Bill Bryson I'm a Stranger Here Myself

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why because you don't like it, but you touch it anyway.
In an instant, the sales assistant is with you. "That's one of our most popular lines," she says. "Would
you like to try it on?"
"No thank you."
"Go ahead, try it on. It's you."
"No, I really don't think so."
"The changing rooms are just there."
"I really don't want to try it on."
"What's your size?"
"Please understand, I don't want to try it on. I'm just browsing."
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She gives you another smile-her withdrawing smile-but thirty seconds later she is back, bearing
another sweater. "We have it in peach," she announces.
"I don't want that sweater. In any color."
"How about a nice necktie then?"
"I don't want a tie. I don't want a sweater. I don't want anything. My wife is having her legs waxed
and told me to wait for her here. I wish she hadn't, but she did. She could be hours and I still won't
want anything, so please don't ask me any more questions. Please."
"Then how are you set for pants?"
Do you see what I mean? It becomes a choice between tears and manslaughter. The irony is that
when you actually require assistance there is never anyone around.
At Toys "R" Us my son wanted a Star Troopers Intergalactic Cosmic Death Blaster, or some such
piece of plastic mayhem. We couldn't find one anywhere, nor could we find anyone to guide us. The
store appeared to be in the sole charge of a sixteen-year-old boy at the single active cash register.
He had a queue of about two dozen people, which he was processing very slowly and methodically.
Standing in line is not one of my advanced social skills, particularly when I am standing there simply
to acquire information. The line moved with painful slowness. At one point, the young man took ten
minutes to change the receipt roll, and I nearly killed him then.
At last my turn came. "Where's the Star Troopers Inter-galactic Cosmic Death Blasters?" I said.
"Aisle seven," he replied without looking up.
I stared at the top of his head. "Don't trifle with me," I said.
He looked up. "Excuse me?"
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"You people always say 'Aisle seven. ' "
There must have been something in my look because his answer came out as a kind of whimper.
"But, mister, it is aisle seven-Toys of Violence and Aggression."
"It'd better be," I said darkly and departed.
Ninety minutes later we found the Death Blasters in aisle two, but by the time I got back to the
register the young man had gone off duty.
The Death Blaster is wonderful, by the way. It fires those rubber-cupped darts that stick to the
victim's forehead-not painful, but certainly startling. My son was disappointed, of course, that I
wouldn't let him have it, but you see, I need it for when I go shopping.
THE FAT OF THE LAND
I have been thinking a lot about food lately. This is because I am not getting any. My wife, you see,
recently put me on a diet. It is an interesting diet of her own devising that essentially allows me to
eat anything I want so long as it contains no fat, cholesterol, sodium, or calories and isn't tasty. In
order to keep me from starving altogether, she went to the grocery store and bought everything that
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had "bran" in its title.
I am not sure, but I believe I had bran cutlets for dinner last night. I am very depressed.
Obesity is a serious problem in America (well, serious for fat people anyway). Half of all adult
Americans are overweight and more than a third are defined as obese (i. e., big enough to make you
think twice before getting in an elevator with them).
Now that hardly anyone smokes, it has taken over as the number one health fret in the country. About
three hundred thousand Americans die every year from diseases related to obesity, and the nation
spends $100 billion treating illnesses arising from overeating-diabetes, heart disease, high blood
pressure, cancer, and so on. (I hadn't realized it, but being overweight can increase your chance of
getting colon cancer-and this is a disease you really, really don't want to get-by as much as 50
percent. Ever since I read that, I keep imagining a proctologist examining me and saying: "Wow! Just
how many cheeseburgers have you had'in your life, Mr. Bryson?") Being overweight also
substantially reduces your chances of surviving surgery, not to mention getting a decent date.
Above all, it means that people who are theoretically dear to you will call you "Mr. Blimpy" and
ask you what you think you are doing every time you open a cupboard door and, entirely by accident,
remove a large bag of Cheez Doodles.
The wonder to me is how anyone can be thin in this country. We went to an Applebee's Restaurant
the other night where they were promoting something called "Skillet Sensations." Here, verbatim, is
the menu's description of the Chili Cheese Tater Skillet:
We start this incredible combination with crispy, crunchy waffle fries. On top of those we
generously ladle spicy chili, melted Monterey jack and cheddar cheeses, and pile high with
tomatoes, green onions, and sour cream.
You see what I am up against? And this was one of the more modest offerings. The most depressing
thing is that my wife and children can eat this stuff and not put on an ounce. When the waitress came,
my wife said: "The children and I will have the De Luxe Supreme Goo Skillet Feast, with extra
cheese and sour cream, and a side order of nachos with hot fudge sauce and biscuit gravy."
"And for Mr. Blimpy here?"
"Just bring him some dried bran and a glass of water."
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When, the following morning over a breakfast of oat flakes and chaff, I expressed to my wife the
opinion that this was, with all respect, the most stupid diet I had ever come across, she told me to
find a better one, so I went to the library. There were at least 150 books on diet and nutrition-Dr.
Berger's Immune Power Diet, Straight Talk About Weight Control, The Rotation Diet-but they were
all a little earnest and bran-obsessed for my tastes. Then I saw one that was precisely of the type I
was looking for. By Dale M. Atrens, Ph. D., it was called Don't Diet. Now here was a title I could
work with.
Relaxing my customary aversion to consulting a book by anyone so immensely preposterous as to put
"Ph. D." after his name (I don't put Ph. D. after my name on my books, after all-and not just because I [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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