M and I talk about the past a lot. Mostly our past together, and mostly the good times. We’ve been through some really rough patches, and we’re not stupid enough to pretend we don’t remember them. They are part of what has made our relationship so strong. We just don’t see the point in rehashing things that have already been resolved, or no longer matter.

One of the focuses of our conversations, lately, has been our weight. We’re both open and honest with each other about everything. So we talk openly about the fact that our sex life was better when we were skinnier and more active. We were happier, and slept better, and really enjoyed every moment of every day because we were doing more than sitting on the couch, sometimes in each other’s arms, watching television.

Don’t get me wrong. We enjoy our “us time” now, too, and the change in our extracurricular activities is due more to the fact that we rely on public transportation than anything else. We really enjoy each other’s company, no matter what we’re doing.

But when we were out hiking till we couldn’t walk anymore, or searching for an old ammo box protecting a treasure trove of McDonalds toys, or just going for a drive (which we’ll probably never be able to feel comfortable doing again, even when we finally buy a car, unless gas prices take a serious nosedive) we really enjoyed the activities we were doing, too. I mean, the only really memorable moments of television time are when I cried through the last six or eight episodes of Lost because Charlie died, and Lost was coming to a close, and watching our wedding for the first time and realizing I didn’t look nearly as stupid as I thought I did (though I am as goofy as I think I am), and watching porn while we masturbated and had sex for twelve hours. I miss going out to go Geocaching, planning on doing just one cache, and looking up eight hours, and hundreds of miles later, some driven and some walked, wondering when the sun got so low, and wishing we’d brought more food. And some charcoal for the grill in the park we ended up in as the sky was turning beautiful shades of pink and red.

Somewhere along the line, in this whirlwind of a trip the past six months have been, we decided it was time to start eating healthier. Over the past month, we made a pact to get outside, and walk till we can’t walk anymore, even if we can’t put a car on the road yet, as soon as it’s warmer. We’re both chomping at the bit, and cursing Old Man Winter, wishing we had the power to pry his cold, dead fingers off the key to the gilded cage holding Lady Spring captive. We’ve decided we’re tired of these four walls, even though we’ve only been trapped inside these particular walls for a few weeks, and we’re going to get out and do something.

I can’t wait.

Last night, we were walking to the corner store. We took the long way because the Puerto Ricans who asked me if I’ve ever taken an ass-whoopin (in the playful, “come get a spanking” way), and if I have big tits (apparently, they couldn’t tell under my winter garb) were outside raising hell again. Somehow, the topic turned to our weight.

Somewhere along the line, my preoccupation with my own weight has made M insecure about his. He thinks that because I’m disgusted with my own size, that means I must be disgusted with his. But that’s really not how my mind works.

I’m very much a “what works for me might not work for you” kind of person. I don’t hold anyone I know to the same personal or aesthetic standards I hold myself. Things I beat myself damn near to death over, I let slide in other people. Because I’ve lived all over the east coast in these United States, in neighborhoods with extremely different personalities, and I try to be friendly with everyone I come into contact with, I understand on a level not many people do that people come from all sorts of different places. So I try as best I can not to judge people harshly when I can’t possibly know where they’ve been.

I don’t think I’m better than anyone else, but every day I strive to be better than I was yesterday. And my disgust with my own body shape is my disgust with my own body shape, and no one else’s.

I find a great many fat people attractive. M’s one of them. And you know, I am, too. I know I’m pretty, and I know people are attracted to me, regardless of (and in some cases, because of) my fat. But I don’t like the way I look, or the way I feel. Not because I’m fat, but because I’m also extremely out of shape. The excessive pain I’m in, on a day to day basis, and the fact that a lot of my body has lost all tone are evidence of that.

I’m okay with being fat. I’m a hot fat chick. I’m okay with M being fat. He’s a hot fat dude. And I feel like an asshole for making him feel insecure with my own weight issues. There’s no reason for it. He’s the most desirable man I know.

Last night, M said, “You know, we might not ever be much smaller than we are now.” Both of us have been the same size for the better part of our eight years together. And I’m okay with being this size. I just want to be in less pain.

Yeah… Old Man Winter, please! Give us back Lady Spring.