i never got my teen love story - so i made one up
on body grief, romantic delay and rewriting the script
Yes, I’m joining the musings of the “If you’re ugly and you know it, clap your hands!” brigade on TikTok - not for the bit, but because I haven’t stopped thinking about what it means to grow up waiting for something that never arrived.
If you know me personally — or if we went to high school together — you already know I was morbidly obese for most of it.
I was the Fat Funny Friend. Which meant I didn’t expect to have a prom date (I didn’t). I didn’t expect to have a boyfriend (I didn’t). I didn’t get asked to dances, guys didn’t have crushes on me — you get the idea.
To this day, those things live in a part of my brain I’ve labeled: For the Special and Real People. The Special and Real People are beautiful and picked. They have boyfriends, prom dates and promposals. And I always wished I was one of them.
Honesty is the best policy, right?
I lost weight because I hated myself.
And because I was tired of being fat.
I know - “Love yourself!” “Every BODY is beautiful!” “Health at every size!”
For me, I used these ideas as a way to cope with my misery. The funny thing about being fat? You are always so terrified someone is going to find out.
If someone were to stare at me too long, it was like this spotlight: I see you and I know what you are.
I lost the weight. And the loneliness stayed. I saw people bigger than me fall in love every day. And I felt foolish. I lost weight because I thought I would be easier to love. The love didn’t come any faster and I’ve been devastated ever since.
The mind will go through leaps to make sense of emotional pain.
I’ve ran through a few possibilities:
A. My Badness leaks out of me and I’m the only one who can’t see it. That’s why I don’t have love.
B. I’m still too fat (A bit more realistic. A bit more forgiving).
C. Maybe there’s no divine plan and I just don’t get to experience romantic love. The End.
I run through these scenarios quite frequently. They all involve some form of me sobbing in my bed, car or shower. And then tucking it back into my For Later box and moving on.
Oddly, I think I would be a terrible fucking girlfriend. An even worse wife. I want to do what I want, when I want. I don’t want to be your therapist (I have my own and she’s lovely). I don’t cook. I clean just enough. I don’t care about where you are or what you’re doing. I don’t want to be a stay-at-home mom. I don’t want to raise kids all day. I’m hiring a night nurse. A cook. A housekeeper. And I’m keeping my peace.
My ideal teen love story?
After all, twenty-five is basically sixteen in this economy.
A man loves me more than I love him and he has a career that can pay our rent. I spend all of my money on matcha, maybe a utility bill, and Rhode lip tints.
He listens to me talk about my day, my creative endeavors and what else he can do to make me happy. He tells me about his day and I say “That’s nice, honey” while continuing to scroll TikTok at full volume.
He gives and I take.
Balance, ladies. Balance.
After a while it stops being socially acceptable to “rehash the past,” as they say. But if you were plotting against me in high school - I haven’t forgotten.
Morbidly obese me ain’t forget.
Regular fat me has you on a list.
To the future - hopefully, I shed the residual shame of being fat and learn to enjoy my body and myself as I am. Chasing validation and satisfaction exhausts the mind. Sometimes, we just have to be Good Enough and not Perfect.
And if no one ever writes me a love story - fine. I’m a cynical bitch with an anxiety disorder.
I’ve already spent the last eight years rehearsing my reaction in my head.