Sometimes I’m a killjoy at parties.
Don’t get me wrong… I don’t mean to be. I love parties. But imagine this: we’re all standing around, plates in hand, making small talk.
“So what do you here, Rebecca?”
“Well, just call me Bex. I’m a dietitian. I…” But whatever I was going to say is lost in the blaze of panic that ensues from my statement “I’m a dietitian” and I see eyes flitting from plate to plate, making instant comparisons. And all of a sudden I find myself standing alone with my plate of… whatever it happens to be… again.
Let’s get something straight here… …