I've known this week was coming all year. I fly tomorrow. I hate flying. Not the flying so much, but the squishing into airplane seats. Fortunately, I'll be on a plane for 50 minutes and then on a plane for 2.5 hours. There's a bit of a break in between. Not much of one, but still.
I really wanted to be under 280 lbs for this trip and thought that since I'd been working out for over a month it was a possibility that it may happen. I've secretly felt like a failure every time I've stepped on the scale this past week because it didn't seem like it was going to happen. At least after Friday, the trip'll be behind me and all I have to focus on is a healthy diet and exercise.
So, this weekend I decided I wanted BBQ. Badly. So I pile Moms in the car and we head out for this BBQ place. That's when the crazy insanity ensued.
When I dine out, I always request a table. I've been in the habit of asking for a table for quite some time now. It's kinda weird, I used to always ask for a booth. The idea of sitting at a table in the center of the aisle always bugged me. Made me feel like a spotlight was on me and my food. Then I hit adulthood and could sit in the bars. Well sometime after that I realized that booths were no longer really comfortable. This, in case you haven't guessed, is because my girth had grown. That's right, there wasn't enough space between me and the table.
At first this was a slow realization. I'd be sitting with friends and think that the table was farther away from one side than the other and somehow I'd always sat on the small side. I'm a lefty which predetermines where I sit (most of the time). I thought perhaps restaurants thought leftys were skinnier and needed less space.
Then, I tried the seat swap. You'll never guess what happened. I was WRONG. One side of the booth was not smaller than the other! Well, once that happened, I then was forced with the realization that it was me that was bigger than the seat space. Great.
image totally pirated from imdb.com (<==love that site)
Of course, this picture is talking about the grown-up who goes back to elementary school, but you get the idea.
Since then, I've overcome my spotlight feeling (and learned to love it really) at a table and always know to specify prior to seating. Of course, ocassionally, I get ribbed by my friends..."what's up high maintenance?"...to which I give a hearty gafaw and move on with my life because, hey, it's really kinda true anyway.
In the not so distant past, on a night out with BB and SAG, I even tried to sit in a booth. I actually had to ask the girls to move to a nearby table because it just didn't work for me. I worked hard to not be embarrased. I could escape it because these are my workout buddies so they know I'm trying. It was still a little mortifying but the girls handled it like champs not giving one peep of snarkiness.
Well, this brings us back to Saturday. Moms and I get to the BBQ place and we can either instantly be sat at a booth or wait 20 minutes for a table. I spy one outside, a table that is, and decide to sit out there. The day is nice enough and the sun isn't going to be in our eyes. Well, I get out there and realize that the table is cemented to the wall. And to add to that, this is an end table so there's no possibility of moving the chairs to adjust the space. Moms sits down. It's kinda tight because the very skinny people at the table next to us are pushed back and talking. Well, that's taken care of with a simple "excuse me" and we're back to me. I'm staring at this seat. This very small crevice of a space they're calling a seat.
I squeeze myself into the space and I've got like a roll and a half poking over the table. I feel humiliated. It's almost to the point that I begin to feel punished. I know no one is looking at me but I felt like they were. All stress-inducing feelings are bubbling up so fast I know my face is turning red. Or maybe it was the fact that my circulation was being cut off at the waist. Either way, it's evident on my face that I'm an unhappy girl.
Moms quietly asks, "do you want to leave?" to which I can't reply "Yes" fast enough. There'd be no way I could eat anything served to me at this place.
Poor Moms. It's like when she tried to teach me how to drive a Standard. There was never so much cursing and swearing and yelling and spitting-ok, maybe there wasn't any spitting-in a car since that fateful Sunday afternoon oh so many years ago. She took it like a champ. It wasn't directed at her, it was just all those irrational feelings gushing out like some nasty infection.
Well, after driving her around half of Smaller Southern City, we wind up at another restaurant with excellent chicken and ribs. We valet the car (I wasn't kidding on the high maintenance part) and as soon as we're greeted I lay down the table law. With a smile on my face of course.
Moms and I sit down, I order a martini and she orders her glass of wine. The world is right again.
And then there's tomorrow on a plane.
Is 6:30am too early to drink?