So my weight loss has now progressed to the point (20 lbs) that people are starting to notice and in so much as most of the people I come into contact with on a daily basis are pretty nice they’re mentioning my ever shrinking mid-section. Now for any normal person this would be a godsend, a validation that all one’s hard work and self control has started yielding dividends. As I’m sure you’ve all deduced from my weekly ramblings, I’m not normal. I, being the snarky but (hopefully) lovable curmudgeon that I am, can’t help but receive every compliment (no matter how well-intentioned) as a statement unfinished. And of course the voice in my head must complete it.
Looking good…
Not like you usually do.
You’ve lost weight…
And not a minute too soon.
You’re looking skinny…
Not at all like the great lumbering land beast we’ve come to love.
When complimented by co-workers or casual acquaintances I manage a sincere, “Yeah? Thanks,” and head out of the room before they can see me blush. With close friends I’m not so cordial. After being told by a friend that my weight loss was really starting to show, I replied with a courteous,
Shut the fuck up.
Emily Post (and my mother) would be ever so proud. One probably wouldn’t have to delve too deeply into my Protestant-American-work-ethic upbringing to understand why I can’t to this day take a compliment. We don’t want to get too full of ourselves now do we? Truth be told, I need and like ego strokes as much as the next guy and hope that my inability to take ‘em like a man doesn’t stop their flow in my direction.
Should you encounter me any time soon, please feel free to tell me how good I look and I promise I’ll do my very best not to swear at you. I also promise not to have a tearful Lifetime Television for Women…and gay men breakdown declaring through sobs,
I’m pretty, Mamma.
I’m saving that for when I reach my goal weight.
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