I Wish I Was a Man...

Hi my name is Kelly. It has been four days since my last date and I am exhausted. Dear cupid, please forgive me. 

This is how the conversation started, a confession, a tear (a rather rigid tear) and I hoped a voice would boom down and bestow some profound nuance of advice that would cheer me up; a rather manly towel whip to the ass in the sports change room of life, right? Wrong.

I love being a woman. I love that we have suffered, endured and beat our emotions to our wonderbra-ed bossom. We are complicated, emotional, and subtly aggressive. I love that we actually think about sex more than men do, but we multitask, you see; we can plan a birthday party for a three-year-old, fetch and carry in a carpool, make sure dinner has five food groups, know that a sniff isn’t always just a sniff, hold down a job, do our hair, plan an outfit, be on time and still, yes, still think about sex. 

Our bodies are even more complex, our nether regions almost hidden and coy, still somehow, making men go searching, as if to prove his worth on knowing where it is. We do all of this, in the same amount of time it takes some men to type 'Beyonce's ass' into the Google search engine.

Oh, I am not bashing men. I do love them. I adore and envy the simplicity of men; the way they require minimal effort in choice of clothing, emotional return, and what you put on their plate. They are the logical thinkers; they are hardly ever confused, driven, and playful, and with a single look can bring us women, the great and powerful woman, to her knees.

Our complex nature as two opposing genders is no secret; there are books about it, drunken conversations and debates, and even university degrees. But this doesn’t help me, and probably leaves you wondering why I am harping on about this.

Thing is all of this takes place in the rather complicated arena of dating. Two incredibly complex, emotionally charged and sexually driven genders in one room, add some candles, a few beverages (alcoholic) and mix it up. The world becomes even more complicated. 

Hello! It’s Kelly. Waving. Life. You. Yes, You. Duuh. 

So you nab a guy. He ticks all the boxes. You get emotionally involved. You even take part in an adult sleep over. But he doesn’t call you, but if you’re anything like me, you spend four hours in the mirror looking at your body the way a man would, tugging, pinching, oh and eating tubs of ice cream. It then hits you, since when did punching the guy you liked under the swing lose its appeal? 

Dating books tell women that you have to ignore the guy, he’ll come panting back to you, but the essay of my “self-satisfied feministic view” of how it’s high time he took me to dinner, really doesn’t get covered. Since when do we have to relinquish control in the game of dating? Allow the opposite gender to decide on our happiness – yes, men, this does apply to you; we know the lovely-lady lumps got you all shook up and dropping dollars like the Chris Brown impersonator you are.

It must be easy to be a guy in a situation like this, because you’re built of utter calm and logical thinking; you sit back and watch the hyena’s fight. Well, that is the dramatic image I have when you haven’t responded to my text in exactly three days. You need three things: sex, food, beer; or according to my cousin that is.

I am built to get things done. I have days to get through, a job, a life, and a scarf I have been knitting since summer. I don’t have time to ponder when you’re going to ask me out; Or if you’re mad; Or if you hated my laugh. It makes me anxious. I need you to tell me: I am just really busy. OR God help you: I like you, easy does. Why is that so difficult?


Oh for goodness sake. I ask you dear cupid, please. PLEASE send me a man with balls bigger than mine.

The First 53 Dates/Kilos...

First things first, a disclaimer of sorts: Please don't leave this blog thinking that my weight loss venture had anything to do with finding a man, or anything to do with a man other than the fact that I had to prove my father wrong on shapely calves.

No one should HAVE to lose weight for any other reason than for his or herself, and if you are, then you’ll never you succeed. Stop. Now.

I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but I love my ass. My ass went from being a site big enough to host a family to a semi-tight, somewhat flabby and round butt. I won't go as far to say that Beyoncé better step back, but there's a good handful, well a good two hands full, of booty there. It's the saving grace when I need to distract myself from my boobs, who by the way, decided to jump ship in the first 10kgs.

Three years ago, you'd have walked right past me. That's if you hadn't caught my over-compensating-joke or too-loud laugh, because fat people have to be happy, right? But, that's another topic for another blog post.

But 53kgs later, I have a runner's butt, no cellulite and boney shoulders (I still gots the hips my mamma gave me), and men do notice. Perhaps they notice a little too much of me when I walk past. This isn't a post berating men and their seemingly irritating dislike for chunky women - a clichéd remark for very ignorant women since there are men who love meat on bones, but we won't go there.

The better half of three years, a train wreck of a Kelly (waves hands in air, ‘Here I am’) tried hard to find her confidence; tripping over the Mr too-insecure, getting bitten by what my friend Dineo calls 'Fuck boys', the father-of-three-kids, and the ones that restored my faith in the male gender. Train wreck to say the least, but I can only blame the naivety of myself and the constant back and forth battle with my insecurities that led me to such horrendous relationships.

I have no shame in saying that I have had bathroom visits that lasted longer than relationships I have had - it's sad and it's horrible; perhaps even, discouraging.

Now I find myself in that post-life change limbo, where men like the feel of my body, that is until my top comes off. It seems that after 53kgs of weight loss one doesn't automatically look like a Cosmo cover mount.

It's all sagging skin, rippled-snaked stretch marks that river over my belly, parts that wobble hello in greeting and have I mentioned my lack of breasts? The meaty round lumps of lust when in a wonderbra changes instantly to strips of streaky bacon when said bra comes off?

I am too hard in myself - sometimes I know that - but it's what I do.

But I look at this body, bacon strip boobs and silvered stretch marks, and I love it. Oh god, I do. It's mine.

It's testament to the journey that proved me wrong every time I gave up and stopped running or chose the brownie. This is a tough act to follow any man. It's daunting and god-help me, powerful as all hell. I can't expect anyone to understand what I love most about the sagging lump on my abdomen I named 'Ike'.

So it's this sense of self accomplishment that makes dating incredibly daunting for me, I feel I am ready (all that bullshit, you are supposed to feel when asking the universe for something new). I can't exactly read this post on a first date? Or can I? Does one say: “Hi, I am Kelly, I used to be fat, now I am not, my tits are fake in this bra? Should I try the steak...?”

People love hearing the 53kg weight loss story of success it inspires them and I am glad, but do they understand that I won't look like a porn star in bed, I won't eat pizza late at night, I'll pass on drinking binges because I am detoxing, and I would opt for a run over a movie any day. Are they prepared for the frustrating vigils on the scale every Saturday, early weekend morning runs, the stubbornness of counting calories and the incessant insomnia.

Surely a girl like me can have detox dates?