My Milkshake

There have been times when I run in pajama pants, and stee always jokes that I look not unlike an escaped patient, running in my pj’s. So he bought these nice pants for me that are actually made for absorbing sweat and don’t need to be cuffed at the bottom. But they are rather tight, and… they show off my ass.

If you’ve never been overweight a day in your life, you have no idea how unnerving this can be. Because no matter what you look like now, you always feel like the day you were your fattest. And for me, that was when I was twelve. There are days when I still feel like that kid, and assume everyone is thinking what some mean people said to me back then. Also, I’ve lost 35 pounds over the past two years. It wasn’t a quick drop in weight and in fact, it’s only recently that people have begun to comment. This means two things: one– people never obsess over how you look the way you obsess over how you look (which goes double in Hollywood where everybody is always thinking about how they look compared to you, but always think you look better), and two– I probably didn’t look as monstrous as I imagined, so there’s no need for someone to tell me I look thinner. Also three: I’m not a skinny girl. I have hips and boobs and if I’m not dressed in the right clothes, I can look pretty slovenly.

All that being said, I’m trying to get used to this thinner body, and I’m trying not to hide it, as I instinctively want to do. Thus: the pants. But I’m ridiculous, so this is what happens.

Howard Stern is on a commercial (I admitted on the phone today that I get my news from two sources: Howard Stern and Jon Stewart. Take what you want from that.), so I’m running without any sound. And because it’s just the sound of my feet and my breathing, my mind begins to focus on my lower half. The pants. More specifically: my ass in the pants. I ran in the opposite direction that I normally do (with traffic instead of against it) because I wanted the difficult hill in the beginning instead of at the end when I hate it more. Also I’m normally paranoid I’ll be hit by a car and would prefer to see the car coming than get knocked in the back, King-style. But today I decide to run with the traffic, which means I’m facing ass-out to the passing cars — another thing I normally don’t do. Miss Obsessed With Her Ass begins wondering if I look pathetic out there, running in those pants, if there’s way too much moving around.

This is not my most pro-woman moment. This is not me at my ass-kicking feminist best.

So I’m starting to wish I had brought something to tie around my waist when a power truck slows down on my left. There are two men standing on the bumper, kind of like garbage men, but they were with the elecctric company or something. One of the men keeps turning around to smile at me. He turns back, and then turns again. Smiles. Turns back, turns again, smiles. The truck finally takes a left. And okay, yeah, the odds are some guy in the morning is gonna smile at one girl’s jogging ass. Some men are ass men, so whatever. I mean, thanks, but that only confirms that my ass is pretty much on display here.

But then the next truck to come by slows down, and a man leans out the passenger window to whistle at me. I’ve run that resevoir hundreds of times since I moved here, and this is the first time anybody has made eye-contact, much less wolf whistles. And these were two unrelated cars in a row, on a day when I had my ass facing traffic, on a day when I was thinking about whether or not I was looking unattractive (because some mornings that’s all that matters).

I’m not sure what I was supposed to do in that situation. I’m not sure what the proper response was. But in this case, I straightened up a little, smiled, forgot about my ass and enjoyed the rest of my run.

Currently Reading:

Finished:

  • Still Holding: A Novel of Hollywood, by Bruce Wagner. I really enjoyed this. I couldn’t get into I’m Losing You, but I’ll try it again. Third time’s a charm. This book left me wondering — are male authors expected to write graphic sex scenes and have deviant characters? Is it somewhat unsettling for a reader when it’s a woman doing it? What female authors do you read who write similarly to Palahniuk, Irving, Wagner, or even King?

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