two slices (lyn)

I go to a screening last night with Alexander.  We don’t have much time for dinner, and so we meet on a street corner near the theater.  The choice I give him is not appealing:  pizza or Subway.  He immediately nixes Subway.

The pizza place we choose, NY Pizza Suprema, is on the SW corner of 30^th and 8^th.   We chose this place randomly because it’s near the theater, advertises itself as “one of New York’s 10 best,” and is clean and populated.  The selection for slices is a cut above the usual choices.  We each order a slice of the thin-crusted mozzarella and basil.  Maybe it’s the sweet sauce or the fresh mozzarella, but we both agree it’s one of the best pizzas we’ve ever had.  It’s a little greasy, but that’s easily addressed with a few napkin pats on the top.  We devour the first slice and order a second.

We leave the restaurant and an attractive, age-appropriate man on the street smiles at me.  I smile back.  A few minutes later the same man says, “Excuse me?  Aren’t you Valerie’s sister?”  It turns out that this man, Gary, is the ex-husband of my sister’s friend, and moved to Florida about seven years ago.  We walk a few blocks together and do a quick catch up on kids and Florida real-estate.

Gary leaves and Alexander says, “I can’t believe he didn’t notice.”  At first, I don’t know what he’s talking about.  Then he adds, “You know, you should really carry before and after pictures with you.  That way, when you bump into people you haven’t seen in a long time you can show them your transformation.”  My son is so over my losing weight that he loves to tease me about it, whenever a potential opportunity arises.

This morning I get up and step on the scale.  123.2.  That’s it for double pizza slices.  At least for a while.