Thursday, December 16, 2010

Sometimes it’s not paranoia

If the world were divided into two groups – those who are blessed with good looks and those that are not, then I’m firmly in Camp Not. In fact if you went H.G. Wells on it, and labeled attractive Eloi and not-attractive Morlock, then I am a paid up member and likely precinct captain of my local Morlock community.

I’m weird looking, blessed with oddly sunken eyes that make me look like I am permanently deprived of sleep and a OCD-esq shambling gait. However added to that is a large apple-like stomach that protrudes forth in a most unsettling and unappealing manner.

Hooray for me.

For the past couple of years I’ve actually tried to be better about what I eat and how much exercise I do. I’m a bit better on the food front and a lot better on exercise – I went from a life of only incidental physical activity to one where I had at least a twenty minute walk a day. So far with that I’ve yet to miss a day where I didn’t go for a walk, save for one where it was me carrying 10 kg of child and 20 kg of luggage 300 m from a distant car park to the terminal at the airport (so it fucking counts).

I recently read that bio-mechanic physiology types have determined that an optimal pattern of exercise is two minutes moderate exertion interspersed with thirty seconds of heavy exertion. They gave the example of walking for two minutes then fast jogging of thirty seconds. The theory is that if you do this over an extended period of time that your body’s metabolism will continue to burn energy at an accelerated rate after the exercise period.

Well, I am one for science – even if I am ignoring some studies which indicates consumption of artificial sugar can artificially slow your metabolism.

So today I tried it. I started, fast jogged for thirty seconds, then slowed to a walk for two minutes – roughly counted out to get an idea of time and distance – then ran again. I alternated in this manner for the length of the exercise period.

So … why am I bitching about this?

Well because I was wearing cargo pants and it meant I had to grip my waistband tighter as I ran in case I jiggled my pants down with a bit of river-nudes action. With my other hand I held my pass so it didn’t fly around my chest in an annoying manner (though I really should have taken off).

On run attempt one I happened to pass an Eloi type, an attractive blonde girl in her mid-twenties. As I passed her I saw her expression.

She was laughing at me.

Okay, there’s a small chance she was laughing at something else but she wasn’t smiling when I started and she openly was when I passed her. She didn’t have earphones in so she wasn’t listening to something.

Fair enough I suppose. I did look pretty ungainly. Like Michael Moore fleeing from a murderous militia. But it was pretty disheartening.

All my life I’ve been laughed at for looking weird and then for being fat. To this day I still get bogan fuckwads abusing me from cars as they drive pass, though I have to admit as Patrick has noted that’s just what Bogans do and if it wasn’t that I was a fat cunt that drew their ire, it would be something else – (“Nice hat you hat-fucker”).

I recognize the weight gain I suffer from is due to behavioral failings on my part, in addition to genetics and having crap knees in school at the key moment where my body morphed from child to man.

But there’s a reason I don’t like good-looking strangers. Because at the back of my mind, hell, at the front of it, I assume I’m being judged as unfuckable and am gifted to them as a subject of derision and ridicule.

Eloi chick certainly didn’t help.

Thanks a lot you spack-brained ‘ha, ha, fatty go run, run’ piece of shit.

PS The other day some catalogues graced our laminate kitchen table top. One was a clothing catalogue for men. Gracing the cover was a pair of muscular looking gents in their T-Shirts looking all buff and attractive. Given I've felt pretty shit-about-self of late, something in me snapped. I grabbed a black marker pen and, like someone cursing a figure of hate by stabbing pins into a doll, I scrawled 'DIE HIMBO FUCKERS - DIE DIE DIE!' over their moronic vacuous visages before casting it into the bin. It made me feel better ... and perhaps the poor bastard on the conveyor belt monitoring the incoming refuse. Since I hardly think an Eloi would have that job...

PPS I am aware of the lack of logic for assuming just because someone is attractive then they regard me as a piece of shit. However near-40 years of experience has yet to convince me otherwise.

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