By: Ann Brown
Once upon a time, there was a very hungry post-menopausal woman.
She drank two cups of coffee, but she was still hungry.
Then she ate a two-egg-white omelet with avocado and salsa, but she was still hungry.
So she ate a big piece of wheat toast with organic clover honey on it, but she was still hungry.
So she squeezed herself a large glass of orange juice. And put some EmergenC in it because she still kinda had a sore throat and also because EmergenC can sometimes dull her appetite, but this time it didn’t work and she was still hungry.
So she ate another piece of toast, but just the heel of the bread because, you know, that doesn’t count.
So then she thought she’d try some “scared straight” motivation and she went to the bedroom to try on a pair of jeans that she knew would be too tight, and they were, they were so fucking tight she had to lie down on the floor just to get them over her knees. And while she was on the floor, she noticed a bag of pistachio nuts under her bed so she did a few calorie-burning arm lunges and after six tries, she got the bag. But it was empty, so she was still hungry.
So she went into the bathroom and cut her own bangs, which can shave a few ounces off one’s weight and that justified her being able to eat a few handfuls of Pirate Booty, but she was still hungry.
So she thought about the fact that maybe she wasn’t really hungry as much as she was avoiding work, and perhaps feeling down because everyone in the fucking universe is more successful than she is and maybe she should be more of a Tiger and less of a, I don’t know, Sloth, lolling about, spending days on end thinking up clever little bon mot comments for her Facebook friends’ statuses when she could be saving the world or recycling. But all that thinking gave her a stress headache and, remembering that caffeine helps relieve headaches, she hit the dark chocolate Dove Bliss bars in the freezer, just for medicinal purposes, not for enjoyment, but her mouth didn’t know the difference and suddenly, she was still hungry again.
So she went back to bed and pulled her white hypoallergenic down comforter tightly around her and, snug as a Caterpillar in a cocoon, she took a nap.
She dreamed that she emerged from her bed thirty-five pounds lighter and without that damn kinky, pubic hair transplant she’s had on her head since perimenopause. Also, without eighteen new messages on her voice mail. And without the sharp pain in her right molar every time she bites down on a carrot.
When she woke up, she realized it was all a dream. And her house was still dirty. And there was a funky smell coming from the kitchen. And The New Yorker had rejected her essay. And Claire still had, like, a hundred more Facebook fans than she did. And Jennifer Hudson was on her TV, singing that fucking song about a new day, a new dawn, feeling good, and I swear, what the very hungry post-menopausal woman wouldn’t give to get Jennifer and Valerie Bertinelli and Jared in a room together and just bitch slap the fuck outta them.
Oh, and the washing machine overflowed onto the den carpet.
Now the woman wasn’t hungry anymore; she was just really bummed out.
So she went to the fridge and she ate the whole container of leftover Japanese noodles from The Noodle Company, and she felt better.
Until she realized that the noodles were, like, three weeks old and that was probably the funky smell.
And then she barfed. And then she barfed some more.
The next day, the post menopausal woman weighed herself and – thanks to all the barfing – she lost a quarter of a pound!
And she was so happy.