15
Sep
08

an open letter

Dear Guy Behind the Counter at Organic to Go at McPherson Square,

I realize that my box of vegetable-laden salad I just purchased weighed 1.3 pounds when you put it on the scale. By some standards, that would make me “a pig,” but in this case, I don’t think getting in more than the required daily servings of healthful, organic vegetables falls under that label. However, your muttering of “whoa!” when you saw what said healthful, organic, vegetable-laden salad weighed was more than enough to kick my self-esteem down another couple of notches and let me know that you, sir, believe that I spend my nights holed up in my closet sneak eating Ho Hos while crying and writing in my journal. This simply isn’t true.

(I mean, I do eat Ho Hos, but usually on the couch in front of everybody.)

Thanks for making me feel like Manuel Uribe. I can only hope that in a couple of more months, they’ll forklift me out of the house and put me on a flatbed truck to see what the neighborhood looks like.

Love,

Jacque

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5 Responses to “an open letter”


  1. 1 Ms. Earhart
    September 16, 2008 at 12:07 am

    Hey lady,

    I totally get it. I’ve had to deal with that sort of thing almost my entire life — particularly from my parents. My dad’s remarks include, “How do you think you’re going to drive when you can’t fit behind the steering wheel?” and “Isn’t it convenient her bedroom is so close to the fridge?” Both of these were done when I was younger than 18.

    And my mom isn’t innocent at all. In fact, while Dad has eased up, she’s much worse.

    It’s like we’re expected to strive to be anorexic, and more men are feeling the pressure, too. Either way, it’s horrible. You just DON’T treat a human being like that. In this whole weight loss war I’ve taken on, it seems like I get more suggestions about crazed chemical experiments in Nigerian basements than advice to do this in a healthier way — like I swore I would do when I started this.

    Next time you encounter Mr. Joey Lawrence or one of his evil twins who also sound like they’re talking to Mr. Ed, I’d simply ask what’s he’s ordering. If it’s a greasy triple cheeseburger, tell him you’re not eating his heart attack on a bun. If it’s a carrot, tell him you’re not dying of starvation.

    Telling him to shut his damn mouth and mind his own business would be nice, too 🙂

    Love you! *Hugs*

  2. 2 Ms. Earhart
    September 16, 2008 at 12:10 am

    By the way…

    Perhaps Your Friend Flicka was just pissed because he knew a prick like him would never be loved by such a beautiful, intelligent, strong, HEALTHY woman like you 😉

    Much love.

  3. September 16, 2008 at 5:11 am

    Holed up in a closet eating Ho-Hos is still better than taking pictures of your hoo-has (not that there’s anything wrong with that) 🙂

    TW

  4. 4 girlofwords
    September 16, 2008 at 10:20 am

    Mil: Thanks. 🙂 You’re always so good for wonderful things to say. I should keep you in my bag as an affirmation desktop gadget.

    TW: Ho-Hos. Mmm.


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