The Love of My Life

So here’s something I’ve been struggling with for a long time, but it’s gained some renewed urgency since the recent death of an acquaintance.

A couple of weeks ago, I heard about the death of a guy I knew. I wouldn’t presume to call him a friend, because we didn’t know each other well enough to share that title, but he was certainly a strong acquaintance. We’d sometimes run into each other socially, we had lots of friends in common, and we shared a mutual—if limited—respect for each other. He was well-known and well-liked in the community, considered attractive, came from an affluent family, was successful, travelled a great deal, had lots of friends, widely acknowledged as an all-around great guy…and he died single. Yes, he was surrounded by family and friends, and a reported 1500 people attended his viewing, but as far as I know, he left behind no partner, no significant other, no “special someone” with whom he shared life, love, and home. He died, at the age of 44, never having met “the love of his life.”

This very circumstance has haunted me on a subconscious level for quite some time. Friends and family members often tell me what a “catch” I am. They assure me that any guy would be lucky to have me as a partner. They promise me that “the right one” will come along, probably soon, while I’m not expecting it, and almost definitely when I’m not actively looking for it. I spend a lot of time and energy trying to meet good guys, I’m selective about the guys I spend my time with, and I refuse to “settle.” I have a pretty high opinion of myself, and I think I deserve someone who’s worthy of my time, energy, heart, and mind.

But it hasn’t happened yet. In fact, it’s never happened. Last month, I turned 47. I’m one of the smartest guys I know, I’m fairly successful, I’m a responsible person, I’m healthy, I’m attractive (especially now that I’ve busted my ass getting into shape), I’m well-groomed, popular, have a variety of interests, good sense of humor…the list goes on. Let’s just say that I would definitely date me.

On paper, I would seem to be a strong contender for Lafayette’s (or Indiana’s or the Midwest’s) Most Eligible Gay Bachelor. So why is no one beating down my door to ask me on a date? Why do I seem to draw interest only from guys in their 60s, or guys who are grossly overweight, or guys who’ve never had their act together? Why the hell am I still alone?

In a recent email to a former contender for the “Love of My Life” (he is now happily partnered to someone else and living many, many miles away from me—and I’m totally happy for him. No, really. I am. I swear), I wrote the following, in response to his question, “What do you think will make you happy?  Do you think adding anyone to your life will improve it?”:

“I want someone I can turn to when I need support. Someone I can pour my heart out to. Someone who will help me and love me. Someone for whom I’m a priority. Someone to fall asleep next to every night and whose embrace in the morning will make the start of my day just a little happier, a little easier. Someone to call when I have good news to share. I don’t honestly think I’ve ever had that in my life. I’m tired of being lonely. I’m tired of always being the strong one. I’m tired of being the only person I can ever really rely on. Even friends keep leaving. I want someone who will choose to stay with me.”

Yet even admitting that makes me feel weak. The last thing I want is to come across as a gaping black hole of emotional need. But, in the words of a great singer and lyricist from Manchester, “I am human, and I need to beloved—just like everybody else does.”

I see lots of happy couples—both gay and straight—and I’m thrilled for them. I certainly don’t begrudge anyone the love that he or she deserves and the love they’ve made together. I just want it for myself—and for my future husband. Who I have to believe is still out there somewhere. I just haven’t met him yet.

I Did It

On January 16, 2012, I weighed 237 pounds. Today, a mere 4 ½ months later, I weigh 177 pounds. I’ve lost 60 pounds, or over 25% of my body weight. I wish I had some secret magic formula to share with you that explains how I did it, but the truth is pretty boring—I exercised a lot, I ate a lot less, and I believed in myself (an iPhone app called “Lose It!” was a huge help, too). The interesting part—to me, anyway—is the effect that my body transformation has had on almost every aspect of my life.

First of all, I feel great. Amazing. Outstanding. Magnificent. Every aspect of my physical being has improved as a result of my weight loss. My digestive system feels better than I can ever remember it feeling (probably because I’m not stuffing it with absurd amounts of carbs and other toxic crap), walking and moving around feel almost effortless, and my sleep is deep and peaceful. (I also tend to get chilly more easily, and because there’s a lot less padding on my formerly ample ass, I’m learning anew how to sit comfortably.)

My appetite has changed as well. I still enjoy sweets and cakes and ice cream and other rich foods, but I enjoy less of them. I’m fairly certain that my stomach capacity has shrunk and that I’m far more in tune with my internal organs, so I’m much better at estimating how much food will make me full—before I’ve actually eaten it. And that’s definitely a good thing. Because, in the past, Big Jim (that’s what I’ve chosen to call the pre-January 16^th me) wouldn’t realize he was full until he’d already eaten more than enough to make him full. Now, when I do get full, I’m more likely to load up on fruits, vegetables, and high-protein foods. Fear not—I promise not to become a macrobiotic food Nazi.

I’m now addicted to physical fitness in a way that would have horrified sixth-grade Jim, who trembled in abject terror when it came time for gym class. If I don’t break a sweat at least once a day, if I’m not cycling 15-20 miles (often more), or if I’m not lifting weights, my body just doesn’t feel right.

I’ve also noticed that people I encounter are much nicer to me—they treat me with more respect, smile at me more often, and are just more pleasant in general. Now, I’m not sure if this happens because I happen to be in a much better mood nowadays and they’re just responding to my increasingly charming demeanor or whether they’re simply treating me better because I’m in better shape. Whatever the reason, it’s proof that our society is biased toward fit, attractive people (shocking, I know).

My transformation has also triggered some introspection. I’m now training myself to think of myself as Fit Jim rather than Big Jim. Perhaps this is my version of a Mid-Life Crisis (hey, it’s a lot more affordable—and healthy—than buying a sports car), but it’s tough, at the age of 47, to alter my perception of myself. Yet I have no choice—I’ve donated all of my now clownishly large old clothes to Goodwill, I’ve purchased an entirely new wardrobe of clothes I never would have been brave enough to wear before January 16, and the mirror (which I seem to be unable to resist nowadays) constantly provides incontrovertible proof that I’m no longer the man I used to be. I’m now a much more fit and attractive—one might even say better—version of myself.

And I worry a bit too—not because I fear I might revert to my old ways and erase all the progress I’ve made. The habit change feels permanent, much like it did when I quit smoking over 10 years ago, and I enjoy the benefits of being fit too much to give them up now that I’ve worked so hard to achieve them. I worry that losing 60 pounds might not be enough. And I’m not alluding to a desire to lose more weight (although an additional 5-10 pounds would be fine). I’m worried that I’ll no longer have any excuses for being single. Full disclosure here—before I lost the weight, my default explanation for why I’ve never really been in love, why I hadn’t met the love of my life, why I’ve never really had a partner who was mad about me…well, I always figured it was because I was a chubby guy who might have been sexy in the abstract was never really physically sexy. Now that my inner sense of sexy is fairly accurately reflected on the outside—and let’s face it, I look DAMN hot now—I’m fresh out of excuses.

And so it’s with some trepidation that I face the future that awaits me as Fit Jim. I am quite excited to meet lots of people who never knew me as Big Jim, and I’m eager to kick off what I’m hoping will be a fun summer with this weekend’s trip to Chicago, where I hope to meet lots of hot men who will fall madly in love with me, throw themselves at my feet, and beat each other to a bloody pulp just for the privilege of my company. But I’ll be happy if just one good man is interested enough to want to get to know me.