The Weather is Insulting Today

Today, I just want to pout. I don't want to be in a bikini on my way to the beach even though I've been complaining all summer about how much I want to go to the beach.

My eyes are still swollen from crying last night. It is the cherry on the top of my bad body-image day. Today, for some reason, either my skin is more translucent than usual or I am more observant, but I can see all my major blood vessels in my legs. I am too young for this. I am supposed to still be young and hot. Young and hot and vampire-skinned.

I have had a fat month, catalyzed by the fact that my mother would not shut up about how I needed to lose weight when I felt like I looked pretty good, and now I cannot stop thinking about how my legs look. My stomach. Whether I've lost the muscle tone in my arms and now they're gross jiggly arms. If my baby fat is coming back into my cheeks, if my cheekbones are receding into softness.

I cried for a long time last night for a number of reasons I'm not even sure of. Superficially, because R's ex-girlfriend came to visit and even though I like her I'm glad that she came off as unfriendly at the party last night. I know she was out of her element. I know she didn't know anyone, and I know she's really a lovely girl. But a part of me still in junior high craves everyone else's approval: that I'm a better match for him than her. I'm more attractive. I'm more fun. Etc. Etc.

I left the party before R and Rebecca (her real name. why not?) and he didn't kiss me goodbye after not seeing me for two days and barely speaking to me during that time. I cried because of that. I cried because even though R has been amazing lately stupid little things like this can knock me off track.

I cried because R and I never have talks about "us" because I don't want to have them because I don't want to find out how little he cares. How little he knows me. I don't want to hear again that he won't tell anyone he loves them until he's pretty sure they're getting married. We never talk about us because I get tired of thinking about how big a failure I am that I can't make this man love me after nine months. Nine months is long enough to have a child. And I still get "I care about you a lot."

I cried because I never tell him the things I should. I never tell him why he makes me happy, why I like to be with him, why I'm not looking around me in case I could trade up, why I get glowy when my parents talk about him. He says he knows I care without me telling him those things. He locks up whenever I try. It gets old. Sometimes I just need to hear "I like you because you always make the bed/buy only wheat bread/wear only matching underwear." I need the stupid goofy mushy conversations where you end up talking about how much you like his ears, or something equally retarded.

We don't have the "us" conversation because while I'm not reminded of it, it's a lot easier to pretend he does love me and just isn't saying it.

I know I'll pull out of this. In a few days, I'll be back to pretending, and be happy--really happy, because I'll believe that eventually he will love me and things will work out. My veins will no longer be quite so blue, or I won't care, and my legs will be less fat. Maybe I'll actually lose some weight.