Читать книгу Fat Girl On A Plane - Kelly deVos - Страница 23
Оглавление“Welcome to NutriNation,” says a woman behind a gray counter.
This is the start of my new life.
I arrived home on Saturday night just as Grandma was about to walk up the street to her usual bingo game. She didn’t ask about the trip or why I was home early. I’ve always loved that about Grandma. That she knows when not to talk.
There were no messages from Terri or Marlene, no notes or emails to explain what happened in New York. I paced around my room, talking to myself and knowing I had to find something to do with my angry energy.
Someone always seemed to have the stomach flu on date night, so I was able to pick up an extra shift at Donutville. It was mostly dead, but the regulars were there at the counter and I was extra fake nice, refilling their coffee before they even asked. At the end of the night, there was a little over fifteen bucks in my tip jar.
Which worked out, because it costs twelve bucks and change to join NutriNation.
The next morning, I headed over to the meeting, which is in a new strip mall a couple of miles from Grandma’s house. They have one Sunday meeting and it starts promptly at noon. So here I am.
I meet Amanda Harvey. She’s pretty much Wonder Woman. During her intro, I find out she has five kids, two jobs and a weekly planner that would make Batman feel like a slacker.
There’s something odd about the way she dresses. Like she Googled “business casual” and hit the clearance rack with her Kohl’s Cash. She has thick chunks of coarse brown hair that she’s smoothed with a flat iron. If Mattel made a suburban mom doll, they’d use Amanda to make the mold.
Because fat people must be God’s inside joke, the NutriNation is sandwiched in between a Starbucks and a Fosters Freeze. “You’ll never see anyone from here over there,” Amanda says. “All my NutriNation people go to the Starbucks around the corner. I guess they think they’re invisible over there.”
Joining is easy. It occurs to me, midway through the process, that these people deal with weight issues for a living. And they know what they’re doing. They don’t weigh you in public, ask you for your size, measurements or age.
The scale display is behind the counter, so no one can see my weight. No one except me. Amanda discreetly passes me a weight-tracking booklet. And there it is. In neat numbers written with a cheap ballpoint pen. Three hundred and thirty-seven pounds.
It’s my first meeting, and I don’t talk to anyone. Before it starts, I don’t even look at anyone. After Amanda introduces herself, she points out a few people in the group. Kimberly is celebrating the loss of one hundred pounds. Rickelle sits next to me. She tells us how she dropped one-fifty and now runs marathons. Dave lost two hundred pounds while stubbornly refusing to stop drinking beer.
They’re talking about emotional eating. I don’t pay too much attention. I’ve spent a long time thinking that I’m fat because Grandma keeps too many cookies in the house.
But, man, it’s like Amanda’s got telepathy or something because she immediately says, “Now, we’ve talked a lot about how we can’t assume that people are overweight solely because they overeat. Likewise, we can’t make assumptions about why people overeat. Sometimes people eat because they’re stressed or bored or upset.”
In the seat next to me, Rickelle murmurs, “Or their mother came to visit and won’t go back to Cleveland.”
I can’t help but think of my mother. There’s no way I’d let her drive me to eat. When I was seven, she didn’t show up to my birthday party and sent her assistant with a cake. I tossed it in the trash. I’m not an emotional eater. But there are other memories. Of Grandma taking me for ice cream every time my mom forgot to call. Of my favorite grilled cheese when Mom took off with Chad Tate. I don’t want to think about these things, and I spend the rest of the meeting studying the posters on the wall that show frolicking thin people.
New people have to stay after the meeting. Amanda explains the program. Tells us how, for all of eternity, we’re going to be food accountants. Reading labels. Calculating how many points we’ll need to deduct from our daily food budget for our diet dinners. Entering stuff into the app or in our food logs.
There’s one big rule. You bite it, you write it.
If you eat twelve almonds, it’s two points. If you eat fifteen almonds, it’s three. So only eat twelve almonds. Otherwise, you’re screwed.
