like finding a new job, so from now on, my future posts won’t be about me getting impatient for that guy who is running super late.

I guess he’ll just have to catch up to me.

Advertisement

Love on the Pretzel Train

Because I never really dated that much in the past, I was looking forward to finding out what it was going to be like. I joked about wanting to juggle men. I pictured myself being cool, casual, carefree. “Date like a man” my friend Neal told me. But I’ve started to notice that I’m looking for that connection, that recognition of oh, hello…yesI feel what’s possible with you. Does that happen? Is that too much to ask? Maybe all those romantic, meet-cute comedies I used to watch have twisted my brain into an over-salted, unrealistic pretzel.

I’m not looking for the perfect, fantasy man. I know he doesn’t exist. At my high school reunion, one of my former classmates nodded knowingly when I shared that strange men tend to be attracted to me. “I hear ya,” She said. “But it only takes one.” He could be anywhere. Mae, is it true? Could he be with another woman right now? Take your hands off my future man, you hussy!!

I only want to discover the one who is perfect for me and I for them. It’s possible, right? Or am I on the Pretzel Train and every stop is SingleTown?

It’s also possible that I could drop dead tomorrow. Or the next day. I would be dead without ever having found love again. That pisses me off. But if I’m dead, I won’t know how to get upset – I won’t even know I’m dead, so I guess it’s a moot point.

Life doesn’t follow a straight line (like this post), so I have no idea what it has in store for me. Before I don’t know I’m dead, I would like to accomplish the following things this year and the next:

1) find a new job
2) move
3) travel to Italy and/or Spain
4) keep

— my mom just informed me that my face looks really round: “You look round here [cups her cheeks with her palms]. I wonder why…you exercise enough. Maybe I just don’t look at your face that often.”

1) move
2) exercise more
3) find a job that keeps me moving
4) travel
5) continue to date
6) continue being open to possibility
7) keep…keep what?? (I have no clue what I was about to write.) keep on truckin’? keep my head up, my spirits high and hope to love again before I die?

That train stop at my reunion must have done a number on me.  I thought I had chased away the dark clouds that my mom the inner critic brought in a few days ago, but some of them still linger.

Next stop?

Not sure. Think I need to catch that transfer out of CheekFat Town, so I’d better start running.

Lions and Tigers and Thighs, Oh My

Ever since I got back from Hawaii, my legs and I have seen the light. These burritos ‘o mine are now wearing running shorts. It’s somewhat liberating to make visible something I had intentionally kept invisible in the past. To let myself be seen. As is.

When I had it – at least I thought I had it at some point – I should have flaunted it. I took my young, firm skin for granted. But I was much more shy back then. Now? Yes, I’m still an introvert at heart, but I don’t look too bad for my age, so part of me wants to flaunt whatever it is I have left while gravity is still my friend. I have ab muscles. I don’t know where they came from, and they might look a little like a wrinkly four-pack of King’s Hawaiian rolls during the rising process, but they’re there. I believe that they’re a product of my intense overthinking. After all, something good should come of overworking my brain in circles. Problem is, I might look good for 48 – we Asians hold together well – but not so good for 38. Get my drift?

[I can’t believe I just outed my real age. Oh, what the hell. I will display my age proudly. I just won’t display photos of it here on my blog. I may be crazy, but I’m not insane. Yet.]

See, I live in a small, coastal town. It doesn’t get warm enough to wear shorts very often, so people don’t see a lot of skin around here. Hawaii? No problem. Young skin, aging skin – what does it matter? Everyone looks like bronzed demi-gods over there. But here? People pull on their t-shirts, light wash jeans, sneakers, and their Patagonia jackets to go out on the town. They might even wear that outfit to the beach.

The sun is out and it is unusually warm. I am tempted to go for a run wearing less clothing than I ever have before. I want to feel free to do this. If I didn’t have to wear my glasses, I would absolutely wear sunglasses. That way, I could feel anonymous. I might mistake a fire hydrant for a dog, but if it makes me more brave, I will trade clear vision for shades. I’m sure I’ll be able to determine whether or not that object coming towards me is a car, right? Maybe I need a sacrificial running buddy.

Suddenly, I’m not so concerned about my thighs anymore.

Love Me, Love My Burritos

I’ve been writing a lot about dating (and the idea of dating) lately.  But now that I don’t have much material to work with, I realized that I haven’t written much about being physically active.  When I checked to see how long it had been, I was horrified to revisit a post in which I described my body like a meat buffet.  I made it sound like my body was becoming toned and fabulous.  No.  Well, maybe it has gotten a little more toned, but I didn’t say I looked good.  I don’t like the shape of my legs, and my cellulite is most definitely not impressed by my exercise habits.  A friend said, “You won’t wear shorts because of cellulite??  Who cares?  You don’t have to look at it!”  Yes, but what about the poor people behind me?

Isn’t it ironic that most of us can be so supportive of our friends, but not so much for ourselves?

Self-acceptance doesn’t happen overnight nor does it happen just because you say you will.  It’s a conscious practice of bravery, forgiveness, and patience.  So I’m going to try and show a little more love to the parts of me that I’ve labeled as less lovable, for example, my burritos thighs and my genetically-evolved calves.  Such sturdy things.  It’s important that I not take them for granted.

As usual, the Universe has chimed in, too.  I recently attended a memorial service in which the minister talked about the value of accepting yourself as you are.   Sono mama, he said.  Which, in Japanese, translates to mean “as it is”.  And I just read my horoscope from Rob Brezsny – I swear, I can relate to 90% of what that man has to say about my sign – and I’ve been asked to reject all forms of demoralizing words and attitudes, and try positivity.  It’s uncanny.  I get the hint, Universe, I get the hint.

The Properties of Alchemy (and Meat)

**Disclaimer:  This is not a serious overview of alchemy, or meat for that matter.  If you’re a serious sort, I urge you to find other, more weighty info on Wikipedia (which will kindly lead you to scholarly sources) or look up Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall.  You won’t find anything intellectual here.  Okay, I feel better now.

From what I understand, alchemy is the mystical process of turning common metals into gold.  There are a whole bunch of philosophical, scientific and psychological ideas regarding this process, but for me, it’s like this:

Running and the other types of exercise I’ve been doing are causing some sort of alchemical process to take place in my body.  My calves, which I had hoped beyond all reason would get smaller, are changing into chicken drumsticks.  My badonkadonk is like shawarma, originally stacked, but now portions are being shaved off.  And my thighs?  They are meat-filled burritos, flexing their power, when before, they were flabby and quietly respectful.  They kind of have an attitude now.

[I’m sorry if I ruined anyone’s appetite.  And, uh, I hope there aren’t any cannibals reading this.  Just to be clear, I’m speaking figuratively.  Please don’t picture me in your head right now.]

I always knew that I had to make friends with my body as part of the whole process of accepting myself.  I used to take the easy route, wearing baggy overalls that covered – well, covered everything in an extremely generous way.  But one day I saw a photo of myself in said overalls, and I cringed.  I was shapeless.  I might as well have worn a cape three sizes too big.  The poodle perm didn’t help, either.

Now?  No more perm.  No more hiding in my clothes.  Now I just need mental alchemy to help me see gold in the common form that is me.

Where do you need alchemy?