There is a beautiful, tall, dark-haired (long, not usual Dublin butch-cut or 80s inspired) woman in red across from me and I’ve caught her eye a few times. Nothing suggestive or even interesting, but still it revives my flagging sense of attractiveness and masculinity.
There is this obscenely obese pair of Germans, mother and child, who are sitting by the window. I can’t take my eyes off of them. The boy looks like a child as the volumes of cellulite have robbed him of any hard line or feature. His mother has crammed herself into golden stretch pants and peers myopically through thick, plastic glasses. Why do fat people wear stretch clothes that are so fully not suited to their frames? It must be that they look smaller in their wardrobes. I just feel total sadness when I look at them. Life must not be easy. I’m really not being mean. I feel genuinely sad. And I’m sorting out why. Part of it I’m sure is that I get crap for my weight and I see how easy life seems to the beautiful people and how excluded I feel and how I hate being overweight and am constantly reminded of it – it’s nothing you can ever escape. It hangs on you and chokes you and slows you to a wheeze while the world is running down the football field laughing and toning their enviable frames. I don’t want anyone to be miserable, and I know how weight makes and made me feel. It’s like a Pavlovian sense memory to look at them and I feel sad.
But maybe they are content and oblivious or just not paranoid about others’ opinions. I wish I could be like that and so maybe seeing them makes me feel sad because I can’t rectify myself to this body.
The pretty girl just sneered for some reason and flashed her European teeth, gapped and crooked. Nothing gold can stay.
To France, or not? What about the play? As if I’d be cast. Still, if I was and I wasn’t here I’d hate myself. Aah! What to do?
Well, remember, only this moment is real and true. The ifs and the cans are what hold me hostage. I “maybe I’ll wait” so much that nothing ever gets done. You know.
Just figured out that the grimy beggar who was chanting “one pound coin” and the circle with his finger was to mime the coin for me. He’s come around and I gave him 50p. Why? Who knows. Why not? Anyway, I just stared at him as he circled out “one pound coin one pound coin one pound coin.” I think he figured I didn’t get it and moved on. An insane amount of beggars in dirty gray Dublin. One hit me in the back with his cane this morning at Trinity – intentionally or not we’ll never know. I guess I’m amazed that they are literally EVERYWHERE – on streets, in parks, in RESTAURANTS and no one seems to care. Dirty gray Dublin. Frankly in his hand it looked like he already had more coins than I. Maybe I hope that if I ever fell into a spot that someone would help me. Besides, they’re less annoying and less persistent than the obnoxious kids out on the streets taking surveys and collecting for the seeing eye dogs of Ireland fund or whatever is the plastic bucket carrying, smock wearing cause de jour.
This place is actually rather wretched. Countryside or France.