The Cocktail Party - by Randi Sherman

Cocktail Party

When I arrived at my friend’s holiday cocktail party, I looked around the room and realized that other than the hostess, Margaret, there was not a recognizable face in the crowd.  I glanced around to take stock of fashion sense in the room and then at the mirror to check my outfit.  I realized that once again, I had made the incorrect outfit selection.  It doesn’t matter how much planning I do, I have an inexplicable talent of choosing the most inappropriate apparel for any occasion.

If I were asked to select a word that best describes my appearance, I would say “pleasant.” Although, my looks do not stimulate one’s gag reflexes, I have not been presented any awards for my outstanding beauty and poise.  It is inevitable, there is always at least one woman at each party who has the ability to turn the heads of all of the men and generate instant jealousy from all of the women in the room.  She is tall and proud and magnetic.  She smolders.  I would describe myself as the semi-attractive woman who is standing just behind her…holding the coats.

So there I stood, in the foyer.  I had a choice to make. I could muster up some faux-party-confidence and begin to mingle.  I could attempt to blend in with the décor, sip a drink and hope that a party guest would happen by and engage me in a conversation.  I could plant myself near the buffet table and force people to speak with me, or at least say “excuse me,” if they want to get close to the food.  Or I could attach myself to Margaret, the hostess, who is, required by the law-of-hosting and etiquette to talk to me, or introduce me into another conversation.

While making my decision, a severe looking woman dressed in all black and who looked like she just stepped away from the Chanel make-up counter, walked up to me and introduced herself as Victoria, “Don’t call me Vicky,” she commanded.  “My name is Victoria.” 

Whatever you say, Vicky, I thought. 

Victoria was obviously killing time with me until someone more stylish was free for conversation.  She sipped her martini as she looked past me and lied to me.  Yes, lied.  I could tell.  If I had had a calculator with me and had added up all of things that she said she had accomplished, Victoria would have to be about two hundred and seventy years old.  Obviously, Victoria was not privy to the two basic rules of lying to someone at a cocktail party. First, if you choose to lie, make sure there is a recovery, if challenged.  “Really, Victoria, tell me more about water skiing on the Dead Sea.  I thought it was a sacred place and that speedboats were not allowed there. From whom did you get a permit?”  Second, lie to the party-drunk or to someone who is not really listening, who will, most likely, not remember anything about the conversation.

Without so much as a word, a ‘good-bye,” a “piss-off” or a nod Victoria sashayed away from me toward a group of porcelain faced, skinny people who seemed to be posing. They weren’t moving. They just might have worked part time as department store window mannequins.

After a minute or so, I found and joined a small group of people who were politely listening to a man named Neil as he droned on about his “fabulous” career, his incredible office, his importance, and his plans for advancement “in the firm.”  No one in the circle seemed interested in what he was saying, but they didn’t want to appear rude and walk away.  So we all stood there, helplessly and listened. He was so boring that he should have been forced to wear a warning label.  Caution: Use of his man may cause drowsiness.

My eyes began to water when I strained to keep my mouth closed while stifling a yawn.  I was tempted to grab Neil by the shoulders, shake him and holler, “No one in this room finds anything at all fascinating about you or your work.  Unless you could promise someone a high paying position, that requires minimal work and travel to exotic destinations along with an unlimited expense account, we simply don’t want to hear about it!  But instead, I stood quietly, with the rest of the group, until he finished his verbal resume.

A few minutes later, Margaret motioned me over and asked me if I was enjoying myself.

I started to lie. “Oh yes …”

She interrupted, “I want you to meet someone.  Come with me.” She motioned with her finger for me to follow her.

She then introduced me to a man named Michael.  He was also alone. He was handsome, intelligent and interesting … and spoken for.  About ten minutes into our conversation he announced, “I have a girlfriend who is out-of-state.  But you and I could get together for coffee, or something.”  Then he added, “Fortunately, I don’t find you attractive so I don’t have to worry about getting myself into trouble.”

What?  Fortunately, he doesn’t find me attractive … Was that supposed to be a compliment?  Gee, I thought.  A girl can’t hear that too many times.

When I went outside for a breath of fresh air, I met Phil.  He seemed like a “regular guy.”   We spoke for a few moments.  He asked me if I was dating anyone.  I told him that I wasn’t and asked about his situation.  He told me that he was single.

He started, “My last girlfriend was a model … ”  

I stopped him right there.  I had to know.  “Tell me, Phil,” I asked, “Why is it that every man I meet used to date a model?  How many models could be out there?”  I could never understand why a man would tell a woman about how beautiful his past girlfriends were. Although men may find this information to be fascinating and impressive, women can live a lifetime without hearing it.

I wandered into the kitchen to catch my breath and plan my escape. I looked at my watch.  Damn, it was too early to leave.  The caterers looked at me with a knowing-look that said, “Sit down, and have a cup of coffee.”

            As I sat there in the kitchen, a few other party-goers drifted in.  Some of the sat down.  Others leaned against the counters, had some coffee, and picked at the desert trays.  Before I knew it, the entire party had moved into the kitchen area. 

Over all, it had been a lovely party.  The food was delicious and guest were very nice but I was ready to leave.

Michael waved over the crowd toward Margaret and announced, “Well, I have to be on my way.  I have to catch a plane in the morning.” 

That was my opportunity, “Michael, would you mind walking me to my car?”  My question was two-fold.  It not only gave Margaret the illusion that Michael and I had hit-it-off, it also was my chance to cut out of the party.

             

Lunch With A Demon by Randi Sherman

Lunch with a Demon

A simple lunch with a friend can turn into the emotional roller coaster to hell for the victim of PMS demon.  The demon has a mind of its own and will do everything possible to have itself heard.  The victim is forced to keep the demon at bay while sorting through her erratic premenstrual thoughts and selecting the appropriate, socially acceptable responses.  She must also fight the desire to unbutton her skirt or kick off her shoes because of the pain due to premenstrual swelling.  All, while staving off an impromptu crying jag and trying to appear sane.

I looked at my watch.  Jonathan was fifteen minutes late. If he is not here in five minute, I’m leaving.  The hell with him!  My PMS mind was racing.  He hates me.  He’s doing this on purpose.  He does not have respect for my time.  He obviously doesn’t think that I am important enough for him to show up on time.  When he gets here, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.

Just as my blood pressure had hit an all time high, Jonathan walked in.  “Hi.  I’m sorry that I’m late. I stopped to buy these flowers for you.”  He handed the bouquet to me and kissed me on the cheek.

My rage disappeared.  “Oh, are you late?” I melted. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He motioned to the hostess and indicated that there were two for lunch.  She grabbed some menus and asked us to follow her.  When we reached our table she smiled at Jonathan and said, “Here we go.  Is this okay?”

I thought, What the hell are you looking at!  But I said, “This is fine.”

When we sat down, Jonathan took my hand and gazed at me.  “You look pretty.  I’ve missed you.”

You’re smothering me!  “I’ve missed you, too.” I put my hand over his.

He smiled and asked, “How is your day going?  Have you been doing anything interesting?”

What the hell do you mean by that?  Don’t placate me!  You’re not the only person who has something interesting to say.  I’m very interesting.  “Oh, my day?” I said, “It’s fine.  Same ole’, same ole’.  Nothing’s new.  How about with you?”

Jonathan told me about a recent episode he had with his ex-wife and the expenses of maintaining the two households. 

I was hardly listening.  The PMS demons were annoyed by the conversation.  Me, me, me.  You’re so self-absorbed. No wonder she divorced you.  I forced a smile, “I’m sure that things will get better for you. You just have to remain positive.”

He looked at the menu, “Are you going to getting the Salad Nicoise?”

What in the hell do you mean by that?  Is this your subtle way of telling me I’m fat? 

He continued, “I hear it’s great here and I know how much you like it.  I think that I will have it as well.”

Nice try, Jonathan.  No one is going to tell me what to do or what I should eat.  Then I opened the menu.  There was too much to choose from.  I was in no condition to make a decision.  “I’ll have the same.”

He noticed that I was uncharacteristically quiet and asked me, “Are you all right?  Is there anything wrong?’

My hormones were raging and my eyes welled up with tears.  It’s about time you noticed. “Nothing.  I’m fine.” I sucked in my breath and tried to hold back but I couldn’t help myself.  I started to cry.  The more I tried to compose myself, the worse it got.  I got the hiccups.  After several glasses of water and five minutes of a relaxation breathing exercise, they subsided, and I apologized. “I’m sorry.  I’m just a little premenstrual.”

He smiled sweetly and patted my hand.  “Oh, I understand, honey.”

Honey?  Don’t honey me!  You don’t understand a damned thing!  “Thanks for understanding.”

At the next table a woman was trying to calm her child who was pounding his spoon on the table.  Jonathan turned to look at the commotion.  When he turned back to me he had a big smile on his face.  “Children are so wonderful.”  He motioned to the toddler, “Isn’t he cute?”

The kid is a brat and the mother should be flogged for bringing him into a restaurant.  “He’s adorable.” I smiled.

Jonathan leaned in. “How do you feel about children?”

I was panicked. Aah! Get me out of here!  I calmed myself. “They’re wonderful.”  I changed to subject.  “Is that a new tie?” 

It seemed to be a safe subject.  That is, unless his ex-wife bought it for him.

Gym-nausea - from The Grumblings of... by Randi M Sherman, the authorof Paula Takes a Risk, Available 2012

Gym-nausea

It has been said that getting to the gym is half the battle.  I view the whole gym experience as a test of courage. The benefits of working out should outweigh the hand to hand combat with an exercise bra or the risk being killed in a stampede of people who want to get closer to the mirror. I want to be healthy and fit, but I’m not willing to get into a chick-fight over who got to the treadmill machine first. 

I’m the type of gym-goer who will circle the parking lot for twenty minutes until a space close to the door is available.  It’s considered a successful gym experience if I make it through an entire workout without the need for recitation.

When I arrived at the gym, I headed for the locker room to change into my exercise togs.  Making my way through the steamy room that was filled with naked women and high pitched hum of hair blow dryers, I located my assigned locker. It was a narrow opening in the wall that was designed to hold a maximum of one set of keys, a gym membership card and a wire hanger if its placed in the vertical position. Across from the lockers and bolted to the floor are balance beams that are supposed to be used as benches.  I knew that if focused my concentration on balance and form, I could make it through the entire dressing routine and land a clean dismount.  After which, I would jump up, arch my back and throw my hands in the air to await the judges scores.

It was time to change into my brand new gym-appropriate apparel.   The activity of putting on these clothes is an exercise in itself.  I thought of employing the assistance of a larger, stronger gym member to “spot” me while I squeezed into the rubber band that had been fashioned as an exercise bra.  The first step was to identify the front of the bra.  I took a deep breath and with all of my upper body strength, I stretched the elastic around my wrists and wrestled it over my head and shoulders, taking care not to dislocate a limb or pull a muscle.

Once the bra was in place, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I adjusted my breasts to a level position and tucked any noticeable back-fat and excess lateral-chest-bulk under the elastic.  I was hopeful that the red marks from the struggle would soon fade.  At that point, I was a little light headed and needed to sit down, catch my breath and eat a mocha flavored energy bar.

There are two main styles of exercise bras.  One type is more utilitarian than the other.  The first presses the breasts so flat that by comparison, a mammogram seems comfortable.  It binds the breasts so close to the chest that they are, not only immobile, they are no longer distinguishable.  The other style of exercise bra is more fashionable.  It supports and lifts the breasts to give them a fuller perkier appearance.  Depending on the adjustment, this bra can lift the breasts so high that they might impede vision and range of motion. With the proper adjustment of this bra, the cleavage could be used as a hands-free water bottle holder.

Next, I tackled the spandex shorts. Could they be any smaller? Off of the body, they look like a pair of Capri pants from Barbie’s summer wardrobe. Once on the body, they look like sausage casing.  Using maximum shoulder and arm strength along with the contraction of my abdomen and butt muscles, I yanked and pulled the shorts up my body. So much for my upper body workout, I thought.  Once the shorts were in place, my thighs begin to swell out of the bottom.  And above the waistband, don’t ask.  The excess skin and weight around my mid section, made it look as if my spandex shorts had had an atomic explosion.  I covered it all with a giant T-shirt and headed out to the circuit training equipment.

The most daunting piece of equipment in the gym is the scale. Why is the scale located in the middle of everything?  I broke into a sweat as I approached.  Weighing myself has never been as simple as just stepping on the scale and sliding the balance weights to the “you-weigh-this-much” position.

No matter how lethargic or sluggish I was, the fastest and most coordinated maneuver that I made in the gym was stepping on the scale, measuring, and then stepping off of it without leaving any evidence of my true weight. I have developed a highly choreographed routine for using the scales at the gym.  I call it the “step-measure-sigh-step-slide.” Here’s how I do it. I concentrate on my breathing as I scan the room to see who is standing within eye-shot of the scale.  In one fluid motion, I step onto the scale, manipulate the balance weights, suffer from massive depression and then step off again.  While stepping off, I simultaneously slide the balance weights back to the zero position.  If by chance, I draw attention to myself with either a misstep or a whimper, I force a smile, wipe the tears from my eyes and announce, “Weight doesn’t matter to me. It’s the tone and muscle mass that I’m concerned with.”  If pressed, I may say that I’m retaining water.  If the gym-goers are still not convinced, I resort to the explanation, “I’ve been constipated for a week.”

The “regulars” at the gym are very territorial.  It is not a good idea to break into their circuit routine. I innocently approached the Butt Buster device.  I was just about ready to adjust the weights on it, I heard a high-pitched voice.  “I’m using that machine.” 

I looked at the machine.  I didn’t see anyone.  Was I hallucinating?  After all, my new exercise bra was very tight and might have been limiting the blood supply to my brain.  Then I heard the voice again, “I said, I’m using that!” 

I looked once more. Still, I saw no one. Gee.  I thought, This woman is very thin.  I can’t even see her. 

From the lounge area, across the gym, I heard the voice again. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”  I was startled.  I looked up and saw what appeared to be a walking make-up counter with a hair scrunchy, and a butt thong waving her arms, shooing me away from her machine.  “Don’t touch it!  I have the weight and height set just right. I’m just resting for a minute.  I should be done in a few minutes.  Geeze.”  Then she looked me up and down, rolled her eyes and returned to her power drink.

While examining the bruising on my body that was caused by the elastic of my exercise clothes, I was nearly trampled to death by a herd Neanderthals who were jockeying for position in front of the mirror.  I stood there in amazement.  I realized that mirror-posing is a serious business.  Evidently, once the right pose is selected, the posers are required to gaze at their reflections with love and affection.  They appeared to be flirting with themselves. “You’re so big and strong, handsome and courageous.” And that’s just the women.

Among the various gym-goers, there are those people who go to the gym just to be seen.  They don’t seem to exercise at all.  It was impossible to use several machines because they were being used a nightclub.  Clicks of the beautiful people were hanging over and leaning against the equipment while flexing, flirting and making dinner plans.

I approached the leg-lift machine where a woman was sitting.  She was talking into her cellular telephone.  She held up her hand to let me know that I was interrupting her conversation. 

I decided to skip the weight training portion of my workout.  I went to the cardiovascular area only to find a group of women who had set their treadmills on browsing-speed.  They strolled along for about thirty minutes. 

As I stood there waiting, I looked around the gym.  My attention was drawn to a group of red-faced men who were grunting and groaning as they lifted weights. Call me naive but, if something is so heavy that is could cause a hernia or an exploding aneurysm, put it down. 

There was a height-weight chart pinned to the wall.  Upon examination, I realized that I am five inches too short for my weight.  I became depressed and decided to go home. 

Later, I laughed to myself when I realized that fashions and the idea of beauty are forever changing.  I figured that ten years from now, the height-weight chart would be completely revised.  After extensive studies regarding the benefits of potato chips and glazed buttermilk donuts, scientist will discover that we were all fifty to one hundred pounds under weight.  Spandex will be outlawed.  It will be declared that the massive consumption of green leafy vegetables coupled with exercise, energy bars and butt thongs will have contributed to the early death of hundreds of thousands Americans. And because of the limited amount of fabric necessary to make clothing, less textiles and fewer garment workers will be needed. Which will result in the crippling of the U.S. economy.

An hour had passed.  I had gone to the gym.  Although, I never actually worked out, I did get points for going.  I had determined the future trends in beauty, healthcare and the economy.   I had worked up quite an appetite.  It was time for a snack.

My Body Revolted from Grumblings....by Randi Sherman, author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

My Body Revolted

The other morning while taking a shower I felt something very strange on the back of my legs.  I had never noticed it before.  It wasn’t the cellulite.  I had grown used to that.  It was something different.  I quickly got out of the shower to look in the mirror and investigate. In order to get a good look, I stood on my toes with my back to the mirror and twisted my upper body to see the reflection. What could it be? I wondered.  At first I didn’t see anything unusual.  I reached down to determine exactly where the strange growth was.  When I had identified the area, I looked again. I was horrified when I realized that the large growth was my butt.  How did this happen?

Without warning, the combination of fatty foods, sugar and gravity has taken its toll on my body.  My body was rebelling.  It was revolting.  My rear end had silently crept downward and taken up residence on the back of my thighs.  I was a victim of ass-creep.

Sure, I had noticed that my clothing had become a little snug.  The excess weight around my hips and stomach filled my pants to cause the uncomfortable short-crotch syndrome and the binding waistband fold-over.  But I attributed it all to the bloating that is related to PMS.  Over time, I had managed to convince myself that I was pre-menstrual for twenty-three days each month.

I sat down at the kitchen table and while eating a blueberry muffin with butter and jam, I decided that I had to do something about this new development on the back of my thighs.  I finally had to admit that I was out of shape and had gained weight. I figured, I’ll just start on an exercise program and watch what I’m eating.  Easier said than done.

The first plan of action was to remove all junk food from my house.  As I was removing all of the cookies and pretzels from the pantry and the ice cream, fudge sauce, and frozen pizzas from the freezer, I thought about how wasteful I was being.  In my mind, I could hear my mother’s voice, “What about all of the children who are starving all over the world?”  I felt guilty.  So I decided to do my part.  I sat down and made a feast of it all.  It was reminiscent of the Last Supper.  A religious experience.  No waste.  I felt better.

Next, I had to locate my gym membership card, buy new exercise togs and figure out the best time to go to and work out.   I had been a member of the gym for two years and had managed to get there only twice.  The first time was the day that I had signed the membership contract.  The second time was the day after that.  The monthly membership dues were automatically withdrawn from my checking account.  By my calculations, each of my visits to the gym cost approximately three hundred dollars.  The one time I called to cancel my membership, I was completely intimidated by the gym manager who ended up convincing me to keep my membership and take advantage of the state-of-the-art equipment.  Although I assured him that I would get into an exercise régime, I thought seriously about closing my checking account and changing banks in lieu of justifying my laziness.  But I was too lazy to go to the bank.

Finally, I knew that I wasn’t going to get in shape overnight, so I had to have an interim plan. I’d have to go shopping.  I’d have to buy some shirts that were long enough to cover my rear end.

Young at Heart - from Grumblings...by Randi M Sherman, author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Young at Heart

One day, while at work, the president of the company summoned me into her office.  I wondered what I had done wrong.  This couldn’t be good news.  She never fraternized with her employees.  If fact, the only reasons she spoke with us was to deliver a speech about tightening belts, or to reprimand or to trick someone into volunteering for an undesirable task.  I walked that last mile toward her office and my mind raced as I tried to recall what I might have done that would not have been considered, “company policy.”

When I arrived, her office door was open and she was involved in heated telephone conversation.  She spotted me, snapped her fingers, waved me in and motioned for me to close the door and sit down.  Minutes passed like hours as I waited for her call to end.  She hung up the phone and stood up. 

“I’ve noticed you,” she said. 

Knowing not to press the issue, I just smiled politely.  Then she came around to the front of the desk and leaned against it.  She crossed her arms, sized me up and made an effort to smile.  It looked as if it hurt. 

In a rather annoying rhetorical manner she got right to the point.  “You don’t have a boyfriend do you?” 

Huh?  I couldn’t imagine what this had to do with my job performance.  Then I realized that this was a social meeting

“I want you to meet a friend of mine,” she insisted.

 A friend of hers?  Did she have friends?  I had never given any thought to the fact that she would have any friends.  This had to be a test.  I wasn’t interested in meeting her friend, but I had to be diplomatic. After all, I did work for her. 

I smiled appreciatively and with a confident upward tilt to my head and a sing-song quality to my voice I said, “Thank you for thinking of me but I really don’t have the time to get date anyone right now.  Between work, classes and my, already active, social life, I hardly have enough time for myself.  Thanks anyway.”  I was sure that the content and delivery of this speech was Academy Award material.  But she didn’t buy it. 

She looked directly at me a said, “You’re lying to me.”  “My husband and I have a friend…” She dived right in.  “He was involved in a long-term relationship which has just ended, badly.”  She assured me that he was not necessarily looking for a romantic relationship.  “He’s a little gun shy right now.  He’s just looking for someone to go places with.  I want you to meet him.  He’ll be calling you later this week.” 

What could I say?  She was scary, I worked for her and she had already given him my telephone number.  Frankly, I was intimidated by her.

She stood up, walked around her desk, sat down in her executive style swivel chair and waved me off.  As I was about to open the door, she said, “Oh by the way, he’s somewhat older that you are but he’s young at heart.” 

I closed the door behind me and tried to evaluate what had just transpired.  What undesirable task was just assigned to me?  The information that she had provided was vague and general. There had to be a good reason for it and I was bound to find out why.

“Young at heart,” sure.  But, old at face and ancient at body.  The fact that this man merely had the will to live, did not make him young.  Breathing without the benefit of medical machinery, eating pudding without his teeth and first hand discussions regarding his recent prostate surgery were talents that were wasted on me.

He had been, recently dumped by a woman who he now referred to as “the bitch .”  According to him, she drained him monetarily and emotionally, then maliciously and without warning, cast him aside.  Over the past few months she had become demented and developed a number of serious emotional problems, none of which he had anything to do with.  “Funny,” I thought. “Why is it that she was perfectly normal when they met, and then, over the course of their relationship, developed psychotic tendencies?  Someone should do the math.”  Though advertised differently, he was on the rebound and desperately seeking a woman, on whom he could use his transference skills. 

The calendar of dating events included several telephone discussions about his misunderstood and abused qualities.  He kept telling me how wonderful, thoughtful and sensitive he was.  He called me too often.  He was possessive.  He was self-obsessed.  Anytime my attention would wane, he would exhale with a whimper. Shortly after he succeeded in thoroughly annoying me with his mosquito-like qualities, he informed me that I was getting too serious.  Then, as a finale, he announced that he needed “his space.”  All this, before I rode in his car.

The report of the “break-up” had reached the office before I did.  The boss called me into her office and this time she cast aside her prize winning interpersonal skills.  Slamming the office door behind her, she demanded to know what had happened.

 “Well,” I explained, “He’s a great guy, but I think he’s looking for a woman who can handle his past and will be satisfied with his somewhat limited future.”

Order Food - from: Grumbings.... by Randi Sherman, the author of Paula Takes a Risk, available March 2012

Order Food

There are different types of food to order for different occasions.  There is interview food.  That is, during a job interview process, you maybe asked to meet for lunch or dinner. Food is not the reason for the meeting is it just an excuse. In that situation do not order loud food, finger food, messy food or food that requires a lot of attention or effort to eat.  Conversely, there is Super Bowl party food. Loud, crunchy, messy food.  In this situation, the food is equally as important as the occasion.  But what about first date food?

Within seconds of glancing at the menu, I usually spot the meal I would really like to order.  But what is the appropriate thing to order? No matter how self-assured I may be, I don’t want to appear to be a pig.  So, I’ll sit back and allow him to set the standard.

Time passes as I sit there wishing that I had mind reading capabilities to determine what is he going to order.  What if I order more food than he does?  What if I order something too expensive? Oh no! Suddenly, I cringe at the thought of my regular eating habits.  Gobbling down a jumbo burger and a large order of fries, in the time it takes for a traffic signal to change from red to green, or consuming a bag of chips, leftover Chinese food and a few cookies in the eight minutes it takes to microwave my real dinner, could be frightening to the faint of heart. 

Will my food preferences make an impression?  Good or bad?  Is my best bet is to order a salad, something from the appetizer menu or nothing at all?  This tactic may give him the impression that I eat like a bird, that I’m delicate. Who am I kidding?

Many women under estimate the intelligence of the men they date. I have found that most men have, at least, a basic knowledge of bodily function.  They know that human body requires food to sustain life and they do not believe that it can survive on “something light” or just a small tossed salad.  They also realize that it takes more than a small plate of steamed vegetables for a woman to maintain 180 pounds of weight.

The proclamation, “I’m not really hungry” is a lie.  You know it.  He knows it. The only thing you may accomplish with this line is in convincing your date that you must eat like a horse when you are alone, at home. 

The proclamation, “I had a late lunch,” is an insult.  This single sentence informs your date that you made a conscious decision to ruin your appetite and the dinner plans he had made for the two of you.

If your thought is to save him money, forget it.  Men are not impressed by the fact that you are counting their money.

Your date is not going to be impressed with your self-control.  A request for dressing on the side, a lemon wedge or something grilled “dry” is about as intriguing as reporting that you don’t kiss on the first date. 

After a brief study of the situation, my suggestion is: if you are hungry, order food.