My mother is right; I am too skinny. I had noticed that my pants were fitting a little loosely but I do not have a full-length mirror in my apartment-tini so I didn’t notice the whole effect. I have been this thin before and I don’t like it. Hmph.
I do not take off my shoes when I enter my brother’s home unless I feel like it. I sit on his buttery soft leather couch and flip channels on his new 40 inch plasma TV and delight; here, there are hundreds of channels which show programs I understand 100% of and do not involve some idiot with a bandana screaming “umaiiiiiiiiiiii*!” every 5 seconds.
I troll drugstores and can read everything on the bottles. I enter a Food Emporium and within seconds find dozens of gluten and dairy free products, including gluten-free pasta made solely of rice flour, soy flour and water. Several brands.
My mother laid an issue of Lucky magazine on the arm of the couch. I flipped through it and found photographs of people, ostensibly celebrities, whose faces are unknown; I might as well have been looking at an issue of Hello! or Vanidades. Brad and Angelina are not broken up. I should have known better.
Tonight, there was the traditional Italian Christmas dinner; fish upon fish and the unnecessary chocolates and panforte morbido for my parents. A sumptuous prune crostata lays innocent yet wicked in a brown paper parcel in the kitchen. I have announced to my family that tomorrow will see some willfull cheating and it will involve that very same crostata.
“Meno male*,” says my mother grumpily.
*Not a bad thing