How I Became an Alcoholic

My previous post was about how I stopped being an alcoholic, so I figured I should write the companion piece of how I became one. 

My story of alcoholism doesn't start the same way as that of most alcoholics, who start as early as age ten or twelve, pilfering from their parents' liquor cabinet, which was the most common origin story I heard at Alcoholics Anonymous. I never once drank from their liquor stash, even when my seventeen year-old friends were doing it. My parents had been giving me sips of their beer and wine since I was young, and I'd never understood what all the fuss was about. 

I didn't drink that much in college, just a few beers at the occasional party because that's what you're supposed to do. I knew I was a two-beer-queer so I never pushed it. I had a few friends of friends who'd been in the hospital to get their stomachs pumped, and there was no way I wanted that to happen. I mean, ew. To this day I can count on one hand the number of times I've vomited from drinking.

Over the last year of university my drinking rose slowly but steadily, in no small part at my boyfriend's encouragement. He loved for us to frequent his favorite little neighborhood bar to watch baseball games. I hated watching baseball but I loved drinking Corona and people watching, especially drunk people watching. One day he said to me, "You've started drinking more than I do," with a tone of surprise. I clinked his bottle and carried on. 

Since I was now with someone who could afford top shelf drinks, I had also gotten used to my beloved platinum margaritas with a tequila floater on top. Even typing that just now gave my body a little zing of happiness, after seven years sober. 

I can tell you the exact day I knew I had a problem. Not just a drinking problem, but something bigger than me entirely. 

It was my graduation party at my favorite Tex-Mex restaurant, and I was tossing back the platinum margaritas with great determination. My boyfriend kept whispering in my ear that maybe I should slow down, but I just ate more food and said that was enough to keep me steady. He looked worried, and I'm sure I looked annoyed. 

It was the fourth platinum margarita with a tequila floater that did me in, as I ended up puking it up all over the floor between my feet right there at the table. My best friend rushed me to the bathroom in case more was on the way; meanwhile my boyfriend paid with a hefty tip in apology even though we weren't done eating. 

I remember leaving the restaurant in a lucid enough state (somehow) to think to myself, Well, fuck, where do I go from here? Because I knew that I was standing at the top of a very long downward spiral. And yet it never occurred to me to try and fight the fall, because I assumed I couldn't. 

It was already clear that I was clinically depressed, as I had been diagnosed three years earlier. An intern year in New York City only made that depression the more clear as I was away from friends and family and the ease of home, trying to make it on my own like Carrie Bradshaw on Sex and the City. This was when I first got a Xanax prescription, although it barely blunted the worst of my depression. It was simply another pill to add to my morning batch of antidepressants and anti-anxiety meds. 

When I told my mother that my boyfriend and I were moving in together during my final year of college, her response (instead of being "fine, just don't tell your grandmother," as I expected) was, "good, he needs to know what he's getting into." Because I was a problem to be solved, someone who needed pills to hope to pass for normal. And I wasn't, not by any stretch of the imagination. Not that I was that hurt over her answer, because I had known for years that I was a person to be tolerated, someone who would never be happy like others were.

At the time I thought my perfect boyfriend of a year was my saving grace: If anyone could save me from myself, surely he could. 

And yet--my boyfriend was beginning to annoy me in every little way that he did every little thing, from the braying way he laughed to how he wanted his coffee microwaved an extra thirty seconds, but he was hot, made good money, and had an Australian accent, so naturally we moved in together. We even had a dog together. 

We had gone as far as to discuss getting married and moving to Sydney, which was why I was doing my best to ignore that nagging voice in the back of my head that he wasn't right for me. All my friends and family kept telling me how amazing he was, so who was I to think any different? I didn't think I could do any better, and apparently neither did anyone else.

And so I drank, to silence the voice in the back of my head.

Additionally, I had just graduated from Rice University, one of the best architecture programs in the country, and I was feeling the pressure of that tuition bill to succeed. I had twelve years of prep school and another five years of private university hanging over my head. Those made for some damn heavy diplomas.

You have to understand, I came from a highly successful and ambitious family. My cousin has given a TED Talk, another founded an academic journal, both have received lots of awards for things I can't spell let alone understand, my brother has a resume containing SpaceEx and Tesla, my father has numerous patents, everyone are world travelers--I couldn't compete with anyone. My three degrees in architecture and art from a ritzy university were nothing special, but simply what was expected of me to be allowed a seat at the table.

And so I drank, to silence the expectations I doubted I'd ever be able to achieve.

The real trouble was that I no longer wanted to be an architect. I'd felt it in my gut for some time now, and I had no idea what to do. My mother knew I was wavering in my dedication to school so she said, "Just graduate, I don't care what your grades are. Graduate." So I popped Xanax like they were M&Ms and managed to graduate.

Meanwhile I was spending every Saturday and Sunday morning with my boyfriend at my favorite coffee shop, writing on my ancient laptop. Sometimes I wrote about the people at the cafe, making up stories for them. Other times I wrote about things that had happened to me during my intern year in Manhattan, which although depressing had also been full of dating stories I'd shared with my amused friends at the time, not knowing this would be a precursor to a very popular and award-winning dating and sex blog I wrote for years after college. 

Oftentimes, or should I say, most of the time, I wrote about how much I feared the end of the school year and my having to become an architect for real. I could barely deal with architecture in the safely confined design studio of university; how would I deal with multiple bosses, endless meetings, city codes, and contractors who automatically saw me as an adversary because of my position and gender?

And so I drank, to silence my growing dread of facing the architecture profession head-on.

There was a time I loved architecture, really, truly. My freshman year of college was the best year of my life because I was surrounded by people who shared my passion for art and architecture. We went to the local Museum District and gawked over exquisite handrails and clever wall detailing. These were my people. My collection of architecture books from those years prove my love for it was once genuine. But somewhere along the way, I either burned out or got burned. To this day I can't tell you where I went wrong. Maybe things would have been different if I'd never experienced depression. But as it was, I fell deeply out of love with architecture. 

Then there was my newfound love of writing--it made me happy, at least for a couple hours every weekend at that coffee shop. During my twelve-hour days of architecture studio all week I looked forward to those few precious hours I'd have to write. Writing just made me feel better, it was that plain and simple. I could say anything I wanted. I could cry or rage or complain or hope. I could just be. I could imagine a different life, one where I was happy. 

But what did I expect to do with that $250,000 degree? Change the entire course of my life so I could write? Seriously? That was no real-world endeavor, at least not to my family full of engineers, scientists, and medical professionals. 

And so I drank, to silence the new voice in the back of my head telling me to dare to follow my dreams anyway.

I started cutting myself as well, but I'll save that story for another post. 

Over my twenties my drinking expanded from beer and margaritas at Mexican restaurants to box wine (because it felt more dignified and less like being an alcoholic) at home to vodka sodas at clubs until I finally kept a full bar at home, having long ditched the Australian boyfriend for the better support system of white Russians, straight tequila, whiskey, or my poison of choice, the big 1.5 liter bottles of wine.

It seemed like every direction I looked, there was a reason to drink. Sometimes I wonder if I stood a chance at all of avoiding alcoholism, especially once you throw in the addiction gene on both sides of the family. Or maybe that's all just a big excuse for why I failed so miserably at fighting it for so many years. 

By age 25 my love was easily found in a glass, night after night, and always alone except for the voice in the back of my head. 

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If you can relate all too well to my story, feel free to email me vixoen@gmail.com. No judgement, full confidentiality, because I get it. 

7 Year Soberiversary

Today I have been sober for seven years, which is nothing short of a miracle given how much I was drinking eight years ago--roughly two bottles of wine a night (but only six glasses if I was on a date and ten glasses if I had nowhere to be the next morning and I was really into Vampire Diaries that night). 

A friend of mine recently asked me how I was staying sober while dealing with stage 4 cancer. Until he asked me that, it honestly hadn't crossed my mind to give in and drink to forget my well-earned worries for a night. I told him that at this point I didn't drink simply out of habit. Seven years of not drinking embeds those neural pathways pretty deep. Nowadays I'm able to live in a house with wine, beer, and whiskey in the cabinets and feel no temptation.

Getting to that point, however, sucked. The first day of sobriety is as hard as every day after it all added together. Anyone who has gotten sober and stayed that way has an iron will, no matter what they may say about themselves (including "it's all thanks to Jesus, my Higher Power." Yeah, right, I don't see Jesus coming down and wrestling the whiskey out of your hand in the middle of a tear-stricken night). 

Seven years ago I was spending Christmas and New Year's with my family at our lakehouse in Missouri. All my favorite people were there which means I was in a room full of PhDs, success, ambition, awards, and Google Scholar hits. I felt like a nobody because I had none of those things. 

So I drank. 

Every day I watched the clock and started drinking cheap wine the second the clock struck noon. One particularly difficult day I started drinking at eleven. My mother gave me a look and I just gave her the stink eye back: "I'm not waiting until noon today." 

The next day as I walked through the bustling kitchen with a freshly topped off glass of wine, my mother caught me by the elbow and said something to me that pierced through all my bullshit armor and excuses and hit me where I needed to hear it. "With your drinking, you are giving up your career, you are giving up finding a husband, and you are giving up having a child. You are giving up everything for your drinking." 

It shook me to my core. 

When Mom released my elbow she went back to her business mashing potatoes, and I had her words ringing in my ear like a gong. I was half-there for the rest of the day, but not because of the box wine. 

The next day I told Mom I wanted to get sober. I don't think she believed me but naturally she thought it was a great idea. I ordered some books on getting sober that would be waiting at my door when I got home. I played with the idea of Alcoholics Anonymous but I wasn't sure because it sounded like an awful lot of work, especially that step where you apologize to all the people you've wronged. Oh hellllllll no, I don't think so. Maybe I didn't need AA; I was smart, surely I could figure out how to get sober on my own. 

It turned out Mom wasn't my only mini-intervention. My favorite cousin got me alone (with a bottle of white wine as a bribe, the clever lass) and told me she was worried about me. I lowered my head and said, Yeah, I know. It's time to do something. I just hope I can. What if it was too late?

When I made it back to Portland I continued drinking for a couple days. The sobriety books lay in a stack on the coffee table, unread. Finally my mother asked if I'd been to AA and I said no. She said, "but you promised you'd get sober." Once again, it was her words that cut through all my excuses: my problem isn't that bad, I have it under control, it doesn't affect anyone else, I never black out so how bad can I really be, I never puke, almost nothing bad ever happens to me, these tremors aren't that noticeable, withdrawal isn't that big a deal. But Mom was right, I had promised her, and I owed it to her to follow through. 

Besides, maybe her words were exactly what I needed to save me from myself. 

After a couple days I decided, okay, it's time to get real. I went online and found a website listing all the Portland-area AA meetings for that day. I picked one that was close by and decided to read a memoir of getting sober until then. At the last minute I decided to go to a woman-only meeting instead that was a little farther away, figuring it would be a little less intimidating. 

Thank goodness I did, because if I had gone to the first meeting I'd found, I might never have gone back to AA. I attended this one a couple months later and it was everything unappealing you see about Alcoholics Anonymous in the movies: dark church room, shitty coffee in styrofoam cups, broken metal folding chairs, and a group of people who looked equally broken. Not inspiring at first glance.

Now I am NOT saying all AA meetings are like this, in fact most are not so don't let my experience deter you, but what I'm saying is that this particular meeting would have scared my already very squirrelly disposition away from AA because I didn't know any better and didn't have the determination or motivation to stick it out and see all the good things about it I later saw. Like how much conviction it takes to show up to an AA meeting when all you want to do is drive to the liquor store. 

Instead, I went to an all women's meeting. It was in a very cozy sitting room in a church, full of couches and fluffy pillows. They lit a candle and greeted me with a smile, their name, and a hug. They were THRILLED to be my first AA meeting ever and treated me like a treasured guest because of it. They gave me a free copy of the AA book. It was as pleasant an experience as I could have hoped for for my first time. 

During the meeting they gave me the coveted and hard-won gold 24 hour coin for my first day sober and told me to keep coming back so I could earn my silver 1 month coin. A few women offered to be my sponsor although I wasn't ready to decide yet because I wanted to see a couple other meetings first. It was thanks to this meeting that I dove into AA as a major factor in my getting sober. 

I attended meetings for my first year and a half. Yes, many if not most took place in grungy church rooms with shitty coffee. That's just how AA is, because that's all they can afford. Their job isn't to pamper you; on the contrary, AA's job is to kick you in the ass and keep you sober, one day at a time. And it works. My sponsors were two of the most bullshit-proof women I've ever encountered in my life. One was a former meth head stripper, the other was a Harvard grad working in finance. I learned a ton from both. 

I became a far better person because of AA and my sponsors, and there's no denying I became a better, less self-absorbed and less selfish person because I stopped drinking. I know my family finds me a lot more pleasant to be around now.

What you can't appreciate until you're out the other side is how much easier sobriety is. You're not always worried about your next drink or your next bottle or FUCK, the liquor store is closed. You don't have to worry about pacing yourself on a first date or at the office happy hour so you don't look like the raging alcoholic that you secretly know you are. You don't make self-deprecating jokes about being a high- (or not-so-high) functioning alcoholic and get nervous when others don't laugh because there's no hiding what you really are. 

My main concern--and main reason for not quitting already (or was this just the lie I told myself?)--was that I was convinced drinking made me more creative. If I stopped drinking, I thought I'd lose my ability to brainstorm and write so well. Never mind that I was barely doing either. Friends pointed this out to me and said if I was such a great a writer as I thought I was, I'd be able to write stone cold sober as well. And the smug bastards were right, of course, because progress on my fantasy book improved fivefold when I stopped drinking. 

What's the biggest truth I didn't know about getting sober? 

When I stopped drinking, I was able to stop hating myself. My Xanax usage went way down, which was no small feat in itself. I realized if I got sober, maybe next year I wouldn't be hissing at anyone who asks if they can have a glass of my box wine because ALCOHOLICS DON'T SHARESIES. 

A journal entry I came across recently that shot me straight back to the time of hating everything about myself was this: "3 a.m. face in hands, whiskey on ice." I remember writing that. I remember how much I was hurting and wishing I could change, but I was convinced I wasn't strong enough to do so. 

Of course that was bullshit. I was strong enough the entire time, I just didn't know it was in me to look at a bottle of wine and choose to pour it down the drain. If I had then maybe today I'd be celebrating my 15 year soberiversary instead of 7. 

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If you want to talk more about getting sober, please email me vixoen@gmail.com. No judgment, full confidentiality. I know I wish I'd had someone to talk to about all this years ago, so really, message me.

The Marine

I blogged about the Marine a lot as OEN during our three-month long courtship, which ended when I met Tex aka IT Guy (and the morning after a hurricane, no less). The Marine was sweet, treated me well, handsomely rugged looking, and great in bed. But he was also a pothead, had a blue collar job, and was someone I would never, ever bring home to meet my parents. Never mind that we went on a sexcation to Puerta Vallarta together. I met all his pothead friends and coworkers and he met none of mine.

So I never saw him as anything more than a friend with benefits, and he accepted that. I knew he would take whatever he could he could get, because he was A Nice Guy. 

Four months ago I got an email from the Marine saying hey, are you still around? It'd been 12 years since we last saw each other. I replied back right away, thrilled to hear from him and maybe get some much-desired male attention.

We started texting with the occasional phone call. The Marine was already planning to drive up and visit me in January, which I was excited about. A week of sex, board games, take-out, and movie marathons. 

Then a few weeks later I got my stage 4 cancer diagnosis. The Marine was exceptionally sweet, supportive, and caring. He said and did all the right boyfriendy type things including Door Dashing me a big teddy bear and can of chicken soup on an especially bad day. Other times he sent me Vietnamese egg rolls and coffee which had been our favorite food oh so many years ago. 

He wanted to talk on the phone every day. Unheard of these days, right? He'd call "just for a minute, because I wanted to hear your voice!" and it inevitably turned into a 45 minute phone call, which I pretended didn't irritate me because I am vehemently anti-phone, especially for long periods of time, extra especially when the other person knows that. The Marine would say "I'll talk to you tomorrow" and I found myself dreading the next phone call. I knew it was my fault and not his that I felt this way. Something was wrong with me that I wasn't falling hard for the Marine when he was acting like every boyfriend should, particularly in the face of a terminal cancer diagnosis.

When it was decided I'd be moving back to Dallas for chemo treatment, a mere three hours from the Marine in Houston, I realized Oh shit, this is no longer "a fun week of sex" territory, it's potential boyfriend-girlfriend territory. I needed to navigate this very carefully in case I wasn't feeling it. Would I be interested in him if I were meeting him for the first time now, or are we coasting on old feelings?

Meanwhile the Marine regularly told me "I thought about you all day." He told friends and customers about me. He sent me YouTube videos of songs that reminded him of me. I definitely did not think about him all day, but then again I had stage 4 uterine cancer permanently on the brain so that wasn't a good determining factor about my feelings for the Marine. 

I asked my favorite cousins about whether it was okay to keep things going with the Marine when I wasn't sure how I felt about him, but who was I to turn away a great guy when I was facing down terminal cancer and all I wanted more than anything was someone to snuggle and watch Netflix with? Was that really reason enough to string along someone I may only feel fondness for, but rarely thought about during the day? My cousin said "sure, enjoy," but I just didn't know. 

Then it was time to actually see the Marine, two weeks after I got to Texas--at my parents' lakehouse, with my entire family there. So much for never meeting the parents. I knew this would be decision time for whether we got serious or Became Just Friends. 

He came up with presents, homemade enchiladas, and a huge whitened smile, his marijuana-stained teeth long gone. We hugged like old lovers and fumbled through the awkwardness of years apart. The "welcome back" kiss was familiar, just like a hundred before that. Everything was familiar yet awkward at the same time. We held hands and he put his hand on my leg during TV time, and it was all totally normal--but I didn't feel sparks no matter how hard I tried. How reasonable is it to expect sparks with someone after age 40, I tried to reason with myself. Snuggles over sparks any day, right? Right?

The Marine is a very charming and friendly guy, so he got along great with my parents and brother. We talked on the deck and played dominoes. He and Brother had an hour long jam session on their guitars, after which Brother told me he was an amazing guitarist. Yes, I knew well what those hands could do--and yet I had barely thought about the possibility of sex that night. 

Throughout the weekend I asked each of my family members what they thought about the Marine, which I was nervous about because he's "just a Home Depot employee" (my quotation marks or theirs? Turned out I was the only one who seemed to care he didn't have a "real" job, because I'm a snobby bitch). All of them loved the Marine. Damn. There went my Out. Not that I was sure I needed one, but I had no idea how I'd feel by the end of the weekend.

When it came time to go to bed I ushered in the Marine and then realized, Oh fuck, it's time for sex. The Marine asked if he could take a shower and if I wanted to join him. I shook my head then buried my face in my pillow. When he knew me before, I had been a curvy and sexy size 12 with all the confidence that entailed. Now I was an apple-shaped 4X plus-size with no hair thanks to chemo. My confidence was long gone. Besides that, I hadn't had sex in nearly three years. Who knew if I remembered what to do, or even could, especially with my parents fifteen feet away watching TV. I felt like everything was working against me. 

When the Marine came out of the bathroom and lay down next to me on the bed, I told him I didn't want to have sex and promptly buried my face in the pillow in shame. I said I didn't feel sexy and it had been a long time for me. 

The Marine said none of the reassuring things I had hoped to hear. No "don't be silly, you're still beautiful to me" or "I think you're sexy as hell" or "what are you talking about, I have barely been able to keep my hands to myself all day." No "it's okay, we'll go slow" or "you just tell me what you want." Nothing. It felt like a slap in the face, like he was agreeing with me that I wasn't sexy and he didn't really want to have sex with me anyway. I went to sleep with my bandana on to hide my bald head because I didn't want to feel even unsexier than I did already. 

I don't remember if we cuddled on either night or not. We may have started off that way and then ended on opposite sides of the bed, used to sleeping alone. I just know that I woke up feeling as alone as every other morning. 

I wanted to talk to the Marine and apologize for the night before, even though I knew it had been the right call, but as soon as we woke up, he said he was going to head out. I was surprised because the original plan was for him to leave for Houston in the late afternoon. He couldn't get out of the house fast enough. He thanked my parents for having him, gave me a half-hug, and backed out of the driveway as fast as could be. 

That, I understood. I'd embarrassed him and disappointed him. I think. 

But the next day the Marine sent a long series of texts complimenting everything about his stay with us at the lakehouse, all but desperate in tone for me to respond or forgive or forget, I'm not sure which. Maybe all of the above.

So I did the obvious thing: I ghosted him. I was that bitch. I was hurt that he'd bailed first thing the next morning without an apology. It hurt that he hadn't said anything reassuring about my vastly changed appearance or even indicated that he wanted to have sex with this fat, sick, bald version of me (not that I could really fault him, I just wished our past was enough for him to overlook all that). 

We texted a few nondescript things after that, but nothing of substance, and now it's been months without anything. 

I'm afraid this is the end of the Marine for good. 

My Virginity Grew Back

It has been so long since I've gotten laid that I honest-to-god can't remember if it's been two years or three years. I'm pretty sure it's two years. Two years and two months. 

If you had told me five years ago, and especially if you had told me ten years ago when I was the OEN having sex every five minutes that I would be in this situation, I would have been horrified. And mortified. And very gravely concerned. Am I sick? Did I break something important down there? Did I run out of guys in the metropolitan area?

To some extent, I can genuinely blame my health as it came out about two years ago that I have hypothyroidism which lowers one's libido, but I've been taking meds for that for a year and a half. So that's a moot point, right? I think. 

Then covid happened. 

Covid just royally fucked up all the things.

As a self-admitted hypochondriac, I refuse to go out to public indoor spaces unless it's for a doctor's appointment I absolutely have to go to. Or once for donuts, because, duh, cinnamon twist and I'm not going to pay for GrubHub to deliver me a $2.49 donut. But I was really desperate at that point! And I went in the middle of the afternoon when the place was empty. 

I should mention that I have a standing offer with my ex-fuck buddy Contractor, who recently got married to a lovely woman. She's open to swinging and they have expressed interest in me me because he wants me to teach her how to squirt. 

Okay, going from no sex in two (or is it three?) years to being Professor Squirtsville sounds like asking for a lot. Like I'm not sure I could even find the right things at the appropriate times especially once things got all slippery. [I have been masturbating rarely because it's easier not to have sex when I'm not revving the engine.] 

Contractor and his wife are probably the safest bet and will be the most understanding of any fumbling I have in bed as I'm reinitiated in the bedroom arts, but then there's the big fat monkey wrench of having a pussy on top of a dick to maneuver. I've turned into a bit of a pillow princess in my older days so that may end up in disappointment for them when I'm popping up every thirty seconds to ask if I'm doing it right.

I could always go on Tinder or Bumble or whatever the hell it is kids use these days to find a hookup buddy, but then I'm trusting that they're telling the truth when they say they're vaccinated and boostered. Fortunately I live in Oregon which has a high vaccination rate, unlike Texas where my family lives surrounded by psycho anti-vaxxers, but still. Is it weird to ask for photographic proof of a vaccination card before agreeing to meet in person? Does that make me look like a freaked out hypochondriac? Or is it just good sense?

The reason I'm being a huge hypochondriac about covid is because my health is already dodgy from having lived in an apartment severely contaminated with black mold for three and a half years. Black mold affects multiple systems in your body and takes years, literally years for you to return to full health. As it is, I sleep twelve hours a day because there is still black mold in my body even though I moved to an ERMI-approved apartment a year and a half ago and have been undergoing an insane regimen of supplements and medication in that time. 

So I don't want to mess with covid. My body is already giving me the silent treatment. What if I got long covid with brain fog and the fatigue that lasts for months afterward? Christ, I'd be sleeping 16 hours a day and unable to work the few hours I was awake. NO THANKS. 

But... sex. 

I miss sex. From what I remember of sex, it's quite enjoyable. Maybe I'll just look at all those dick pics I saved ten years ago and try to get over the fact that none of the guys in the photos are wearing face masks.

Hot to Not to Hot Again

Once upon a time many moons ago, I was hot. 

It was a glorious time. Pencil skirts, sky-high stilettos, high self-esteem, and free drinks abounded. I ate all the Oreos and drank all the wine I wanted, the minimal weight gain only making me more curvaceous and delicious. 

At the age of thirty-two however, all the Oreos and 6 (to 8 (to 10)) glasses of wine a night curiously started catching up with me. Within six months I had gained fifty pounds. 

INCONCEIVABLE. 

At the time I had a sweet puppy dog of a boyfriend who thought I was beautiful no matter what (sucker), so I simply relished in the fact that I had an excuse to buy a whole new wardrobe at Ann Taylor. How's that for finding a silver 40" lining? Besides, at five-foot eight and with a naturally meaty build, my frame could take the hit--or so I told myself. 

For eight years. 

You'd think I would have lost a lot of the weight when I got sober and stopped drinking those oversized big-ass 1.5 liter bottles of wine every night, but nooooooo. Recovering alcoholics commonly cross-addict to some other vice such as food, and by all the glory of saturated fats, that is what I did. 

Cheese! Salami! Gouda cheese! Bacon cheeseburgers! Sharp white cheddar cheese! ChikFilA even though I was against their homophobic ways! Smoked gouda cheese! Pizza (strangely enough, NOT with extra cheese)! Brie! 3-entree servings of Panda Express with only two pieces of vegetable in sight! Goat cheese! Oreos! Queso with questionable cheese purity but queso all the same!

At my heaviest, I weighed more than my beer-bellied six foot five college boyfriend did at HIS heaviest. A few strangers congratulated me on my pregnancy, and depending on my mood I either hissed at them or smiled and said 'thanks' sweetly so as to avoid publicly outing myself as a fatass.

Don't get me wrong, it has been a very merry eight years full of the aforementioned menu items and not giving a shit, which I cherish almost as fondly as the previous years of hotness. Almost. 

So what prompts a lazy fatass to finally put down the towering bowl of ice cream and dig out the running shoes? I'll let you pick your favorite reason from the list below:

1. An impressive amount of underboob sweat while undergoing absolutely minimal physical activity, especially impressive considering they aren't that big compared to the rest of me
2. Sweating from places that didn't exist ten years ago
3. I do one day after covid want to start dating again, and sadly a lot of people refuse to go out with chubsters in spite of how lovely their personalities may be (and I used to be one of these assholes, so I should know)
4. Being the one overweight person under seventy in my family (and they make their opinions about "the fatties" well known)
5. I'm not cute enough to attract attention based on the upper 40% my face alone due to facemasks, although I didn't do so great with the other 60% being on display before the pandemic. I wouldn't say I was ever a butterface, but I would say it was my body that attracted attention more so than any prettiness I ever deluded myself into believing I had
6. I only own six shirts, three pairs of pants, and two pairs of shorts that actually fit and I wear regularly because I refuse to buy clothes for a size that is "not my true size." 
7. Seeing that the hail damage aka cellulite that used to only be on my ass now goes all the way down to my knees
8. My self-esteem has tanked so badly that I am actively looking for ways to improve it, which has included things like shaving every day, reading a new self-help book every three days, and giving myself a pedicure for the first time in four years. Which went very badly, by the way. Apparently my artistic thinking has made it impossible for me to stay in the lines in any context whatsoever. 
9. It was fun back in the day to post sexy pics for you on Twitter (shut up, yes, I finally joined Instagram so I'll be crossing over), not to mention immensely validating since I was once the nerd girl no one in prep school paid attention to. 
10. I miss feeling like all the rap songs were written about my luscious peach of an ass.
11. Exercise is known to be excellent for mental health, but I honestly I'm only mentioning this because it's what my mother kept spouting out at me. And wouldn't you know it, after a month of exercising for forty-five plus minutes a day I do feel a spring in my step and a slightly more focused mind when I write, but that is strictly coincidence. Mom can't know she was right. Why does she always get to be right about everything? So infuriating. 

Okay so "for my health" is not listed as a reason. I know it should have been, but let's be honest: I miss being hot. 

The lower blood pressure and decreased risk of type II diabetes are just a bonus. 

Big Magic

One of my favorite books on creativity and writing is Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert, the author best known for Eat, Pray, Love. One of my all-time favorite books, which I do not say lightly, is Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear because it is full of gems that every artist and artisan needs to hear at least once in their life. 

In it she asks, "Do you love your art?" And of course, every artist is going to say yes. 

But she then asks, "Does your art love you back?" and she says everyone is always like, What the fuck does that mean? 

I have this beautiful crystal butterfly, about three inches long, made by Swarovski. It's gorgeous hanging in the sunlight, refracting every color of the rainbow on the windowsill next to my desk. 

I pretend this crystal butterfly is my creativity, my muse, my daemon. My magic fairy godmother of the imagination. It is always with me, waiting for the right times to inspire me with its ideas and grace. 

Because art is magic. Inspiration is divine. I don't necessarily mean God-given (although I don't necessarily mean it's not, either), but it is something ethereal. Art is so far beyond the understanding of science that it is otherworldly. 

From Big Magic:

I believe that our planet is inhabited not only by animals and plants and bacteria and viruses, but also by ideas. Ideas are a disembodied, energetic life-form. They are completely separate from us, but capable of interacting with us--albeit strangely. Ideas have no material body, but they do have consciousness, and they most certainly have will. Ideas are driven by a single impulse: to be made manifest. And the only way an idea can be made manifest in our world is through collaboration with a human partner. It is only through a human's efforts that an idea can be escorted out of the ether and into the realm of the actual. (34-5)

Isn't that such a mindfuck of a concept? That ideas are alive? So that's how I imagine my little crystal butterfly, as flying around my apartment bestowing me with ideas as big as a book trilogy and as small as a tweet. Art loves me. It loves everyone. It wants to share its ideas with as many people as will listen, pick up a paintbrush, knit a sweater, write a song, and build a table. Even when art is dark and twisty, it still needs to be brought forth or else the soul will fester underneath the weight of suffering. 

On days when writing doesn't come easily, which unfortunately is most days since I'm still freshly through the murky swamp of writer's block without my feet having a chance to dry off yet, I look at my little crystal muse and remind myself that art loves me for a reason. If inspiration has faith in me, shouldn't I have faith in me too?  

Because magic is in the air. Always. 

I Could SO Be a Model. If You Squint.

Another favorite from the OEN archives.

What? I’m dead serious. I could SO be a model, if I really wanted to.

You know that Katherine Heigl girl? Izzy Stevens, aka “Dr. Model” on Grey’s Anatomy? Well I look exactly like her.

Ok, sure, I know I’m not all model skinny. I mean, I’d have to lose fifteen pounds. Twice. But other than that, I look just like her. The similarities are eerie. Or they would be, if I were blonde. And had better hair. And maybe if I were a little taller.

It would also help if I were pretty. Then I would be the It model. Forget Victoria’s Secret Angels®, it’s time for Vix’s It’s-No-Fucking-Secret Dominatrix®©¥ line of lingerie to run those glamazons off the fucking runway. Everyone knows leather and lace are the new blush and bashful.

So the skinny thing, and the pretty thing. Those are the only two tiny little things keeping me from a fantastic career in modeling, and then retiring at the old age of 32 to become a judge on America’s Next Top What’s Her Name Again?, cycle 27 and making mad whoopie with Nigel on top of the judging table.

Dude, it could sooo happen.

You still don’t believe that I can be a model, do you? Well I’ll have you know that when Barbie and I went to watch the girls auditioning for America’s Next Top Fugger, there was a lovely young man with a clipboard who came over and asked us if we were models. Being the smart cookie I am, I did not trust this young fellow and therefore asked to see an application. He stammered and asked for our phone numbers so he could send us applications. But the clipboard!! HE HAD A CLIPBOARD. THAT MUST MEAN HE HAD SOME SORT OF MODEL-MAKING POWER.

That’s ok, I can become a model on my own. I don’t need Mr. Clipboard Man. I have natural talent! I have personality! Per-son-AL-I-TITTY. I am a great conversationalist. 

Ohhh crap. The hips! Because, like, I have them. Damnit. Okay well they can airbrush those out. And while they’re tinkering with my photos, they can also clear up my skin. So many pimples, where the hell do they come from?. Oh and that mole. It’s gotta go. Not the discolored one on my shoulder, the other one–no, not that one, the big one. The one with the hairs growing out of it. They may need to fix the eyes too. One is a different color than the other one. Dunno, birth defect yada yada the doctor said it wasn’t that big a deal and eventually they’d be able to focus on the same thing without one veering to the left.

Also, my lips are kind of thin. Not very DSL-y at all. I can’t afford collagen injections, at least not yet, not until I sign my huge modeling contract. So until then, I suppose I’ll have to pinch my lips repeatedly to make them puff up. Or maybe I can have a dear friend punch me in the mouth every day to give me big luscious lips. Oh yes, that’s brilliant. I’ll have to remember that tip for when I write my first book, I Am So Much Prettier Than You: How to Look More Like Me Without Being a Reality TV Show Victim.

I’d need to buy boobs, of course. The ones I have now are lovely, but they don’t compare to the twin Heigls on the cover of Maxim. –looks down at breastises– Okay so that’s one, well, two little things that aren’t exactly model-ish either. Hmm.

Did I mention my toes? I forgot my toes. I would need toe replacement surgery. My little piglets are not the cutest things to get bright red nail polish slapped on them haphazardly (not to worry, I can pay someone to do all that for me once I get my big modeling contract). But glittery paint can only do so much. I need model toes. Make that model feet. My feet are kinda wide. And they sweat a lot. I can’t have sweaty feet. Not to worry, I can pay someone to find a way to make me stop sweating.

Okay, I hear all you bitches out there laughing at me. That’s rather rude, don’t you think? If the skeezey guy with the clipboard at the mall thought I was a model, I could be a model. Well, you know, except for that whole super skinny pretty thing. That’s a bit of a pisser.

Fine, maybe you would be able to see my modeling potential if you just closed your eyes. Then I look exactly like Katherine Heigl.