Chapter 6 #2
All right, so “the scene” wasn’t for me—but even as a boring monogamous gay I was hopeless.
There was this one guy, Aaron, in my grad school program who was sooooo cute, tall and slim with dark shoulder-length hair he wore up in a bun or pulled back in a half pony, which I’m pretty sure is the sluttiest hairstyle a man can wear, according to science .
We chatted a few times before class. He was from the East Coast but a total convert to the California lifestyle—flip-flops and shorts every day—though his accent reminded me warmly of my mom’s side of the family.
When his eyes were locked on mine, I felt blood chug more rapidly through my veins, an electric current glistening over my skin.
In his presence, my heart hungered in a way my stomach never could.
My best friend, Lizette, encouraged me to ask him out, but I wasn’t even sure he liked guys. Still, when one of my classmates organized a house party and I found out Aaron would be there, I went and—you guessed it—stood in the corner and barely spoke to him the entire night!
Finally I decided to call it quits, slunk out, and was surprised to find him on the front porch, smoking joints with a couple others from class. “Leaving already?” he said.
“Yeah. I should probably get back.”
“Says who? You should stay and talk with us.”
Pathetically I did, spellbound by his snaggletoothed smile. I don’t even remember what we talked about, just the buzz in my gut as he poured his undivided attention all over me, the glorious froth of laughter between us.
The other two went inside, leaving us alone. I made some stupid joke and he shook his head, grinning aslant.
“You’re so fucking cute,” he said, massaging my arm. “I just wanna cuddle you.”
My heart was doing backflips. Here was my chance. Say something, I thought. Say ANYTHING. “We should do that.” “I’m game if you are.” “Want to get out of here?”
Like an idiot, I froze. Then the front door opened again and more people tumbled out in a flood of music and chatter, clutching bottles and cigarettes. Aaron drew back his hand.
“I should go,” I said, and before he could say another word, I was racing back toward my car, my heart leaden and heavy, pumping shame and self-loathing through every inch of me.
And that was the end of that. We continued to chat and flirt before class, but never like we had that night. The perfect opening I was hoping for never came. I didn’t even have his number.
The semester ended and our schedules diverged. I graduated sad, alone, already starting to gain the weight back. No matter how healthy and calorie-controlled my diet was, I’d never been able to fully ditch my sugar habit. Little by little the pounds crept up on me. In an instant I was fat again.
I went back on hCG, but my lifestyle had changed.
I was working full-time at Target and student-teaching on the side.
It’s one thing to be fatigued when you’re just sitting around and another when you’re working on your feet all day.
Still, I thought I was managing okay until one night at the store my heart suddenly started pounding like I’d just stepped off a treadmill.
The guest service desk spun around me, the world thrown off-kilter.
If my coworker hadn’t grabbed me, I probably would’ve hit the floor.
My mom came and took me to the ER. The doctors were less than impressed to hear about my five-hundred-calorie diet and the supplements they said probably contained no hCG at all. At best they were placebos. At worst I was slowly poisoning myself.
“I agree,” I overheard Mom saying to the doctor. “I’ve always told my kids, if you want to lose weight, a healthy diet and exercise is the way to do it. Everything in moderation.”
Such was the end of my hCG misadventure—to this day the only diet I’ve tried that’s ever shifted significant weight. (STARVATION! IT’S A WEIGHT LOSS MIRACLE!!! WHO KNEW?!?)
Honestly, I never really believed the supplements were doing anything except make me feel better about my voluntary eating disorder. Because when you strip away all the pseudoscientific mumbo jumbo, the hCG diet—like most of them—is pretty much just expensive anorexia.
As the months passed, my old habits returned in full force, and the weight piled back on even faster. Four years later, I’m even heavier than I started—and continuing to gain.
I recently ran into one of my old grad school friends at Vons and she didn’t even recognize me. “It’s Emmett,” I said, already wishing I hadn’t stopped her. “From SDSU?” Still nothing. “Sorry, I look a little different—”
“No! Of course I recognize you!” she said, her cheeks flaming. “Emmett! So sorry, I’m not wearing my glasses! And you changed your hair! Wow, I love the purple!”
Now if I run into someone from my skinny days, I hide. It’s easier for both of us. They don’t have to feel sorry for me, and I don’t have to hate myself (at least not in their presence—save that shit for the privacy of my home like a normal person ).
But seriously, I’m glad I did lose weight that one time. It proved I can slim down. Does it mean I feel that much angrier with myself when I fuck up? Yes. Yes, it does. (Seriously, why is it so hard for me to get back to that place?? )
But it gives me something to strive for, a mountain to (re)climb.
One day I’ll find him and I won’t let him go.
No, I’m not talking about Aaron. I mean the true me.