Monday, June 18, 2007

Friday Night

Okay, I'm back. Had to run and update my boss on a project. You know how it is.

Anyway, Friday night; I'm at home, settled in for a night of pizza and 'idiot' television when my sister calls me. She was having some function that I totally forgot about and wasn't really interested in going to tell the truth. But, I allowed her to talk me into it. That wasn't the worst part.

She was sending a ride for me. I know what you are thinking, "good, you get chauffeured out to the suburbs to hobnob with the well-off. It must be nice to have a sister who would do that for you. You must be so happy." WRONG! She sent John-Freakin-Whitmore. You may have heard of him; quarterback of the Chicago Bears and playboy extraordinaire.

Any other time in my life, this would be a dream come true. I mean, the boy is gorgeous. Any other girl in my position probably would have straddled him all the way to the outskirts of Chicago. But, me? I sat as close to the window in his little two-seater and tried to disappear into the leather interior.

My sister only lives about forty-five minutes away, so at least the time alone with this guy was limited. I mean, it wasn't as if he was a murderer or rapist. I was riding in a very nice car, with one of Chicago most eligible bachelors, on my way to a lush party. I should be happy, right? WRONG AGAIN!

You would not believe what this jerk said to me. He asked me to marry him. Can you believe that? Without even knowing my last name, he asked me to become his wife for endorsements. Obviously, in the advertising world, having a fat wife improves your image exponentially. And, the bad part is that he thought he was doing me a favor. But, at least he was nice about it. He even offered to keep his affairs top secret and he would make sure to save some of the Whitmore-lovin' for me. Some men.

After being completely mortified and spending the entire party in my sister's upstairs bathroom crying, I made a decision. I decided to do something about my weight. I am going on a diet. No more will I look at myself in the mirror and see 'the fat chick'. No longer will I feel self-conscious every time I walk into a room filled with pretty people. No longer will jerks like John-Freakin-Whitmore think that I need him to proposition me just to have some companionship. NO MORE.

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