Sometimes in the morning, esp. after window shopping and people watching on Larchmont, and generally whenever there's a spring in my step, I want to walk up to the chocolate truffle and say: Let us be friends. Bygones be bygones. Brother and sister in obesity we shall be, my rotund and shiny friend. And I picture me walking into the office building without averting my eyes to the latest economic headlines on that news screen above or studying the stained carpet and elevator doors. I would be able to walk into the building with my wings spread, with a certain nonchalant swoosh, and look the truffle in the eyes and SMILE. But then I remember him gesticulating with his chubby arms to impress on me the enormity of my situation, and I want to claw his eyes out instead.
