Lowered Expectations . . .

I have been mulling over the possibility of coming to the blogger happy hour on Friday. Jo has been telling me for ages how much fun they are and how nice everyone is, blah, blah, blah. And I keep making excuses . . . it’s a pain getting into DC on a Friday afternoon from where I live; it’s on a weeknight and I have to work the next day; I won’t know anyone; ew, karaoke?!

But it all kept coming back to one thing that I didn’t want to admit out loud, but that was the REAL reason that I had stayed away: Expectations. Not that I am concerned that my fellow bloggers won’t meet mine, but rather that I won’t meet theirs.

Jo always tells me how she envies how much confidence I have, but it’s all a sham. I’m a mess, just like most of the other people I know. I’m terrified that I’m going to walk in and some bitchy girl will turn to her friend and say, “Who invited Large Marge?”

Yup, there it is folks; out there in the open. I’m not a skinny girl (far from it). I used to be, but I’m not anymore, and I’ve paid dearly for that. Guys who absolutely adore my personality immediately relegate me to the friend zone without a moment’s hesitation, and then complain to me that the tall, leggy model they are dating is stupid, selfish, and emotionally void. Most girls are fine once they get to know me, but there are those few that every once in a while give me that look that only someone overweight knows. It’s a combination of disgust and pity, and it is the single most degrading and offensive look in the world.

So, consider yourselves forewarned: I’m coming, damn it, and I'm bringing my fat ass with me, so watch your drinks. The only thing that will stop me is a sale at Lane Bryant. (I’m kidding. I’m kidding.) But before you judge me (because, lets be honest, we all judge one another), make sure you take a few minutes to get to know me, because I’m an effing nice girl. (Oh, and did I mention I have really big boobs and great legs?)