Overindulgence. Or, Why Do I NEVER Get Stomach Flus? November 27, 2006

I ate my weight in pumpkin pie this weekend. I just thought I should put that out there. The Boy and I arrived in New Jersey Wednesday evening (after a knock-down, drag-out, nasty fight that started in the Lincoln Tunnel and didn’t end until 40 minutes later, when I made him pull into an empty shopping center parking lot a few minutes away from my parents house so that we could talk, like rational human beings as opposed to yell, like banshees). (But enough about that, I’m over it, we’re fine.) (Really.) (Really!)

The minute we walked through the door at around 11:30pm, we were served mounds of food and a choice of five (five!) homemade pies (my mother recently got two new Thermador ovens and my father has threatened to un-install and return them if she doesn’t use them. Hence). That, my friends, was the beginning of the end of my waistline.

Of course, who’s the one who comes down with a stomach flu on Saturday morning? Surely not me, the one who could use a few days of not being able to eat anything in order to whittle back down to a socially acceptable size. Of course not. I was relegated to the role of nurse/therapist/person who assures sick person that they’re not going to die, as the Boy – who never gains weight, despite a steady diet of McDonald’s hamburgers and chocolate chip cookies, suffered. He couldn’t have been too sick, though. He still managed to give me nasty looks when, as he was running to the bathroom to throw up YET AGAIN, I muttered “God, you’re so lucky.”

So, it was delightful. The holiday, the whole weekend. And now I’m going through mini-vacation withdrawal. And now I’m trying to eat healthy, small portions. And now my body hates me, especially since I took it to the gym at 7:30 this morning instead of feeding it platefuls of high-fat, high-calorie food, to which it has become accustomed.

The Boy is going to see the doctor today. Last night he called me from “my deathbed, Clink, these are the ramblings of a dying man” to tell me that he had managed to eat 2 whole crackers all day. To which I responded, mouth full of chocolate-dipped shortbread cookies from a two-pound tin my roommate’s parents left us, “stop bragging.”