So I'm in a restaurant with my mom, and I ask the waiter for an iceberg salad.
He says, "You should try our Caesar, it's got romaine, better for you."
"That's true," I say, smiling. "But I'm in an iceberg mood today."
"There's more folic acid in romaine, though," he replies. "It's really good for pregnant women, y'know, for the baby." And he winks at my middle.
Okay, let's reason through this:
(a) Apparently, I look pregnant.
(b) Apparently, I look young enough to be pregnant. That's nice!
But (c) apparently, I look pregnant!
Time stands still while I think it through a little further, and I manage to come up with another positive: if I now look pregnant rather than merely fat, that must mean I've lost a lot of weight in my face and shoulders and hips, leaving my middle so, uh, prominent that... um... wait a minute, I know there was a positive in here somewhere...
These were the thoughts that raced through my mind as I stared blankly at the 18-year-old nutritionist wannabe who was my waiter. At last, I said, "Well, thank you very much, but... I'm not pregnant. I'm just fat."
He glanced down at my middle, shrugged, and made a note on his pad. Then he smiled and asked brightly, "Dressing?"
"Anything fat-free," I snapped, and slugged back some iced tea.
He says, "You should try our Caesar, it's got romaine, better for you."
"That's true," I say, smiling. "But I'm in an iceberg mood today."
"There's more folic acid in romaine, though," he replies. "It's really good for pregnant women, y'know, for the baby." And he winks at my middle.
Okay, let's reason through this:
(a) Apparently, I look pregnant.
(b) Apparently, I look young enough to be pregnant. That's nice!
But (c) apparently, I look pregnant!
Time stands still while I think it through a little further, and I manage to come up with another positive: if I now look pregnant rather than merely fat, that must mean I've lost a lot of weight in my face and shoulders and hips, leaving my middle so, uh, prominent that... um... wait a minute, I know there was a positive in here somewhere...
These were the thoughts that raced through my mind as I stared blankly at the 18-year-old nutritionist wannabe who was my waiter. At last, I said, "Well, thank you very much, but... I'm not pregnant. I'm just fat."
He glanced down at my middle, shrugged, and made a note on his pad. Then he smiled and asked brightly, "Dressing?"
"Anything fat-free," I snapped, and slugged back some iced tea.