Waiters

Our dinner at Steak and Ale was tasty, but the atmosphere sucked. First, we were sat in the "pub" section of the restaurant. Your basic chain restaurant "pub" decor includes polo mallets on the wall, black and white pictures of unidentified rugby teams, a stained glass window, bookshelves (??). It was the type of room that is best viewed through very low light. Unfortunately, we got there early enough in the afternoon when the sunlight was still filtering in and clashing with the barely lit chandeliers. You could see thread-bare spots in the carpet and missing buttons and scratches on the nalgahide bench seats--worn spots that were usually hidden by restaurant's near-darkness. We sat in one of those booths where the table is too far from the bench, but if you move it, then it's too far for the person across from you. I hate that. To top it off, a fly kept buzzing around and later, violated my buttered slice of bread. Gross.

I ordered the prime rib and G. ordered the prime rib and lobster, plus salads for both of us. Now, I thought G. and I looked like quite the handsome couple, me in a cute empire silk blouse and wedge sandals and G. in chinos and a polo. A twenty second exchange at the salad bar managed to squash that idea. While I was innocently chosing red onion rings for my salad, the waitress manning the salad bar asked me how I was coming along, while looking pointedly at my tummy area. Jesus Christ. I'm not pregnant, just have a gut. Then she asked if G. was my brother. Nope, wrong again, crazy salad lady, that's my boyfriend. I escaped from the increasingly humiliating scene and took refuge in the pub.

I must make note of a few things. Her assumption that I was pregnant was based on the fact that the shirt is poofy in that region of the body and, yes, I have a tummy of which I am not happy about already and do not need crazy salad lady to single out for me. The crapper is that this is the second time somebody has made the exact same assumption while I wore that particular shirt. So I can totally blame the shirt (and promptly banish it to the back of my closet, although it's really cute), but I totally blame my body as well. I wasn't always at odds with my body; we used to be close friends. It would digest anything I consumed (beer, chocolate, fast food) and stay thin. Our friendship changed forever about three years ago and now I don't know what the heck this body wants. I know I'm at a normal weight when compared to normal American women, but memories of my past skinny self are hard to shake. So I've become super sensitive about my body and no matter how much I work through weight related comments that come from family members and, now, random strangers, it hurts. It really hurts.

G. tried to distract me by recounting his memories of trends at Indian Ridge Middle School, circa 1992. The main trend was that everybody would say "laters" instead of saying goodbye (goodbye being way to square for the young teenage set). G., ever the nonconformist, shortened the phrase to "lates." But special recognition goes out to Jason Bulding who would leave his friends with "waiters." I asked if anybody else adopted this phrase, but no, G. says it was part of Jason Bulding's personal schtick. G. also told me that his circle of friends would converse in old English phrases, as in "Wilst thou lend thy social studies book to thine friend? I haveth much homework this eve. Lates." Oh, boy, the middle school years...

G. experienced an embarrassing moment, although his was self-inflicted. While trying to spear a ranch-laden lettuce leaf, it jumped up and hit him in the face, getting ranch on his glasses, nose, and forehead. The hostess witnessed the whole event. I actually missed it entirely, probably because I was still in shock over the salad bar incident.

So we won't be going back to Steak and Ale. Ever. Chicana on the Edge's Regina talked about finally reaching a point where she's fine with being single (http://chicanaontheedge.blogspot.com/2005/09/desperate-no-more.html). I would love to have the same sort of enlightened moment about my weight and I hope I don't have to reach age 39 to experience that moment. I know the choice is up to me to do something about it and I will, I will.