Bring on the Idle Flattery, Please!

“I hear you’re doing the Challenge diet,” a co-worker says to me in the kitchen (“Challenge” is our in-house nickname for the diet I’m doing). “How’s that going for you?”

Um, isn’t this the point where politeness dictates you tell me how fabulous I look?

“Pretty well,” I say. “I’ve lost six pounds.”

“It’s only five weeks, isn’t it?” she says. “Are you going to keep going after that?”

Um, isn’t this the point where politeness dictates you tell me how fabulous I look (and that of course I don’t need to lose any more weight)?

Honestly, it’s not that I believe the false flattery. It’s just that somehow without it I must confess I feel massive and self-conscious, like everyone is thinking: Wow, she needs to drop a whole lot more than 10 (the official name of the diet is Drop 10, as in pounds.)

The incident in the kitchen was last week. And today something similar happened: “How’s the challenge going for you?” asked another co-worker. I wanted to respond: Well, if you had to ask… I guess not all that well, hmmm?

***

That said, I was very nearly late to work on Friday because a bunch of things in my closet started fitting. My favorite black belted cardigan, for one. (Not, admittedly, the sort of thing most people think of as a not-fitting type of item, but it was gapping horribly between the buttons. I told myself it was too cold to wear it, but I knew the truth.) My (blue) jeans! My gray chiffon Burberry Prorsum skirt (sample sale purchase).

Much as I wanted to wear my jeans, I figured there will be plenty of time for that when I return to the freelance life. So I turned up to work in the aforementioned skirt, a wide black belt cinched at the waist, and a pair of Christian Louboutins (sample sale, again). Plus—as a very kind junior staffer in the fashion department is trying to teach me—a pop of color in the form of a turquoise necklace I bought in Venice. I clickety-clacked down the hall feeling (almost) like a proper Conde Nast editor.

Forty-seven days clean.