Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Yesterday Sandy brought me up to his neck of the woods for some renovation generation. He has been inspired to reconfigure his bedroom, he says, and I think that's due, at least in some small part, to the disaster of decor magazines that paper my loft.

Nothing is ever wrong with your interiors, wardrobe, cooking skills etc., until you look at magazines telling you otherwise. Consider yourself warned.

So, Sandy and I did some discussing, picked out some curtains, some bedding, and even paint colours. My heart does a little cartwheel whenever he asks what I think about this or that; I like to think that means he values my opinion.

Post materials shopping, he takes me to lunch. We are enjoying sandwiches and espresso when he looks at me and says, "Tell me something."

"Sure."

"Are you trying to lose more weight?"

Ah, the million dollar question. "Yup."

"Why?"

Was he for real? I looked up at him, mid-chew, and saw serious written all over his face. The bite went down, and then, "What do you mean, why?"

"I'd like to know why."

"I think that's obvious."

"What is?"

"Why I'm still on the weight train."

"No, it's not. I like you the way you are."

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...