Free The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy) by Nancy Barone Page B

reminded me: skim milk. Fruit, lettuce, tomatoes (no mayo, no bacon). What else? Not much, apparently. I turned the corner and—ooh—low-calorie jam? Tucked inside low-calorie doughnuts ? And, further down, low-fat muffins! Unbelievable!
    There were shelves and shelves of low-calorie desserts, from tiramisù to apple pie. How was this even possible? And in the freezer, low-calorie lasagna. And cannelloni . Shepherd’spie?Chocolate ice cream?Surely I had died and gone to diet heaven? How could it be possible to eat all these fantastic, mouth-watering foods and still lose weight?And why did it have to come out of a box if I could make my own?
    Why was good food fattening? Why couldn’t we just live an easy life eating what we wanted, like animals? Have you ever seen a fat tiger? Or a fat fly? I did everything I could to avoid delving inside me. I ate because I was sad. I always had been. The brief gorgeous stint in my early twenties had simply been a commercial break in the long miserable movie of my life.
    Accepting I needed to change wasn’t a gung-ho idea or a knee-jerk reaction to Ira’s infidelity, like it may seem. It was a painful process—a daily ordeal with just me and my shortcomings. Me and my weaknesses. And my goddamn fear of failing again and again. I was sick of failing, sick of trying to lose weight all my life. So in the end I’d given it up.
    Skinny women had absolutely no idea what we were going through, every single day of our lives. Therapists made me laugh, especially thin ones. Granted, they were balanced. But I’d be balanced too if I’d had a normal life, possibly in someone else’s skin.
    My mouth already watering, I juggled all my stuff – and there was loads of it—to the checkout, paid and went home. Paul was going on a date and waiting for me at the door. “I thought you’d gone diet shopping,” he sighed, peeking into the bags.
    “I have,” I answered, hustling by him in my haste to sit myself down to a succulent dinner and not feel guilty about it for once.
    And so after I’d fed, washed and put the kids to bed, I rubbed my hands together and reached for my succulent, guilt-free foods.
    Guilt was not the right word. Disappointed was more like it. The shepherd’s pie, which I’d had a major hankering for, was about as big as the palm of my hand. All that big, big box and cellophane to protect this ? I opened the lasagne as well, just to make sure I hadn’t been gypped twice. There it was: Golden Rule Number One. This was less than fifty percent of what I was expecting. Much less. It wasn’t fair, considering I’d paid double the price for it. If I’d made my own, it would’ve been even cheaper. Ah, but my own , I argued with myself, wouldn’t have been low-fat. So chin up and dig in!
    Sighing, I nuked the lasagne and shepherd’s pie. There was no point in lying to myself by saying that the lasagne would be enough. I mean, look at it. I could hide it with my hand cupped over it. At least I was being honest with myself. I know people who would have defrosted one thing at a time, pretending to have good intentions when they very well knew they were going back into the kitchen to nuke the second box as well. At least I was straightforward and I knew what I wanted. And right now all I wanted was to swing by Le Tre Donne and have my Zia Maria cook me all my favorites in my helping sizes—not this microscopic, processed bullshit.
    I poured myself a glass of Nero d’Avola red wine and reached for my prettiest place mat, the one with the linen fringes. As per all the weight-loss websites, if you set the table nicely, with maybe a candle or a rose and some pretty crystal glasses, you could fool yourself into actually enjoying your meal. Sighing, I set my place with small plates and cutlery. From Maddy’s old plastic toddler set, to be exact, which was the smallest I could find. And still it didn’t look like much.
    Gathering my provisions on a tray, I went into the living room