I’ve been suffering from what longtime readers will recognize as my quarterly episode of flutter tummy. I like the idea of food, sort of, but the actual eating of said food’ not so much. I’m not taking any Prednisone right now (a notorious cause of my picky eater syndrome) so it’s a mystery. I haven’t been hungry since Tuesday, when I went out to lunch with Penny and Carissa and finished my taco salad despite the fact that I was already overfull. I should know better. Even when I do regain my appetite, I don’t think I’ll be able to eat refried beans for awhile.
I think if I knew why I mysteriously find myself afflicted with flutter tummy, I would abuse the knowledge until I lost six dress sizes. It has always been my theory of denial that fate has decided that I should be fat for some reason that has yet to play out. Like Owen Meany’s size and voice being divine intervention. Or perhaps Citibank doesn’t want me to get within fighting range of designer sizes, because oy vey’ the sudden irrational purchases I would be convinced to make. Lane Bryant is great, but it’s not like I can go in there and break the bank buying a pair of jeans and a shirt, as I could if say, Dolce and Gabbana started making up to size 26.
Somewhere in Italy, two very gay men are fanning themselves and trembling.
I decided that with the exhaustive heat, maybe I was just dehydrated. After all, with the shoe challenge, I haven’t been drinking enough water. How are the two connected? Well, you see, I’m usually wearing a pair of unreasonable shoes which are uncomfortable, and therefore, I don’t want to be running to the cafeteria for 16 ounce bottles of water (which last about an hour on my desk) or the subsequent run to the bathroom that follows this regime. Never timed appropriately, of course. So I’d rather sit there like a camel and implore my ass to give up some of its camel’s hump instead. So, in other words, I decided that my shoes were making me sick.
(By the way, I’ve been doing a lousy job of updating my Flickr group, but for those who are keeping track, today marked the 25th day of the shoe challenge. Three people have dropped out, with two more predicted next week. I could keep going, but man, I’m starting to dread the walk in from the parking lot in heels. Plus, I’ve worn two pair of flip flops so far and honestly, I’d be more comfortable in my pumps. I don’t know how everyone wears them all the time, with the big prongy thing between your toes and the way they make noise all the time? Yech.)
Yesterday morning, instead of my standard breakfast of a piece of whole grain toast smeared with peanut butter eaten while checking my e-mail, followed by two Babybels eaten while driving, I decided instead to get some iced tea at Starbucks and concentrate on rehydrating all day. I was planning to go golfing with Penny and Carissa so had worn my New Balance trainers (I had been saving them as something to keep my spirits high during the strappy spike heel days) and therefore my hydration plan would be a breeze. Brilliant!
Except that I had gotten onto the highway and was a few gulps into my tea when suddenly’ not good. In fact, not good at all. Flutter tummy had decided to have a Norma Rae moment right there on the fricking freeway. I powered through it, making promises to God and also the Pixies playing on the iPod. I somehow managed to power through the crisis and retain control of my faculties. It’s amazing how the body’s emergency systems can be overridden by sheer force of will.
The fact that I can manage to talk myself out of vomiting while Esteban cannot seem to control his flatulence clearly points to the superiority of the female physical state. I mean, as if you needed more proof than the whole affair that involves dilating and afterbirth.
(I am not pregnant. No. No I am not. If you even suggest it, comments section, I will roll my eyes at you for being predictable.)
However, I then decided that what I really needed was a Hardee’s biscuit with grape jelly on it. The fact that I decided to counter ‘almost urping’ with ‘greasy fast food biscuit’ clearly points to the inferiority of this particular female’s mental process. I zipped through a drive-through and went to work. There, I ate the top half of the biscuit. That’s when my flutter tummy picked up a her bullhorn and said ‘Look at this dumb muthfucka we got here.’
Norma Rae as portrayed by Samuel L. Jackson.
I then spent the better half of the morning crouched at my desk, rocking slightly and wishing instead I had just gone the banana and peanut butter route that had been breakfast/lunch on Wednesday. Because a banana smeared with peanut butter never hated anyone. A banana smeared with peanut butter is your friend. A greasy biscuit with a clot of shiny grape jelly? It’s a stranger offering you candy from a van.
About halfway through the day, it became obvious that my decision to save my running shoes for a special day had been a sound one. It was definitely the day for swift feet.
I ended up piking on golf with Carissa and Penny and went home to pout. Strangely enough, I was starting to hear that voice inside my head. Everyone’s heard that voice. It’s the same one that tells you that yes, you’re going to be throwing up in roughly thirteen seconds, and then it will be better. You know that the voice speaks the absolute truth and therefore you take that voice very seriously.
Except in this case, rather than being an early warning system, the voice was telling me that Norma Rae was ready to negotiate. Indeed, flutter tummy was demanding some bland chicken and potatoes. Flutter tummy was serious this time and would otherwise stage a walkout by midnight. This voice stipulated that our agreement was for a white potato that was either mashed or baked with butter and maybe a little salt but no sour cream, no cheese, no French fries, no fancy Food Network shit. The chicken could be baked or grilled, but it had to be basic and plain. Also, the voice stipulated that the contract had some riders and a few non-negotiables (‘No curry’) and then Norma Rae and I would be able to shake on it and go back to our corners with a mutually equitable solution.
It seems to have been a good plan, as I made it through dinner without incident, and then went to bed after watching Project Runway a day late. As of this morning, I wasn’t interested in anything again, but by lunch, I decided that I needed some organic blue corn chips and queso dip, which is still sitting like lead in my stomach six hours later. But at least it’s staying there.
Honestly, I think it might be the heat. It was 100 degrees today, but I was wearing a hoodie and jeans (because the hoodie matched the red slides I was wearing for the challenge and also because it’s cold as fuck in my office) so it doesn’t exactly inspire one to feel full and uncomfortable. I can only think that if I lived in California, I’d be a size 10. Yeah. That’s right, Weetabix. If you can’t blame your fat ass on fate, then blame Wisconsin.
Which reminds me: if you’re not already subscribed to the 3 Fast 3 Furious podcast on iTunes, the new one is up, and not only does it feature the cutest girls in all of San Francisco (and also me), we talk about cheese and sex and being scrappy and prostitutes and extreme temperatures and also, for the first time ever in multi-media: Esteban. That’s right, the man makes a guest appearance. At one point, there are three girls crawling all over him at once, while I sit by and watch helplessly. Yeah. It’s hot.
Go. Listen. Fill your’ you know what.
