The Apple of My Eye

Lead Me, Guide Me

The main idea was to get well, of course.

Every time I set my mind on the daunting task that was losing excess weight and then actually managed to shake off those damn extra pounds, it was because of a girl. Not because I needed to get healthy or anything like that. It was always the pursuit of a girl that triggered it. Nothing else would. And it couldn't be just about any girl, either. Initially, I had to believe I was truly in love or, at least, truly infatuated, if you will. But it had to mean something to me. I had to want her badly. I had to have a high opinion of the girl. To see her as impossible. Unattainable. It couldn't just be some girl who was making herself available to me. That didn't do the trick. I would not make much of an effort then.

It's not like I thought I wasn't going to get lucky if I did not lose the excess weight. It wasn't that at all. I am a firm believer that with the right words and the right initiative at the right time, any guy could get lucky. In my case, this was just a simple fact of life, I'm afraid: I knew that if I didn't do anything about that ridiculous pot belly of mine, I was still going to get the girl. I had the gift of gab. I've always had it. But if I really cared about the girl, or if I thought somehow she was worthy of the effort, then I was going to lose the damn stomach fat, no two ways about it.

The problem was that, as soon as the infatuation was over, I would inevitably gain all the weight back, and then some. Up until I turned thirty, I had always thought of my weight as fluctuating. Now, in my mid to late thirties, that sort of optimism simply wasn't applicable anymore. I knew by now I had spent at least two thirds of my adult life looking big, a heavyset fellow, a chubby individual. And I hated it. Boy, did I hate to look at myself in the mirror and not find a jaw line, but a frame of fat around my face. It didn't matter how much I hated it, though. I knew I wasn't going to do anything about it if I didn't have the right reason to do it.

But there was always a reason. Always. Again and again and again.

And in 2008, of all years, the reasons were just cascading on me like a waterfall. I had never had me a trimmer year.

But first, a little perspective, if I may.

Up until 2006, I had had a series of jobs I never much cared about. I always thought of them as temporary, always thought that if they didn't prove to be the path that would lead me to something grand, something of real significance, then they weren't worth it. The pattern, by then, was familiar: I'd get the job, feel good about it for a couple of months, maybe twice as long if the pay was good, then I'd start to feel as if the people who had given me those jobs were wasting my time by not acknowledging my immense talents, by not promoting me, or, worse, by promoting someone else, anyone else. Next, I'd start to act mildly rebelliously, not really protesting yet not doing my best either, waiting until the day when opportunity would come knocking on my door and I'd be able to just disappear without notice.

Of course, that never happened. Sooner my employers would get sick of me and let me go. I would be in a little huff for a while, which I'd admit to no one, obviously, then I'd feel good about the severance pay and lay low until I needed to go looking for something again.

You see, I was in the language teaching business, the English as a Second Language teaching business to be exact, and while I'd never had any formal training, I was quite good at it, or at least that's what I'd been told. Admittedly, it's a field that doesn't pay very well, though. Not in pecuniary terms, anyway. But there was a lot of fun to be had, as far as my pursuit of the opposite sex was concerned. Let us just say I had a little more success with the ladies than I did with every other aspect of the job.

But, if I need to be bluntly honest here, let us also establish the fact that I was a married man back then. Yes, a married man. And a father, too, since we're spilling it all out. And no, in no way do I think my behavior was appropriate, be it in regard to my whole outlook on my professional life or the other bit, the tail chasing bit, the bit that's going to be constituting the bulk of our story.

My wife of more than ten years was arrantly beautiful. And, given the opportunity, would have given her life for me, I'm sure. That was the extent of her devotion, her dedication. If there was one area of my life I had nothing to complain about, it should be that area.

It should be. But it wasn't.

Chloe was an incredibly jealous woman—more than one would think she was entitled to be, I mean. She would have these rants, see, when she'd complain about any female in my life, for any reason, for unbearable lengths of time. She'd go crazy about my sister laughing at my jokes when, according to her, they weren't even funny to begin with. She'd blow a fuse over emails or birthday cards that a friend or a group of friends—of a female persuasion, that is—would send me. Hell, there'd be times when she'd complain that my mother was giving me too much attention, consequently stopping me from giving her, Chloe, her deserved amount. She didn't like that. Didn't like that at all. She wanted my witty remarks and jokes to be exclusively hers to laugh at. Even when my younger brother was around and we'd be playing videogames and talking shit, like men do, she'd protest that I was acting silly and wasting precious time that could and should be spent in her company, not anybody else's.

When I put it like this, it seems excessive, I know. It wasn't all bad. On the contrary, a lot of it was good, especially during those years when it was just the two of us in the house. But now that my daughter was three years old, I felt like there was no stopping Chloe. She acted loving one moment and then ripped me to shreds the next. It was an emotional combat zone and I had had enough. I wanted out. I really did.

Victoria was just a little girl, though, and I felt so divided. Most of the time I wanted to make the whole thing work. I felt like it was my duty to make it work, for my daughter's sake, you know? So I'd conceal what I thought or what I wanted to tell Chloe because it just didn't seem worth the horrible fight that would follow. Sometimes, when I'd try to leave the relationship, she'd counterattack with declarations of love and promises to change her behavior. There were other times, though, when there would be implicit or even explicit threats, and they invariably involved my daughter and whether or not I'd ever get to see her if I left.

Of course, there were lots of other reasons for all the fighting. My inability to help around the house was a favorite topic. It wasn't so much that I didn't help around the house, see, it was more a question of how poor my vacuuming and dishwashing skills were.

In any event, all I wanted whenever we'd go to war like that was to be able to just pack up my shit and get the hell out of there. Obviously, I'd have to figure out what to do about my little girl, but in those moments, when the blood was just boiling inside and I was about to blow a gasket, I just wanted my freedom.

I'll give this to Chloe: I wasn't a model husband, I know. I set a bad example for husbands everywhere, actually. I chased tail and let it chase me like I was a fucking dog. I helped very little around the house. And I wasn't exactly making rivers of money to make her life comfortable and allow for her to choose to stay home and be a full time mom if she wanted to. She had to go to work if we were going to make ends meet. In my thirties, I still hadn't committed to an adult lifestyle where I'd pick a profession and go with it, whatever it was, whether it pleased me or not. I still had delusions about making it in the music business or, at the very least, becoming a fashion photographer maybe. So I'll admit to this: she had a heavy cross to bear as far as my husband skills were concerned.

But the way I see it, that only goes to show that both of us had more to gain than to lose by going our separate ways. It had been nice, yes. It had worked for a good number of years, sure. Only now it didn't. Why couldn't we just accept that it was over now, that we'd been getting on each other's nerves for ages, and that we'd get along a lot better if the only thing we shared from this point on was the responsibility of bringing up our little girl?

But Chloe would have none of it. At the slightest mention of breakup, she'd either turn into this fiend who would rage, cut me down, and accuse me of being a horrible, ungrateful human being, or break down and cry inconsolably, both of which produced basically the same results in the process: I'd back down and leave it alone. I'd silence.