By: Ann Brown
Oh God, I am so full I wanna barf.
No, I take that back; the thought of barfing makes me, well, not want to barf. Whew, good, I’m not bulimic. It’s so great to cross shit like that off my list. Not bulemic: check. More therapy time to talk about the rest of me.
I’m just so fucking full.
I hope none of you are so poor that you don’t have enough to eat because you are not going to think this post is funny, or even nice. It’s not a post I would share with, say, the homeless guy with the sign at the freeway exit. He’d be all, “hey, can you spare a dollar?” and I’d be all, “I totally would -I just went to the bank, in fact – but I ate a humongous felafel with a side of extra pita and hummus a few hours ago and I can’t bend over to reach my purse on the floor ’cause my stomach is too full. Don’t you just hate when that happens?”
That would be insensitive. Even for me.
I considered not even writing about this for fear of offending poor hungry people. I thought about writing a post on ending hunger in the world.
But I’m just too full to think about hunger. Maybe I can write something meaningful for people who are suffering from being full. Maybe tomorrow. Plus, I am still trying to play the “my husband has cancer” card which should give me carte blanche to be insensitive to poor and hungry people.
It’s been a real clusterfuck, as you know. Last you heard from me, I was flashing truckers from a hotel window. Where does one go from there?
To the refrigerator. Duh.
You’d think that having Robin home with all his tubes and drains and shit would put a small dent in my appetite. Turns out, happily, I am made of sterner stuff than that. In fact, last night while we were draining his neck tube, I ate a perfect Braeburn apple and two cinnamon rugelech. Didn’t miss a beat.
Not eating, evidently, isn’t my go-to response to crisis. The last time I can remember being so distraught as to actually lose my appetite was when I discovered that my Facebook Fan page had dropped from 153 to 152 fans and my friend Claire LaZebnik Writes had, like, 300 fans. That was a horrible, dark time in my life. Fortunately, my friend Irene double-friended me by using her middle and maiden names the second time around, which brought my numbers back up and I was able to live life again.
I had been planning on losing some weight during Robin’s ten-hour surgery last week since, really, what kind of a wife thinks about what she wants in her foot-long Subway turkey on honey oat while her husband’s neck is being sliced open in the O.R.? (no mayo, no cheese, all the veggies sans jalapenos, oil and vinegar). In fact, in the bag I packed for myself (in case I didn’t go home. In case I slept at the hotel across the street with my mom and sister. In case I stood at the hotel window at midnight and lifted up my pajama top to flash truckers), I even put a pair of pants that have been too tight on me, so sure was I that I’d emerge from the week of Robin’s hospitalization down a few pounds.
Not even half a pound. Robin lost 8 pounds. He has all the luck. AND, I bet he’ll even lose more weight when he starts with the radioactive meds. FML.
Pass the rugelech.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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