Who Brought Butter Tarts?

Some asshole, that’s who.

There’s a downside to weight loss, one that no one talks about on Oprah.  That pitfall is the constant fear and anxiety that accompanies the downsizing of your pants.  Every time someone says, “wow, you look great!”  I hear, “don’t fuck it up by eating shitty food again.”

Now, I wasn’t a fat person before.  At least, not in the clinical sense of the word.  I was certainly hefty by Hollywood standards – but honestly, who the fuck isn’t?  Still, I’d always wanted to lose 15 pounds, and never really got around to it.  One day I decided to switch from pop to water and cut out all junk food.  The Weight (deserving of capitals, I think) just fell off. 

I didn’t start dieting, but rather altered my diet.  I didn’t start exercising either (and I’m not bragging, just stating a fact).  I marginally decreased my portions and started packing healthier lunches and avoiding late-night meals.

Now, whenever I’m tempted to eat something bad, a tiny voice in the back of mind starts shrieking about fat sides and ill-fitting jeans.  I’m reminded, harshly, of every bad – re: fat - picture I’ve ever taken. 

I think this anxiety is good for my physical health, but it’s anxiety that I don’t need or want at the moment.  It’s especially unwelcome when a kind – or evil, I suppose – soul brings mini-butter tarts into work.  I love butter tarts, and they’re a rare delicacy for me.  I seldom get to enjoy them, for they seldom appear in my kitchen.

Why, when I’m nursing guilt over the two brownies I had last night, would someone dare offer me a goddamn butter tart?

I had one, of course. 

Ah well.  There are some things in life that simply aren’t worth giving up.  One must exercise restraint, but one must also be content.  A life without the occasional butter tart is a bleak life indeed.

Yesterday was a trying day, albeit less trying than I originally expected it to be. 

My grandfather died last weekend.  It was unexpected, but not entirely surprising.  He’d been ill for awhile, and wasn’t going to get better.  He’d been suffering from a chronic lung disorder for several years, and his debilitating inability to breathe was attributed to it up until a week ago.  Further – and long over-due – tests revealed that he was being slowly suffocated by late-stage lung cancer, not merely COPD.  After hearing the news, and learning that a long-awaited lung transplant was no longer in the cards, he passed away quietly in his sleep.

I’d say his final cause of death was hopeless resignation.

Yet, I’d say it took courage to accept the truth and will himself to pass on.  He didn’t give up so much as he let go.  His suffering is over, and really, that’s the only thing that matters.  He wasn’t happy being hospitalized and immobile. 

I’m glad that my last memory of him didn’t include him lying in a hospital bed, but rather him bellowing – in a kindly manner, I must add – out happy stories from happier times.  He was sitting at the table on Thanksgiving, mildly intoxicated, talking about going to bars with his then-wife (he and my grandmother divorced 10 or so years ago) and hitting up 24-hour restaurants afterwards.

Those moments, common enough among the young, are deceptively beautiful.  They are what you look back on when you’re older, lonelier, and sicker.  Drinking, dancing and eating fatty food with the person (or people) you love is something people often take for granted, because the assume the next time won’t be the last.  There will, however, come a day when you can’t pass the night-time hours at a bar or club, or saunter in your front door at 6 am.  There will come a time where work is more important, and responsibilities take over.

I also realized that the people whom you’ve always seen as old were once young.  They led lives as exciting – perhaps more exciting – as your own.  They drank, they smoked, they had hours of sex.  They danced and laughed and stayed out all night.  They fell in and out of love.  They had legendary, “oh shit, remember when – ” nights with friends. 

It was so rare to hear my grandpa talk about a happy time in his youth, and it was a really profound moment.  I saw him in a different light, and I felt a new kind of warmth for him.  There was a time when he and I weren’t so different.  Most importantly, there was a time when he was carefree, healthy and happy. 

People sometimes throw away their health and their happiness.  They abuse their bodies, work too much, worry too often and love too little.  They give up too easily, on themselves and on each other.

It pays to be responsible, no doubt.  We all have to do things we don’t want to do.  We all owe other things and people pieces – sometimes substantial pieces – of ourselves and our time.  We have to make sacrifices, yes.  Yet, we cannot stop enjoying being alive.  It’s not something we’ll be able to take advantage of forever.  Once it’s over – well, it’s over. 

I’m glad that I got to hear my grandpa talk about a time that truly brought him joy.  I can only hope that when I’m partially deaf and half-drunk, I’ll shout out gleeful memories of whisky and pancakes during Thanksgiving dinner as well. 

$10, 000 or More for Sex?

Seriously.

There’s no sex act - nor sex partner - worth 10 grand.  There are so few things in life that are free.  Free things are generally cheap things, and cheapness often leaves one feeling unfulfilled.  Sex can be done for free, and still be vigorously enjoyed.  That’s one of its many charms.

Yes, I understand some men’s (and perhaps some women’s) desire for prostitutes.  Some people are awkward, ugly and devoid of social graces.  Some cannot form long-lasting relationships or pick up at bars.  Some fail at acquiring a desperate or curious partner via Craigslist. 

For these people, sex is $20 – $50 away.  I won’t condone or condemn prostitution, but rather point out that it does serve a purpose.  Sex is a highly sought after entity, and some people simply cannot get laid by enthusiastic volunteers.  Do I think monetarily-influenced, back-alley intercourse is pleasant?  Not really – but I haven’t had it, so perhaps I’m mistaken. 

While I understand the (dare I say it) “need” for sex workers, I don’t understand the need for monstrously expensive prostitution rings that run wealthy clients upwards of $10,000.  What do these women do?  What do these men expect?  What kind of outrageous acts are being committed in the penthouse suites of the Washington Ritz-Carleton?

Furthermore, why agree to spend such a staggering sum on sex?  Sex can be obtained relatively easily by rich and powerful men.  Power, even when wielded by a portly,  balding man, can seduce almost anyone.  People crave prestige by association.  People love being embroiled in hot scandals.  Well, some people do.  Others are truly content – and happy – to live cautiously (and yes, such a thing is most certainly possible). 

The point is that rich and powerful guys – particularly rich and powerful public figures – can have sex with hot, young things for free.  Or for the price of a steak or lobster dinner (and to be fair, she’s probably just going to order a Greek salad anyways).  They don’t need to import foreign women like furniture, they don’t need to join high-end organizations dedicated to fulfilling the sexual fantasies of bored socialites, they don’t need to drop thousands of dollars on pussy.  Period.

There must be a motivator at work here, a deeper motivator than mere the desire to fuck hot women.   A man like Eliot Spitzer could sleep with a hot woman without spilling the contents of his wallet into her $5,000 panties.  Easily.

Perhaps the acquisition of wealth and status carries with it a heightened sense of sexual entitlement.  It makes sense, really.  People who have a lot often want more, such is the nature of the beast.  In a way, a constant need to strive for betterment is a positive thing.  Sometimes, however, it grows exponentially larger than it should or ought to. 

I suppose that, for some, there comes a point where sex itself becomes a status symbol.  The best sex, some must assume, costs a great amount of money.  Sex with a hefty price-tag is top-notch and of exceptional quality – like Dom Perignon and Persian carpet.  It’s completely removed from the emotional spectrum of human experiences.  It’s not about genuine passion, but rather detached lust that transcends base sexual desire. 

That seems shallow to me, empty even.

Sure, one might witness extreme spectacle bordering on Olympic sport.  That, however, could probably be witnessed in Amsterdam for 50 Euro.

Risking marriages, jobs and reputations is dangerous.  I can only hope that the over-priced fornication is more than worth the potentially devastating consequences.  The sex had best be akin to a religious experience, rendering one a deeply enlightened being capable of breaking glass with the intensity of his multiple orgasms.

Somehow, I doubt that’s the case.