My Big Fat (Not At All Greek) Weekend

I met this professional photographer at karaoke one night who gave me his card. I come to find out he can also play the piano and shares my love for music and jazz/pop standards (Sinatra, et al).

He invites me over for a music-filled Friday night, singing standards by his piano. I wasn't exactly sure if it was a date, or if other people might have been invited, or even if he had a boyfriend. Long story short (I'll spare you the details), we have a good musical time and, sometime after 1 AM, we discontinue the musical sing-a-long and begin kissing and, well, you can guess. Post-coitus, while I'm dressing, he says something to the affect of "don't take this the wrong way" or "don't be offended, but..."

(Advice to the few who will actually read this, don't ever start a conversation after a sexual encounter with any of the aforementioned phrases.) He continues with saying something like "you'd look even hotter if you worked out." I'm not quoting him exactly, but the jist is the same.
Wouldn't everyone look better if they worked out? Is there a need to tell anyone in particular this fact? And no matter what the semantics or word placement "You would be hot if you worked out," "You should work out," negate any internal compliment that may be present. All that you are left with is "You're fat" or "You're not as hot."

He actually did realize that he just said something that could be taken offensively, and tried to dig himself out of the hole he started by mentioning my frame is well-suited for muscle, etc, etc, etc. More surprised and embarrassed than offended at that point, I try to act nonchalant and just continue the conversation while I make my exit.

The next evening, I head to karaoke as is my usual custom. I sing some songs, the highlight of which was to be "I am changing" from Dreamgirls, my tribute to the husky solidarity I felt with the big-boned Effie (whether Holliday or Hudson). Unfortunately, I forgot that specific karaoke CD in my car, so I leave for a moment to go retrieve it.

While climbing in to reach from the driver's side to the passenger side for the CD... rrrriiiipppp! My rear pocket caught on the side of the door and my jeans ripped (see photo). And, yes, I was wearing underwear, I found those jeans, which were my favorite and very tight, were uncomfortable in any undergarments except jockstraps or thongs.

This would have been a great time to go home to avoid any embarrassment. Unfortunately, I had 1) Not paid by bar tab, and 2) Not sang my Dreamgirls song. So I had to return to the bar, pay my tab, and sing my song (and try not to show the entire world my left cheek). And did a cute guy start talking to me? Of course. And would I get up off my seat to follow him and talk to him on the other side of the bar risking bare ass visuals for the other drinkers? No.

On the way home, I could not think of any worse way to end my big fat weekend. First I get called fat (indirectly), then I bust my favorite jeans (quite directly).