trigonometry in high school—it’s like I haven’t done the homework, don’t understand the questions and won’t be able to answer a thing when the teacher calls on me.
"How goes the diet, Abster?" It appears he’s hung this moniker on me that I can’t seem to shake. Though I’m getting used to it. Abster. Sounds like something they’d sell on a late-night infomercial to help strengthen your core. I need something better than that. Like say, the Resolvster, to help strengthen my resolve. Otherwise what am I gonna do??? I haven’t got one iota of willpower in me.
"Diet? Somebody say something about a diet?" I crack a smile, and Thor smiles back at me.
"Not so good, huh?"
I roll my eyes. "That’s being generous. If it’s any consolation, I’m really good at eating. I mean really good at eating. If there were an Olympic category for that, I’d be a gold medal contender. But the not eating? It goes against my grain. Against my very core—the core that’s not exactly strengthening, by the way. I hate it."
Thor comes closer, puts his hand on my shoulder, drawing me into his confidence. "I think it’s time you stepped back and decided why you’re doing this, Abbie. Are you doing this for you, or are you doing it for someone else? Because quite frankly, unless you want to do something about your situation, nothing’s going to change. It’s all up here." He taps my head with his pointer finger. "Until you’re reconciled in your mind about all of this, it’s not worth your efforts. You call the shots, Abster. And you need to do this for you . Your body is a temple, so treat it with respect."
Christ, if my body is a temple, it must be in honor of Bacchus, god of wine (and debauchery, but I wouldn’t necessarily put myself out on that limb). Or perhaps the Fallen Temple of the White Goddess—yes, that’s it! That’s me! White is blight. White is blight.
I sigh. I think I’ve sighed more in the past week than I have in my entire adult life. "I know you’re right, Th—, er, Mark. Intellectually, I understand this completely. Emotionally? That’s another thing altogether. I’m tied up with food so badly it’s as if I’m married to it."
"In that case, d’ya ever think maybe it’s a toxic relationship? Maybe you two need a divorce? Or at least some serious couples counseling?"
I can’t help but laugh at him. I picture a cartoon image of me at a shrink’s office with a plate of pâté en croûte, a good old-fashioned rump roast, and a large serving of tarte tatin (à la mode) on the couch next to me, all of us turning a cold shoulder, our body language conveying our mistrust of one another.
Thor’s not such a bad guy after all. Despite those calipers. I know he’s looking out for my best interest. Which means I’d better get working. We set about with my routine, and I hit a roadblock after about ten minutes the treadmill. You see, one of the benefits I can see to working out is I get to wear sweats. Sweats are good, because they hide a lot of flaws. They don’t look particularly attractive, but function over form or whatever that saying is. The only problem is, once I start to sweat, then my sweats are cruel captors, trapping me in a terrarium of heat and humidity. I think I could actually measure the heat index inside these puppies. But I don’t dare disrobe down to something lighter (and shorter) because no one, but no one, should be subjected to the sight of the likes of my enormous white legs and wobbly arms in the flesh. So I suffer through in overheated silence, gushing sweat into my eyeballs, ready to faint. Remind me again why people do this to themselves voluntarily?
After my workout I shower and dress, feeling quite obese next to the host of slender, fit, naked women getting ready for work alongside me. The club-issue towels actually wrap around their bodies and then some. For me it’s as if I’m trying to wrap myself in a handkerchief.
I just can’t see how I could ever look
"How goes the diet, Abster?" It appears he’s hung this moniker on me that I can’t seem to shake. Though I’m getting used to it. Abster. Sounds like something they’d sell on a late-night infomercial to help strengthen your core. I need something better than that. Like say, the Resolvster, to help strengthen my resolve. Otherwise what am I gonna do??? I haven’t got one iota of willpower in me.
"Diet? Somebody say something about a diet?" I crack a smile, and Thor smiles back at me.
"Not so good, huh?"
I roll my eyes. "That’s being generous. If it’s any consolation, I’m really good at eating. I mean really good at eating. If there were an Olympic category for that, I’d be a gold medal contender. But the not eating? It goes against my grain. Against my very core—the core that’s not exactly strengthening, by the way. I hate it."
Thor comes closer, puts his hand on my shoulder, drawing me into his confidence. "I think it’s time you stepped back and decided why you’re doing this, Abbie. Are you doing this for you, or are you doing it for someone else? Because quite frankly, unless you want to do something about your situation, nothing’s going to change. It’s all up here." He taps my head with his pointer finger. "Until you’re reconciled in your mind about all of this, it’s not worth your efforts. You call the shots, Abster. And you need to do this for you . Your body is a temple, so treat it with respect."
Christ, if my body is a temple, it must be in honor of Bacchus, god of wine (and debauchery, but I wouldn’t necessarily put myself out on that limb). Or perhaps the Fallen Temple of the White Goddess—yes, that’s it! That’s me! White is blight. White is blight.
I sigh. I think I’ve sighed more in the past week than I have in my entire adult life. "I know you’re right, Th—, er, Mark. Intellectually, I understand this completely. Emotionally? That’s another thing altogether. I’m tied up with food so badly it’s as if I’m married to it."
"In that case, d’ya ever think maybe it’s a toxic relationship? Maybe you two need a divorce? Or at least some serious couples counseling?"
I can’t help but laugh at him. I picture a cartoon image of me at a shrink’s office with a plate of pâté en croûte, a good old-fashioned rump roast, and a large serving of tarte tatin (à la mode) on the couch next to me, all of us turning a cold shoulder, our body language conveying our mistrust of one another.
Thor’s not such a bad guy after all. Despite those calipers. I know he’s looking out for my best interest. Which means I’d better get working. We set about with my routine, and I hit a roadblock after about ten minutes the treadmill. You see, one of the benefits I can see to working out is I get to wear sweats. Sweats are good, because they hide a lot of flaws. They don’t look particularly attractive, but function over form or whatever that saying is. The only problem is, once I start to sweat, then my sweats are cruel captors, trapping me in a terrarium of heat and humidity. I think I could actually measure the heat index inside these puppies. But I don’t dare disrobe down to something lighter (and shorter) because no one, but no one, should be subjected to the sight of the likes of my enormous white legs and wobbly arms in the flesh. So I suffer through in overheated silence, gushing sweat into my eyeballs, ready to faint. Remind me again why people do this to themselves voluntarily?
After my workout I shower and dress, feeling quite obese next to the host of slender, fit, naked women getting ready for work alongside me. The club-issue towels actually wrap around their bodies and then some. For me it’s as if I’m trying to wrap myself in a handkerchief.
I just can’t see how I could ever look
Similar Books
