So, last night I went to bed pregnant and bloated like a tightly stretched animal hive over an overblown balloon. I did this to myself. Again. I hated myself. Again. I ate that peach cuz fruit is good for you, and then those edamame seeds with the lemon and sea salt cuz that’s healthy too, and then some chocolate-covered raisins cuz my son put them in the grocery cart and why not, and then some salmon with the garlic and lemon and olive oil; and then some watermelon cuz that’s practically like drinking water, and then there was some of this and that left on the counter and we wouldn’t want to throw that away, and then in the fridge there was that almost-empty tubberware taking needed space so we’ll just finish that off; and, you know, those potatoes were really good hot and I wonder how they’d be cold, and oh-I’d-better-eat-my-last-thing-for-the-night-cuz-it’s-getting-late, but then two hours later my son and his friend have made this deep-fried-something-awful crap but they are sitting there laughing and talking so cutely and I want to be part of that energy, and well… Here we are.
I know now. I know this gremlin. I see it happening, stuck on repeat, like a train wreck in slow motion, and I keep recreating this undesired reality. This time my daughter is really pissing me off and that time I’m overwhelmed with all that I have to do; this time I just have the munchies and that other time there was this sensation in my abdominal region and I thought the translation may just be hunger so just to be sure, you know, I’ll go eat. And I keep telling myself stories and reasoning my way through this poorly written script, cast in an undesirable role in a play I never signed up for. Here we are.