Читать книгу Leaving the OCD Circus - Kirsten Pagacz - Страница 26

Once a very popular guy a year older than me asked me to go to a movie with him. I don't even remember what it was. I sat frozen through the whole movie, staring straight ahead as though seeing through and beyond the screen. I was in my little trance, doing what was now a daily caloric intake drill: One strawberry Pop Tart equals 200 calories, a glass of milk is 120. I added up everything to see where I was that day. When I completed that day, I went back and did the same thing for the day before.

A couple of times during the movie, I sort of mumbled my number of calories out loud. When he said, “What?” I replied as normally as I could, “Oh nothing.” We were completely not sharing the same experience.

To make matters worse, before he drove me home, he pulled the car over and parked on a street in north Oak Park that was dimly lit with lampposts. This I knew instinctively was our time to make out. I really didn't know what I was doing, but I knew that this was the time to be foxy. I had seen that when people in movies make out, sometimes the girl writhes around all seductive-like and moaning. Just like everything else, I tended to overdo it. I was like an unbridled bucking bronco kicking around in a yellow station wagon.

That boy never asked me out again, and this was just more proof of my imperfection.