Monday, January 19, 2009

Saving the best for last and other faulty logic

As a kid I always saved the best bite of food for the last bite.  The spot on the cracker with the most peanut-butter during snack-time in preschool, all the cookie-dough bits in the ice cream for one last heaping spoonful, and of course the cheesiest nacho in the heap.  I understood this to be a very important part of food consumption and even though sometimes the cracker would break into a million sticky crumbs on the way to my mouth or the nacho was no longer melty goodness, but had turned into a soggy chip with lukewarm guacamole and stiff cheese I felt it was a good character trait to have.  I mean I assumed being able to wait for the tastiest part was a sign of saintliness, or enviable self-control.  In fact it was all part of my growing sense of self-righteousness paired with self-inflicted martyrdom.  I picked it up from the odd combination of church, my incorrect interpretation of various civil-rights movements (my mom was working on her Master's thesis when I was seven, so things were a little heavy-handed when it came to politics around our house), and a developing desire to control something, anything.  In retrospect I am fairly impressed that I only flirted with an eating disorder during high-school.  What doesn't surprise of course are some of the other maladaptive behaviors I picked up, but that is not the point of this story.  (In fact, this story has no point as of yet.  This is a case of just started writing.)  

So here I am 20 some years later and I still have to remind myself it is okay to eat the middle of the PB&J sandwich when I get there, actually savoring each bite of those life-changing sardines, not scoping out my plate before I eat to divide it into order-of-bites.  And you know what?  By golly my peers do not stone me because I indulged and it seems food tastes much friendlier.  

This translates to other areas of life pretty easily and helps remind me to get a bit more "in the moment" when I can.  

And now, to get a little Jerry Seinfeld on you, What's with biological clocks?!  Why is it that randomly I see baby gear (such as the little get-ups below) and I feel a nearly tangible tug in the pit of my stomach?  And no, no, NO.  There are no babies today, tomorrow or next year in my body.  However, even though I state this very vehemently at times I still lose my shit when a cute kid goes by and I have to fight the remarkably strong urge I get to place it in my mouth and carry it around like a damn mama-cat.  Logically, I refuse to seriously consider making tiny humans until both AM and I have some more therapy under our respective belts, there is a back yard to send a rambunctious dog/kid/unruly chia-pet to go get grass stains in, and I have spent more time playing with my still perky funbags.  Apparently this is one of those seemingly more frequent cases where evolution of humankind trumps the evolution of my internal monologue.  The nerve.


In other news I am wearing a bra that is so comfortable today I forgot I was wearing it for hours. This pretty much never happens because 34DDs, though entertaining to look at (or so I have surmised over the years) are often hard to strap in for 12-14 hours a day.  And to make this bra even more awesome?  Its leopard print and has a 1950's structural element to it that just won't quit.  WIN.  

Night Burglar

It's almost 4:30 a.m.  Do you know where your good night's sleep is?  Cause I sure as shit can't find mine.  
In a vaguely related note, the moon seems to be shining way too brightly tonight.  Yeah, we get it, you look awesome with a mist shroud around you.  Stop finding the cracks in my mini-blinds and assaulting me with your ego already.  Sheesh!

Completely unrelated, a friend and I decided to start a book club and promptly agreed that only she and I could be members because we can't put up with other people's shit-opinions.  That and this way each of us gets to pick way more books as we go along and there are less people to have to share the wine with at the meetings.  I am super excited to engage in literary elitism with her.

Lastly, I ate smoked sardines out of the can today as I stood in my kitchen, watching the cats argue over which bowl of tuna belonged to whom (fish-tastic, I know) and I just about had an food-gasm right then and there.  Actual moans of tastebud pleasure escaped my lips and I found myself whispering racy things about Portuguese fishermen and smoke-houses.  A little creepy?  Maybe, but you don't know sardines like I do.