The Next Big Thing Read Free

to Jenny Craig, then got inventive and crafted my own weight-loss methods. There was the “Chew and Spit,” which involved chomping on things like barbecue potato chips while leaning over the toilet. After chewing the food into pure mush, I chucked it straight out of my mouth into the toilet, savoring the taste while discarding the calories. If I didn’t have a major aversion—bordering on a phobia—of throwing up, I’d have likely made the jump to bulimia.
    Then there was the “Nothing But Five Fat-Free Yoplait Yogurts Every Day” plan. I lost forty pounds in less than three months, but I also lost huge clumps of my hair. By the time I graduated college I could name the number of Weight Watchers points in any fast-food item. I’d gone through stints eating both low-fat and low-carb. I’d also tried LA Weight Loss, Sugar Busters, and hypnosis. Most recently The South Beach Diet. All of these worked for a little while. But you can only down so many Subway sandwiches before the sight of a Veggie Delite starts to makes you gag.
    Incentive. Maybe that is the secret ingredient I’ve been missing all this time. And what could be a better incentive than being paid ten thousand dollars every week to lose weight?
    When I began talking to Nick online, I had hoped he’d be the perfect motivation. Nick Appleby works as the fashion editor for Status, a sophisticated men’s magazine in London.
    We met in online bulletin board for anglophiles. Even though I’ve never actually been there, I’ve been obsessed with England for as long as I can remember. I’ve dreamed about for so long: Trafalgar Square, Covent Garden, the Tube, the gorgeous countryside. I wanted to explore it all, every nook and cranny, from the ancient stone castles to the wild nightlife, where I’d round things out by having a pint (or three) of ale in one of the century’s old pubs. Somewhere along the way I’d meet a gorgeous, shaggy-haired English boy who would speak to me with his adorable accent and then kiss me gently under the soft drizzle of rain. 
    It’s been a secret dream of mine since I was a very young, and in some ways Nick is the closest I’ve ever come to having a real piece of it. I rarely share this dream with people, because most of them just think it’s silly, or crazy, or dumb. How can I be so in love with a place I’ve never even seen? I guess it’s the same way I’m in love with a man I’ve never met….
    Even though meeting someone on the Internet isn’t such a big deal anymore, meeting someone on the other side of the world is sort of mortifying.
    It embarrasses me and , as such, I have carefully avoided telling people the truth. Instead I say we got together while I was visiting my parents in Denver.
    “He was there on holiday with friends,” I lie. “We met at a ski lodge. It was love at first sight. It was devastating when I had to return to Memphis and he had to return to England, but our love is strong enough to survive the long distance.”
    It’s pure bullshit, but most people buy it. Only Donna knows the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
    “It’s not like you’re one of those dorks who only has Internet friends,” Donna said when I told her. “You were bored and looking to have some fun. You couldn’t have predicted you’d meet a guy who would sweep you off your feet.”
    It was a massive understatement. I’d never known anyone from England before and I could tell from his very first post, which quickly progressed to e-mailing were so great, so connected. Nick painted a gorgeous picture of England. He’d been born in a place called Royal Tunbridge Wells, a town that sounded so perfect even its name was magical.
    He’d gone to school at Oxford, obtaining both an undergrad and a masters, and graduating with honors. He was perfect in every way – if I could have conjured up my dream man, Nick would have been it.
    He lived in London now and often promised to fly me over for a visit