So I commented on my facebook page the other day that I felt invisible. Let's put this into context. It was Friday of last week. Feeling a bit hormonal, I still went to my session with the Chrisinator when what I really wanted to do was stay home, curled up in my cozy blanket with a cup of tea & a book. But I am intrepid (and a glutton for punishment). This is my story.
Me--dressed ready to sweat in whatever was clean at the time or what was clean the night before that I slept in knowing I would streamline my morning routine. Nine times out of ten, not wearing makeup. Why waste the makeup and the effort? It's going to be washed away within the first ten minutes anyway. Always sporting deo for the b.o. And perfume. "Happy" by Clinique because I love it. Hair? Usually in a tossed up up-do held in place by a clip or hairband. This is normal, whether we are dealing with hormones or not.
My Workout Friend--dressed ready to sweat in a cute and perfectly matched workout ensemble, complete with a beautifully combed ponytail and just the right amount of makeup. Waterproof, apparently, since it stays put. (Seriously, if Angela reads this, I aspire to this! I tease because I'm jealous!) This is normal and unrelated to any hormonal influence.
The other characters in our little vignette are two nameless gentlemen who work out (coincidentally?) close to the same time we do. Allow me another digression to say that I realize this anecdote will smack of sarcasm and bitterness. It's all part of getting this off my chest. Plus, Angela and I already talked about it during the cardio portion of our workout on Friday. Back to the story, I would love to know what these two men do for a living that they can workout mid-morning, three times a week for longer than one hour at a time. Independently wealthy? Business owners who can set their own hours? Bookies? Drug Dealers? (Okay, Steph, rein it in!)
EVERY time we see them, they greet Angela with a smile and a "How's it going?" Small talk ensues. I thought they were friends of hers. Turns out, nope. Me? I get nothing. Just a passing glance; not even really passing but more of a looking through. "Mrs. Cellophane...."
Friday was the last straw. That's when I really felt it. It's the same kind of feeling you got in school when you were ALWAYS the last one picked for the team in gym class. On a non-pms-ing kind of day I could care less, really. I mean, I'm certainly not looking for a pickup artist or whatever. I'm happily married, for Heaven's sake!! I'm just saying, be polite and acknowledge a fellow human with a kind "hello" or a "how's it going?" It's not a come on. It's not a relationship. It's a greeting; a "her husband is a lucky man" kind of thing. That's what I want.
I think I'll do a little experiment on my weight loss journey. I'll make a chart that somehow graphs how much small talk happens the more pounds I lose. Because, honestly? Those of us who carry more bod around and take up more space are WAY less visible to the naked eye than the most petite person you can think of. It happened to me in high school: fat and ignored, thin and recognized. It happened in college: beginning of the slow re-gain=begin to disappear from society and being treated like a poltergeist who bumps into people. But, begin to re-lose and suddenly, attention. (Usually from the nerds and socially inept because all the hotties are: taken, gay or too into themselves)
It's like, if Angela and I were single, I'd be the one that the "wingman" would have to distract while the other one makes his move. Sometimes a girl gets fed up with being second prize. Even if she is happily married and loves her husband and her life.
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