About six weeks ago, for my birthday, my parents said we could go out to eat, which we finally did today. That being said, Dad told our waitress we were celebrating my birthday, HIS birthday, MY MOM’S birthday, AND MY AUNT’S birthday, so it really just felt like we were–well–eating out on a Friday for no particular reason. Lest I seem ungrateful, I did get to pick the restaurant–Outback–a place I not only love, but also meets my current dietary regimen. This morning I remembered the quote, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” Of course, this sounds good if you say it fast, but as my entire family passed around chicken wings and ice cream while I forked my zucchini, I was like, Yeah, right.

A week before my birthday in September, I bought my first pair of stretchy jeans. Y’all, I love them–I wear them practically every day–but they are the worst thing in the world for someone who doesn’t want to gain weight because–well–THEY STRETCH. I mean, they offer absolutely no feedback whatsoever. Not once have they said, “You’re going to have to lie down if you want this zipper to close, buddy. You better watch the burritos.” Nope. Every day it’s been, “Don’t worry about that cheeseburger you inhaled last night–we’ve got room for plenty more.”

Anyway, the thing about owning only one pair of jeans you like is that you eventually have to wash them. So this afternoon before I met my family at Outback, I washed my stretchy jeans and figured I could wear my ex-favorite pair of jeans. After all, I reasoned, I’ve been on a diet for two days; they should fit fine. Wrong–they did not fit fine. Granted, I didn’t have to lie down to zip them, but they were so tight around my thighs that they cut off the circulation of blood to my toes. I was so afraid of ripping them that I spent the entire day taking steps so small they bordered on shuffling. Getting in and out of my car required holding my breath, keeping my thighs no more than eight inches apart, and praying.

God, grant my jeans the serenity to let go wherever possible, the courage to hold on everywhere else, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Determined to see the day when my jeans won’t have to work so hard to keep me inside them, I stayed true to my diet at Outback–even though it was (sort of) my birthday celebration. But then just when I thought life couldn’t get any more interesting than a plain baked sweet potato, some hot guy with perfect teeth and great hair brought my mom a salad. Well, naturally, I perked up, but get this–my seventy-year-old Aunt Tudie perked up too. Even before the guy walked away from our table, she said, “Did you see that?”

“Uh–of course I did,” I said. “It took everything in me to not fall out of my chair.

“Well, I really liked looking at him,” she said.

At this point our meal became infinitely more interesting. My aunt said she guessed he was in his late twenties, but I said he had to be in his early twenties, or I wouldn’t have been attracted to him. Then my mom (my mom!) said, “Marc, what’s your gaydar say about him?” (Gaydar is gay radar.)

“Well, his fingernails were really clean, so it’s definitely possible.”

You know how every family has that one person who always goes out of their way to be embarrassing, like, they could do it for a living? Well, for our family, that’s my dad. When my sister and I were teenagers and our family would go out to eat, if my sister said something about our cute waiter, my dad would flag the poor fella down and say, “My daughter thinks you’re sexy. Are you single?” I remember once we were at a gas station, and my sister liked a cute boy’s Razorback t-shirt. So my dad approached him, gave him something like a hundred bucks, and honest-to-god swapped shirts with him right there in front of god and everybody. My sister and I were mortified.

As I think about these stories now, I’m actually grateful I didn’t come out until I was an adult. Can you imagine how my dad would have acted? Excuse me, young man, my daughter AND MY SON think you’re a–what’s the word?–studmuffin. Which of them do you prefer?

Well, Dad hasn’t changed much. After my aunt and I made such a big deal about the hot salad delivery boy at Outback, my Dad told our waitress that it was my aunt’s birthday and “she would love it if that handsome man would come give her a hug.” I thought, Oh my god, this is not happening. But the next thing I knew, the guy was marching over, my aunt stood up and put her arms out, and they were in a full-frontal embrace. She said, “You are SO cute. If I were thirty, well, forty years younger, I’d be chasing after you,” and he smiled and said, “I’d let you!”

I. Was. So. Jealous.

Y’all, it didn’t stop there. My aunt got so twitterpated about this guy that she couldn’t let him get away. Just before we left the restaurant, I thought she was getting up to go to the restroom, but no, I looked up, and she had this guy backed against a wall. Apparently, she’d turned her trip to the toilet into a reconnaissance mission. When she came back, she had his name, age (twenty-two–I was right), and sexual preference (girls–harumph). When my aunt came back to the table, she said, “I asked him if he had a girlfriend, and he said, ‘I can’t manage to keep one for very long.'”

My mom said, “Maybe because he’s gay.” (Thanks, Mom.)

My aunt said, “He said I made his day. I told him he really charged my battery.”

Charged my battery–that’s a direct quote from my retired aunt. I thought, I didn’t know your “battery” needed charging, but I’m glad you feel comfortable enough to talk about it.

My therapist says that if you see someone at a cocktail party and you get that “zing” feeling, run the other way because that’s a sure sign you’re looking at a disaster. Rather, she says, go up and talk to the ho-hum person that’s “just all right.” I guess the theory is that everyone’s subconscious is a shit-show that wants to be figured out. The best way to do this, of course, is hook up with a person who will push all your buttons and bring all your dramas to the forefront–that way you have to deal with them (or start seeing a therapist). That’s what the zing is all about.

Personally, I think this theory sucks and is no fun, but so far it’s proven to be true. Looking back, every guy that I was immediately attracted to and ended up dating ended up being a disaster. Perhaps better put, we ended up being a disaster together. That being said, I still feel that zing now and then. Honestly, I felt it at Outback today. I mean, if I had the balls my aunt does, I would have cornered that guy against the wall like she did. But seriously–a twenty-two year old who dates women. As my therapist says, “Do you really want to go down THAT road again?”

Well, when you put it that way, no–no I don’t.

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve walked (or ran) down that road or one similar to it. It’s never ended well. And yet there’s always a part of me that thinks it will be different THIS TIME. It’s probably the same part of me that thinks I can eat chocolate cake and Taco Bell and still fit into my ex-favorite pair of jeans. Caroline Myss calls this our saboteur, the part of us that effs everything up when life is going well. But she says when we learn to work with it, our saboteur lets us know where our weak spots are, what roads not to walk down again. In my experience, I still desire chocolate cakes and pretty faces and whatever. But I’m slowly–slowly–coming around to the idea that “zing desire” often ends up looking like tight pants and relationships that land you therapy. The desire to be healthy, on the other hand, is more ho-hum, and it honestly looks more attractive all the time.