I believe in Bigfoot.

I totally do, I totally believe in Bigfoot.  I saw a very convincing documentary on the Discovery Channel or something that went into all kinds of forensic evidence and went to experts in fields like fingerprinting, statistical analysis, identifying animals by their cries, etc.  It convinced me. 

I think the real clincher for me was the fingerprint analysis of some of the molds people had made of Bigfoot prints.  The experts stated that the patterns on the prints indicated a primate, since they were made primarily of straight lines rather than curves and whorls, like human prints are.  But they didn't match any of the patterns for known great apes.  I thought that was pretty convincing. 

I guess believing in Bigfoot is part of my personal belief that we don't yet know everything about this planet, that big parts of it are still completely hidden to us and waiting to be discovered.  I like the idea that we might never discover everything there is to see and know here, that in some way we're still crouching in our caves wondering what all the sounds outside mean, or what the lights in the sky are or when they'll be back.  The idea of Bigfoot and other cryptids is the idea of man's continued innocence and potential, and I find that enormously appealing.

The Stranger

So it's sometime in 2008, and my best girlfriend and I get rear-ended by a cab at a subway station in a major metropolitan suburb.  It's 110% the cabbie's fault, although I suppose a little blame could be shared by the folks who determined the flow of traffic, or their parents for not making them wear helmets as children.  But the long and short of it is that my bestie and I are drawn into a shouting match with the asshat who dented her bumper.  And he calls me fat.

Mark you, this is not your typical cab driver.  He is not the shining Adonis one is accustomed to seeing behind the wheels of our golden chariots when we stumble out of bars at closing time; he clearly does not belong to that unparalleled society of handsome gentlemen who take our drunk asses home and spare all and sundry from the horror of the DUI.  No, this particular cab driver is the epitome of the Average White Guy, and he's all kinds of shouty.

Average height, average brown hair, average face that might be perfectly nice to look at if you know and love him.  Utterly forgettable, the kind of guy who would play a detective in the background on Law & Order and get pulled in as filler for a line-up when the D.A.s need a witness to identify the Soccer Dad who beat the living hell out of a bodega owner or a hooker.  Has a paunch the size of Rhode Island, and he stands in the middle of a busy road and calls me fat.

He's scared; he knows he's screwed up and that we're taking down his license plate and his cab number and everything else we can about him, he knows we'll be calling his supervisor.  He's trying to put the blame on us, and it's a whirl of angry words and supercharged air.

So he says something completely ridiculous--something about having a camera on his dashboard that recorded the whole thing and would prove his innocence and send us to jail--and I cock my head at him with a really honest look, trying to make him see how far over the edge he's going.  And it hits home; he looks at me and sees what a complete idiot he's making of himself, standing there shouting at two girls whom he just rear-ended, and he goes on the defensive.

"What's that look for?  You're fat."

Now, this man has to be at least 37 years old.  37 years old, and he's using the oldest barb in the playground arsenal, the old "You're fat."  So I look over at my bestie and laugh, give his paunch a pointed look, and say "Oh, okay" in my most withering of sarcastic tones.  What I really want to do is curl up on the pavement and cry.

I know that if I were thin, he'd have said I was ugly, or stupid, or a whore--the guy was just out to hurt my feelings, because he was feeling defensive, because he'd fucked up and his bosses were going to know about it sooner rather than later.  I know that.  But the fact remains that he was right.

If he had said I was ugly, or stupid, or a whore, I'd have been able to brush him off completely as Utterly Wrong And An Idiot Mouth-Breather To Boot, and he would never have gotten under my skin and I wouldn't be writing this.  But he was right, and so he did get under my skin, and now I have the voice of a complete stranger in my head telling me I'm fat.  It's not there all the time, but every time I hear it, I feel the hurt almost as badly as I did the first time.  I feel embarrassed for myself.

I want to stop feeling embarrassed for myself.  If I'm ever being shouted at by a paunchy red-faced cabbie again, I want him accuse me of being a whore.

I'm The Fat One

I do not enjoy exercising.

However, I am quite tired of being fat.  Hence the walking.  I just walked 1.94 miles over the course of approximately 40 minutes, and I'm all sweaty and I feel fatter than ever.  I think it's because my t-shirt isn't quite big enough and it clings to my jiggly parts in a very early-90s, leggings-and-long-sweater kind of way that is definitely Not Hot.

So I'm at the beginning of a bid to stop being The Fat One, and a lot of this blog will probably be about that.  I'm The Fat One among my friends, and while I'm very smart, really funny and (seriously) extremely cute, the sad fact is that the first thing most strangers would probably notice about me is that I'm The Fat One.  It's disheartening and demoralizing, and makes me want to head to the Chick-Fil-A and get an 8-piece nugget with waffle fries and extra mayo.  Also a milkshake.

But why change now?  I've been The Fat One, at least in my own head, ever since I was a kid, although if I'm objective I can truthfully say that I didn't really start packing it on until my junior year of college.  Before that, I was just curvy, and more to the point I was healthy and could probably walk 1.94 miles much more quickly than 40 minutes, and without sweating, too.

But I frittered my 20s at an office job and on my couch, and since I can drink with the best of them and I love me some food, here I am at 30 with [redacted for sanity] pounds hanging on my 5-foot-nothing frame.  And now my knees are starting to creak when I walk up the stairs.  Swimsuit season is looming.  Wedding season is looming, and I have two fantastic dresses that I want to look fantastic in.  But if I'm totally honest, those are not the real driving forces behind my sudden upswing in determination.

The real driving forces are two male voices in my head.  One is the voice of a complete stranger, and one is the voice of one of my best and oldest friends.  But that's another story.

Why so secret, Domo?

I'm not saying I'll never change my mind, but for the time being I want this blog to be anonymous.  That way, if any wayward traveler or internet weirdo should happen across it, there's very little chance he* will recognize me or anyone I'm talking about.  This gives me freedom to vent about my people (this means you, jackhole), should I feel the need, without possibly hurting anyone's feelings.

Gotta go, my show is on.  Main thing about me: I love TV.

 * I have an English degree with a concentration in editing. I use singular pronouns where appropriate and will alternate between "he" and "she."  Use of "their" when the subject is singular bugs the fire out of me.  Also, let's face it, most internet weirdos are dudes.  I mean come on.

Whu?

Not an auspicious beginning to this whole blogging thing, I tell you what.  Also, that entire last sentence makes me sound about 67 years old.
 
I'm not 67--I'm all of a sudden 30, and to be honest it's kind of freaking me out. I'm not sure why, exactly, except that maybe it's because I'm not married nor likely to be any time soon, or because I don't have kids yet, or any of the other things we all figure we'll be/have/done by the time we're "of a certain age."  The fact that I'm not alone in that does not help in the least, and I find myself beset by restlessness and a vague frustration.  Hence the entry into blogging at this crusty old age.

I'm not sure what this blog will end up being about, although no doubt it will be picked up for all kinds of awards within months and I fully expect a book deal within two years.  But I've got my gin and I've got my Slanket, so away we go...