Katharina - Between a rock and a big waist E-Book

Ina Tamago

• Herausgeber: novum pro Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 138

Beschreibung

Katharina feels uncomfortable in her body and receives unexpected help to lose weight after a family argument escalates. She faces old and new challenges. Her sense of humor is almost always there. Unfortunately, not everyone in her close circle supports her decision to turn over a new leaf. But with the active support of her uncle and her friends, she is able to pick herself up again and again and begins to develop more self-confidence. Suddenly it's not just easy to climb the dreaded steps at work. No, Katharina no longer lets anyone tell her what to do and learns that she is also loved when she is herself.

Leseprobe

Katharina - between a rock and a big waist

I

I should have known that today was going to be one of those particularly shitty days when I stood in front of the sign. "Elevator is being serviced." Actually, in this situation, I would be waiting for the second elevator, which for whatever reason was stubbornly stuck on the twelfth floor. But then Emma from Accounts, who is as slim as the numbers she writes in her small squares, walks past me in her latest yoga outfit, of course, and gives me such a pitying look that I feel sick. And then she elegantly taps her narrow ass up the stairs to her office on the tenth floor. Of course, I don't see her until the tenth floor. But this effortless ascent to the first landing is exactly the reason why I think to myself, if she can make it to the tenth floor, I can probably manage my office on the fourth and storm after her. In my mind. To be honest, my pace slows down as soon as I'm out of sight of the foyer. And on the second floor, I briefly toy with the idea of ordering an oxygen tent from Amazon. From then on, I somehow struggle up step by step, always keeping my Diet Coke in mind, which is waiting for me in the staff kitchen. When I finally reach the fourth floor after a hard struggle, I would gladly swap the oxygen tent for a towel ... or a shower, although ... Conny and Sabrina from the advertising department are just turning into the corridor in front of the stairwell, so back straight, head up, posture.

"Are you all right?" Sabrina asks me promptly, of course, looking me up and down as if she knew that I had eaten the piece of cake from the fridge last night and was now analyzing its whereabouts.

"Yes," I reply, trying not to wheeze like Darth Vader in the smoking room. It seems to be enough for Conny and Sabrina, because the two of them continue on their way through the corridor unabated. Good. I slump down a little. For the whole two seconds it takes me to remember that the staircase action has cost me far too much precious time. So I don't go into my office, I don't boot up my computer, but I head straight to the staff kitchen to make my boss's coffee just the way he likes it. And finally treat myself to a well-earned Diet Coke.

Luckily it's summer, so it's not so noticeable that I quickly drop my handbag next to the desk before I open the door between our rooms with a freshly brewed coffee in my hand and greet him with a "Good morning, boss!". It's not difficult for me to smile, because my boss is enviably one of those people who is simply good-looking, has just the right figure ... and emphasizes this with his suitably tailored wardrobe. He's also a very acceptable boss. Most of the time. Today, his "There you are! Good morning!" is followed by a whole list of jobs that will fill my morning pretty well. And I'm pretty sure that some people would have had to write everything down so as not to forget anything. But what am I an experienced secretary for!

By the time I see the light at the end of the orders, it's lunchtime. Just as the last morning customer passes through my outer office and I'm already thinking about what I could have for lunch, my boss suddenly stands in front of me with a pile of papers.

"Can you look through them for me, I need Benno's statement from last week and the cost estimates for the summer party!"

Benno is our janitor ... and a bit of a jack of all trades. Before I can reply to my boss that the invoice should be older - and why he threw all the invoices together like that - he has already turned to his customer and shakes his hand as if he were rehearsing for the next presidential visit. Not that I would actually answer him like that. So I take a deep sigh and look for my lunch in my secret drawer in my desk. A few potato chips and chocolate smile at me from the depths of the drawer. And I smile back.

At least today is Wednesday. I drive to my mother's after a late night at work. Normally we would cook together, but as I was allowed to rummage through a pile of papers, she has already started when I enter the apartment. The kitchen smells wonderful. Braised meat, dumplings and cabbage translate to my stomach. Or rather the black hole in its place. My mother comes out of the kitchen to greet me. "There you are!" she shouts happily and spreads her arms out. These are arms in which I feel comfortable, perhaps a little because I can still feel small and secure in them. My mother is a head taller than me and clear proof of the genetic inheritance of the love handles that have accumulated on my hips over the course of my life. I don't need to worry about bumping into bones when I hug her. "Oh, Katharina, how nice that you made it in time. You look well. But you probably haven't had anything to eat again today. I know your boss, that slave driver! Well, never mind! Mom will fix it." With that, she runs back into the kitchen and to the roast. "Red wine?" she throws back over her shoulder as she walks.

"Yes, I'd love to," I reply and throw my bag over a coat hook. "How was your doctor's appointment?"

At first all that comes out of the kitchen is something incomprehensible. I'm still trying to work out whether this means she thinks her family doctor is a quack (as she has been for the last few years) or whether the answer was interrupted by her tasting the sauce (which is more important than any answer) when the doorbell rings behind me. This is unusual, because normally Wednesday is family night.

"Oh, the usual palaver," she grumbles half aloud from the kitchen, "I should lose weight, the knees, the blood lipids, the high blood pressure ... Oh, and he has a new topic: I don't tolerate sugar well any more. But I'd probably notice that first! Never mind! Go ahead and open the door, this is my surprise today: I've invited Uncle Herrmann. No one has cooked for him for a long time, he'll soon fall off the wagon!"

That's actually a surprise, because when my aunt was still alive, you hardly ever saw Uncle Herrmann. He was probably what they call an "un-retired person". Or at least he was. When we were invited to my aunt's house, he would sit at the table for a short time - to be polite - but after the first piece of cake he would usually jump up and do all sorts of things. When we were in the garden, he would take care of the gardening, when we were at home with my aunt, he would leave the apartment at some point, usually with his sports bag. As I got older, I wondered if they even had a relationship or if it only worked when they didn't see each other.

Then two years ago, when my aunt died, I remember how he was the last person to stand at her grave and cry. A tall, wiry man, whom I had only ever known with a grin on his face, collapsed to his knees and made no effort to hide his tears. My mother had said at the time that it would serve him right if he had never been home, that he would now realize what he was missing. But over the next few weeks, he spent a lot of time at home and it didn't do him any good. I had visited him once or twice and he was just a heap of misery. We had spoken briefly, but it didn't do me any good to see Uncle Herrmann, who was usually grinning, so sad. After all, when I went to see him the next week, he wasn't there. Shortly afterwards, a new contact sent me a WhatsApp message saying that he now had a smartphone and that he was going out again. Best regards, Herrmann.

I hadn't seen him since then. So I'm not sure which of the two Herrmanns I'll find at the door.

The man at the door smiles when he sees me. The wrinkles have deepened a little, but that only makes him somehow more interesting ... more experienced. He stands upright in front of me and spreads his arms out to greet me. Has his back widened? At first glance, I would agree with Mother that he has no one to cook for him. But he doesn't look ill or slumped over like he did on my last visit; on the contrary: he seems full of energy and the hug is rather strong. (Short gasp!) I'm not sure if my boss would win a handshake duel. I like this much better than my last picture of him.

"Hello, my favorite niece!" he smiles as we break away from each other. This favorite position isn't hard to defend, I'm his only niece. So I grin back. "Hello, Uncle Herrmann! You're looking well."

"Are you two going to starve to death out there? Or are you going to make it to my kitchen?" My mother is already making her presence felt. Yep, I've inherited her patience.

The meal is pleasantly harmonious. My mother always uses the expression "gluttonous silence" when everyone is tucking in and no one is talking because everyone is engrossed in the food. With the red wine comes another pleasurable sip. Uncle Herrmann praises the roast - and my mother praises Uncle Herrmann for taking a hearty bite. Of course, she can't help but make another comment. "You don't have anyone else to cook for you, the way you look."

"Well," he clears his throat slightly, "I cook for myself more often now."

"Oh dear, you don't seem to be succeeding at all. Don't you want to come here more often, there's something decent like today!"

My uncle smiles a little pained. "The offer is very nice, but I ..."

I interrupted him before he could get carried away with the "but": "What are you doing now in your retirement?" Mother had already raised her eyebrows dangerously.

Now Uncle Herrmann relaxes again: "Well, I've spruced up the garden. There was a lot to do because I hadn't looked after it for a while. Then I read a lot ... about certain topics and thought a lot. And then I signed up to my old club again. Do you remember, Katharina, how we used to go climbing when you were little?"

Oh yes, I have many fond memories of my uncle taking me, my full rucksack and one or two climbing buddies to one rock or another when the weather was nice. The weather was great, climbing was fun and when I was too tired to climb the rock again, one of the adults would join me and we would play cards or have a long picnic. I nod with a smile. Admittedly, I had considerably fewer kilos on my ribs back then.

My mother apparently finds his hobby less enjoyable: "At your age! Shame on you for doing such nonsense! If you break something, who's going to cart you off the rock? Or look after you afterwards? Have you ever thought about that? You're not the youngest anymore!"

Uncle Herrmann remains admirably calm. Maybe it's because he was married to the sister of this siren, who is very loud at the moment. He pushes the plate a little away from him, crosses his forearms on the table and leans towards my mother. "And what do you think I should do instead? Eat my fill until I can't move anymore?"

This sentence hits not only in the proverbial, but also in the actual pit of the stomach. While I'm still wondering if he really just said that, my mother's face takes on the color of red wine. "Is THIS the thanks I get for trying to get you out of your miserable, lonely widower existence?"

Again, Uncle Herrmann answers very calmly, as if we were having a nice conversation at room volume: "No. It's my decision to stop telling you what you want to hear and to tell you what you don't want to hear. My life is neither ..."

"How dare you spoil our family evening like that!" The neighbors get to hear one-sided details of the argument, including a double exclamation mark. After two or three heavy breaths, my mother raises her arm with obvious effort and points in the direction of the front door. "OUT!!!"

Uncle Herrmann nods slowly once, finishes his wine glass and stands up from his chair in one very fluid movement without supporting himself with his hands. Even Conny and Sabrina probably can't manage that. When he's almost at the checkroom, I try to copy him, but I might as well have tried a squat while I was drunk. So before I turn into an ungraceful whale in front of everyone, I take the tried and tested method and follow my uncle into the hallway under my mother's furious gaze. When he sees me following him, he stops to say goodbye to me. I try to be a little understanding. "That wasn't nice."

"No," he confirms, "but honest." Someone should explain to this stubborn goat that it is a tactical mistake to follow up the at least halfway allies with a punch on the way out. Instead, he continues unperturbed. "Do you know why I didn't take you to the rock any longer?" I just shake my head silently. I only dimly remember a long-suppressed disappointment. "Because your mother told me not to. I didn't want to argue with your mother and my wife." He looks me up and down once very thoroughly. "But I lost my wife. And I don't want to lose you in the same way, my favorite niece." There are a few tears in the corners of his eyes at these words. The sight reminds me again of the broken man at my aunt's grave and I can't bring myself to tell him any of the things I had just prepared. So I swallow hard once. "I'm sorry this just ended like this. I enjoyed seeing you again."

He shrugs his shoulders once and takes me in his arms. "You have one of these clever cell phones," he whispers to me. Then he releases me from his embrace, winks at me and leaves the apartment without another word.

Mother is still sitting at the table with her arms folded like an apparent Gordian knot. Usually with the same will to untie peacefully. So I resort to the most tried and tested home remedy in this situation and pour her plenty of red wine.

"Such an ungrateful thing!" she growls to herself before taking a big gulp. This breaks part of the entanglement and she actually relaxes a little. If I try to smooth things over now, she'll just get carried away with the scene once more, so I just keep quiet for a bit and let the storm pass me by. She mumbles for a few more minutes, but when the wine kicks in and I don't contradict her, she remembers a positive aspect of the whole thing: "But do you know, my darling, what this means for us?" I'm a little startled out of my own thoughts, but fortunately it was a rhetorical question, which she answers herself: "More dessert for us!" And with that, she pushes herself up out of the chair and heaves herself towards the fridge. I can't help but realize how different my uncle and my mother move. And a small, vinous voice in my head wonders if my uncle is more right with his verbal low blow than I am comfortable with. But the advantage of vinous voices is that they occasionally shut up with more wine. I dare to try said therapy while my mother serves up the chocolate mousse.