Nordstrom Bistro Hell

Sometimes, when you’ve gained 300 pounds over the Christmas holidays, you go on a low carb diet.

After several days of eating hunks of meat and vegetables, you decide to stop at Nordstrom after class for a blue cheese and pear salad. You know you’re only kidding yourself because that baby is laced with sweet, oily dressing and candied pecans, but heck, there’s no bread, so you convince yourself to go.

You deserve it. You’re deprived yourself of good things for two whole days and you’ve finished a week of classes. Reward time.

You order your salad and a glass of red wine (low carb too, right?) and you sit down to play with your phone and wait for your food.

But then the unthinkable happens.

You hear the pitter-patter of little feet, squeals of excitement, shrieks of delight. CHILDREN! You look at your watch. It’s 8:30. Why are these children here? Are they on a low-carb diet?  Did Santa not come? What more could they possibly need?  Everyone should be in bed!

This is your salad time.

Even though most of the restaurant is empty, they take a table next to you.  The mother orders and then scurries off to finish her shopping. The father uses this moment, this, ” it’s way past bedtime, my kids are already wound-as-tight as a tasmanian devil,” moment to teach manners, correct posture. He critiques the child’s dot to dot. He makes the toddler colour in between the lines. They squiggle, they squirm, they scream.

The pecans lose their crunch, the pears their sweetness.  You gobble your salad,chug your wine and leave.

Despondent, you take a self-punishing trip to swimwear,  but between the racks of bikinis and coverups you see more tiny feet. And then it hits you. These children are minions sent by the low-carb police to keep you out of restaurants and bathing suits.

You concede defeat and make your way back home.