Last Thursday I forgot I’d lost 200 pounds.
More accurately, I ran into someone from college and I forgot that the last time he saw me I weighed twice as much as he does. I was at the local biergarten for an annual alumni association mixer, catching up with my old friend and I totally forgot I looked like a different person than I did four years ago. It was probably shocking for him to see my much skinnier self traipsing amongst the picnic tables, even though he’s read my blog and knew I’d lost weight. I don’t know if I would have said something about it if I had remembered, but it’s weird that the thought didn’t even cross my mind.
I used to wish I would run into old friends, teachers, or mailmen so I could show off my weight loss to them. I fantasized about shocking people I had known and seeing their surprise at my transformation. Now, I don’t really care, and as I said in my last entry, the gasps kind of piss me off. It doesn’t seem like that big of a deal anymore. I suppose this is a sign that I’ve fully integrated my weight loss into my identity. It doesn’t even seem worth mentioning anymore.
——
The alumni association gave me a free drink ticket, which was worth at least six or seven bucks. I headed to the bar to redeem it and asked the bartender for something light. He recommended a draft and I asked, “Is that light?”
“It’s light in color,” he replied.
“Is it light in calories?” I asked. I don’t drink much so I didn’t know. I don’t have anything against alcohol, but if I’m going to spend extra calories on something, I’d prefer it was chocolate instead beer. If they come up with chocolate flavored beer (and they probably have), my dilemma would be over.
“Eh,” he shrugged. “Honey, I don’t think you need to worry,” he said. And that statement alone was enough to make me smile and start thinking about stopping at the Dairy Queen afterwards to eat two dipped cones and a Brownie Earthquake, all because some random guy implied I was skinny. It was nice to be complimented, but it was a weird to realize that the opinions of others can still have a big impact on me, especially when I consider myself to be more self-confident and thick-skinned than ever before.
Later, I told my younger brother about the encounter with pride, and he said, “Yeah, he probably just said that to get a tip.”
“Noooo!” I replied. “He said it because I am svelte and sexy and super-beautiful! Not because he was trying to get one dollar bills out of my wallet!” But I knew that my brother was probably right, and even if the bartender did think I was cute, he also knew saying so would increase the contents of his tip jar. However, I am a doofus who never remembers to tip bartenders and I didn’t even pay for that beer myself, so his plan failed.
If he’d provided me with some chocolate beer, it might have been another story.
