Olivia Always

Chapter Six - So Fitting

Lunch time. Is there an interval in the day more fraught with expectations and frustrations than that afternoon hour we are supposed to set aside to eat?

No surprise but I'm on a diet. It isn't shown on any TV commercial or unsolicited scrolling ad on Facebook. No doctor has supported it and it doesn't come with tiny, prepackaged meals. Does it work? Jury's still out on that.

You should know this isn't my first time at the diet-rodeo. I've tried all kinds of them. Some were disgusting. Can you say cabbage soup diet or apple cider vinegar cleanse? Some were painful. The Intermittent Fasting Diet was a special form of torture for me. No eating after dinner? No cheezies, no wine gums. Just shoot me.

So, I decided to take on my own eating plan. It isn't complicated because it just involves eating less. I have had varied success because the eating less seems to be really hard. Actually, I can eat a lot less of say, kale, kamut or bulgar. French fries, creamy sauces, pasta, potatoes, pancakes these are essential. They are my basic food groups and really hard to eliminate from my diet.

Anyway, back to lunch time. That is the time I try to escape the office. I have tried to sit in our break room with my fellow worker bees but watching someone very slowly and noisily work her way through one rice cake after another is just painful. There also seems to be a big contingent in our office who bring all their tasty dinner leftovers for lunch. They patiently wait by the microwave for their turn to heat up what was just O.K. last night. The heavy cloud that hangs over the room often includes mingled smells of tuna casserole, sausage pasta or maybe eggplant stew. I'm pretty sure it's toxic. I think they are all very brave to put their food in that machine with its multi-layered disasters now dried like cement. Anyone brave enough to try and clean it would have an archeological dig on their hands. "Oh look, there's Betty's pesto chicken. We didn't think we would ever see it again."

The other reason I like to leave during lunch time is what I what I call "The Cake Hostage Taking." Every. Single. Birthday. There's that cake. The origins of this ritual go back into the murky mists of time. No one knows who started it but that person is probably dead by now and can't be prosecuted. Does every office have a group of dedicated souls who have all agreed to be the ones to discover everyone's birthday and to designate a cake-buyer(s)? Let's be clear these are not the kind of cakes that friend of yours bakes that are swoon-worthy. These are the ones the local chain grocery store stocks with icing in brilliant neon colours. As questionable as these cakes are surprisingly none is ever left at the end of the day.

So now what to do during lunch time? Some of my colleagues choose the sad route. They eat their sandwich sitting at their desk. A rare few continue to work as they eat. The guy in the cubicle next to mine is one of these office martyrs. Maybe he's hoping the manager will see how dedicated he is and promote him. Unlikely. Anyway, I am not about to give up that sacrosanct hour to eating soggy bread at my desk.

I escape. Down the elevator. Down to where there are no fluorescent lights or ringing phones. The doors of the building whoosh open and I feel free. The only choice I have to make now is left or right. Left leads downhill a bit to a small park where, no matter the weather a contingent of the hardy sit and eat their food truck food that they stood in line for half their lunch time. Me, I'd rather eat my apple as I walk. So, I usually turn right towards the shops with hope in my heart and a spring in my step.

It is only an hour so I have to manage myself and my urge to stop at every window. I have a task and I will not be distracted. I already know today is going to be brutal. This is not the thrilling fun of finding shoes on sale, or that perfect, pleated blouse. No, this is bra shopping. I know I don't need to say one more thing. I feel the collective intake of breath and the shared, "Oh no." There are fewer things than bra shopping, well maybe swim suit shopping, that strike fear into the female breast. Sorry.