I looked around and spotted Lance. It was hard to miss him, with his headful of tight blond curls and lime green T-shirt. I hustled over to where he sat at a tiny table for two.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said, plopping down into an uncomfortable metal chair, “but I couldn’t find the place. Do you realize the sign out front is the size of a postage stamp?”

“I know. They try to keep it exclusive. Even their phone number is unlisted.”

Welcome to LaLa Land, where colonic irrigation parlors take out full-page ads in the Yellow Pages, but restaurants are unlisted.

Lance shot me a disapproving look.

“Jaine, honey. Do you realize you’re the only person in the restaurant wearing elastic-waist pants?”

He was right, of course. The place was filled with perfect bodies in low-rider jeans and tank tops, slender midriffs exposed. And those were just the guys.

“So what?” I said, reaching for the menu. “Am I going to be arrested by the pants police?”

He shook his head and sighed.

I sighed, too, when I checked out the menu. What a disaster. All I saw was arugula and radicchio and baby vegetables. Not a calorie in sight. The most interesting thing on the menu was an old coffee stain.

Just when I was wondering if I could possibly convince Lance to ditch this place for a restaurant that served actual food, a sultry waitress with huge eyes and tiny boobs slithered up to us.

“What can I get you today?” she asked, with a brittle smile.

“How about something from McDonalds?”

No, I didn’t really say that. What I said was: “Got any burgers?”

“We’ve got the ahi tuna burger with carmelized fennel.”

“Sounds mighty tempting, but I’ll pass.”

There was no way out of it. I’d have to order a salad.

“I’ll have the turkey cobb.”

“Free-range turkey or regular?” asked Ms. Sultry.

“Regular’s okay.”

“What kind of dressing? Raspberry vinaigrette, balsamic vinaigrette, or kiwi vinaigrette?”

“Surprise me,” I said, throwing caution to the wind.

Ms. Sultry, who looked like her last lunch had been a line of cocaine, took Lance’s order and slinked away.

“Really, Jaine,” Lance said, eyeing my Dukakis for President T-shirt. “You’re so hopelessly out of date. Don’t you want to be hip?”

“I’ll settle for hippy.”

“Oh, c’mon. You’re not nearly the chubbette you think you are.”

“In a town where a six is considered a plus size, I’m a chubbette.”

“You happen to be a very attractive woman. All you need is a little fashion advice.” Then, as if he’d just thought of it, he said, “Hey, that’s not a bad idea. How about I give you a fashion makeover?”

And then it dawned on me. I knew what this was all about.

“You’re looking for a project, aren’t you? You’re bored and lonely and between boyfriends, and you want something to do.”

“That’s not true!”

But of course it was true. Ever since Lance discovered his last boyfriend was a married man, he’d been sulking around his apartment like a teenager with a rusted nipple ring.