Lunch with my husband 239.1297

It’s a small thing really, but I usually panic when my husband asks me to lunch, or dinner or breakfast for that matter. Why?

Location is part of it. I personally live paycheck to paycheck, but my address is independently wealthy. It lives within a wildly affluent zip code, where the beautiful well-dressed preternaturally groomed women are so thick you couldn’t stir them with a stick, unless it was a swizzle stick, in which case,
“Yes please, with a slice of lemon, since it’s all I’ll be eating for the day.”
Them. Not me.
That’s the other obstacle to what should be a non-event. I irrationally think thin women don’t eat. Instead they buy aerosol food aromas so they can substitute the taste of real food for a size zero.  ( Mmm….chocolate whiff ). I’m reluctant to eat in public even though I happen to love real food because, of course, if no one sees me eat, I’ll look just exactly as if I too weigh 120lbs. I mean, witnesses are what make you fat.  Right?
So far, these notions have served me as well as a lemon wedge in an open wound. Moving on. I’ve decided to pretend I weigh 120lbs. Women that size go to lunch with their husband. I’ve see them and they don’t burst into fat before my eyes.  I’m beginning to think I have this backwards. 
My husband, like all people with a healthy well-adjusted attitude about food, is in no way self-conscious about eating in front of other people. He’s not happy when the occasional bite lands on the front of his shirt, but that’s not about eating. It’s about missing.
Today he wanted sushi at 11:am. (Did I mention he is a morning person? I know. Weird.) I like sushi, but I do not like it at 11am and I do not like it in the small cramp spaces where the best sushi is served under the most authentic of circumstances:  one Japanese man, behind one glass counter, with one purpose and a very good knife: small bites of the best flesh the sea can produce. Where my husband wants to honor his stomach and the art of sushi, I want elbow room and anonymity, you know, generic grocery store sushi of questionable freshness and dubious quality where imitation crab is the stand-in for toro.  My husband had ahi. I had angst. This goes a long way to explain why fat women settle for solitary quantity and thin woman stand in line at the French bakery on Sunday morning for warm brioche. 
I’m over it.