Read Online Such a Pretty Fat: One Narcissist's Quest to Discover if Her Life Makes Her Ass Look Big, or Why Pie Is Not the Answer by Jen Lancaster - Free Book Online
Authors: Jen Lancaster
Tags: Fiction, General, Romance, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Family Life, Biography, Authors; American, Cultural Heritage, Women, 21st Century, Jeanne, Lancaster; Jen, Authors; American - 21st century
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nut-studded cake. No matter how hot it was, I’d keep the windows of my sassy little Toyota Celica rolled up so none of the scent could escape. Overcome with desire, I’d finally stuff the whole thing in my mouth, chew it to a fine paste . . . and then spit it back into the wrapper. Had I not been so concerned with keeping my teeth white and esophagus intact, bulimia would have been a viable choice. Regardless, the simple act of having solid food in my mouth—even if I didn’t digest it—kept me from going all Shannen Doherty on everyone.
One dark day, my coworker Meredith left a cup of ice cream in the break-room freezer, which I discovered when I reached for my container of plain yogurt. I meant to sneak only a tiny spoonful of rocky road to wash away the sour taste of the unsweetened Dannon, but the second it hit my tongue, I lost it . With three deft bites, I swallowed the entire thing and licked the cup dry. The way I panicked and stuffed the empty container back in the freezer, you’d have thought I was holding a smoking gun.
Even though twenty different girls worked in that store, and despite my tacit denial, Meredith clearly knew I’d eaten her ice cream because I hardly talked about anything except food. As Meredith and I folded the acid-washed jeans and organized racks of scrunchies, I’d chatter on about the boutique where they sold the giant cookies and the calzones at Sbarro and all of my favorite pies, listed alphabetically. Meredith would smile and nod well into the third hour of my “All Things Arby’s” 47 soliloquy, in what I assume was an attempt to keep me from losing my mind and biting our customers.
Poor Meredith. We worked together only when I was following that insane diet, so she never knew I wasn’t completely batshit crazy.
Since I can’t find any compelling reason to cart my big ass to the gym, I decide it would be fun to see whether I can locate Meredith online and confess my crime. Maybe I can even find an address where I can send her the seventy-five cents I still owe her. But before I can pull up , I’m hit with stabbing pains up and down my arms and in my chest.
Oh, dear.
The good news is, I’m fine. I took an aspirin and antacid and felt better. The issue was less “heart attack” and more “too many slices of cheesesteak pizza from Philly’s Best.”
The bad news is, Dr. Awesome wanted to see me again anyway. And now I’m here in her office, and her hideous nurse is making me get weighed after I’ve dodged the scale during my past few visits.
After five minutes of what I consider to be a highly unprofessional argument, we compromise and the nurse finally agrees that if I just step up on the damn thing, she won’t say the numbers out loud.
While my weight registers, I position one hand over the digital display and one over my eyes. Somehow the nurse finds this to be a personal offense. Oh, come on; I’m not the first person to do this. Stacey says she turns around when her trainer weighs her, and she’s never once mentioned his agitated foot tapping or disgruntled sighs.
The thing is, I’ve got a pretty good idea of my number already because I have a bizarre talent: within a minute, a pound, a degree, and a dollar, I’m somehow intuitive enough to predict the time, my weight, the temperature, and how much my groceries cost. 48 Based on the way my pants have bitten into my flesh since I finished the second book, I’m afraid to let the scale confirm the scary digits floating around in my head. I mean, I know, but I don’t really want to know .
With quiet resignation, the nurse writes my weight in my chart and tells me I can step off the scale. “All right, it’s over,” she says with a voice far sharper than the situation merits. What ever. If weighing in is such a treat, why don’t we put you and your childbearing hips up here, lady?
The nurse leads me back to the exam room, and as soon as I sit down, I whip out my bottle of hand sanitizer. When I
One dark day, my coworker Meredith left a cup of ice cream in the break-room freezer, which I discovered when I reached for my container of plain yogurt. I meant to sneak only a tiny spoonful of rocky road to wash away the sour taste of the unsweetened Dannon, but the second it hit my tongue, I lost it . With three deft bites, I swallowed the entire thing and licked the cup dry. The way I panicked and stuffed the empty container back in the freezer, you’d have thought I was holding a smoking gun.
Even though twenty different girls worked in that store, and despite my tacit denial, Meredith clearly knew I’d eaten her ice cream because I hardly talked about anything except food. As Meredith and I folded the acid-washed jeans and organized racks of scrunchies, I’d chatter on about the boutique where they sold the giant cookies and the calzones at Sbarro and all of my favorite pies, listed alphabetically. Meredith would smile and nod well into the third hour of my “All Things Arby’s” 47 soliloquy, in what I assume was an attempt to keep me from losing my mind and biting our customers.
Poor Meredith. We worked together only when I was following that insane diet, so she never knew I wasn’t completely batshit crazy.
Since I can’t find any compelling reason to cart my big ass to the gym, I decide it would be fun to see whether I can locate Meredith online and confess my crime. Maybe I can even find an address where I can send her the seventy-five cents I still owe her. But before I can pull up , I’m hit with stabbing pains up and down my arms and in my chest.
Oh, dear.
The good news is, I’m fine. I took an aspirin and antacid and felt better. The issue was less “heart attack” and more “too many slices of cheesesteak pizza from Philly’s Best.”
The bad news is, Dr. Awesome wanted to see me again anyway. And now I’m here in her office, and her hideous nurse is making me get weighed after I’ve dodged the scale during my past few visits.
After five minutes of what I consider to be a highly unprofessional argument, we compromise and the nurse finally agrees that if I just step up on the damn thing, she won’t say the numbers out loud.
While my weight registers, I position one hand over the digital display and one over my eyes. Somehow the nurse finds this to be a personal offense. Oh, come on; I’m not the first person to do this. Stacey says she turns around when her trainer weighs her, and she’s never once mentioned his agitated foot tapping or disgruntled sighs.
The thing is, I’ve got a pretty good idea of my number already because I have a bizarre talent: within a minute, a pound, a degree, and a dollar, I’m somehow intuitive enough to predict the time, my weight, the temperature, and how much my groceries cost. 48 Based on the way my pants have bitten into my flesh since I finished the second book, I’m afraid to let the scale confirm the scary digits floating around in my head. I mean, I know, but I don’t really want to know .
With quiet resignation, the nurse writes my weight in my chart and tells me I can step off the scale. “All right, it’s over,” she says with a voice far sharper than the situation merits. What ever. If weighing in is such a treat, why don’t we put you and your childbearing hips up here, lady?
The nurse leads me back to the exam room, and as soon as I sit down, I whip out my bottle of hand sanitizer. When I
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