Over the course of this past year, while I wasn’t bothering to write in my blog, I somehow managed to meet, fall in love with, and marry someone who is, incredulously, as reclusive and neurotic as me. It’s been pure bliss. As I grew up in a non-Christmas-celebrating household while he did, that meant our first Christmas together was also my first Christmas, with the family. His family, but now my family too. I would finally get to experience for myself the alluring secret I’ve always watched from afar since I was I kid: the glimmering lights, the rich scent of fir needles hovering in front of your nose, the cookies, the tiny little gingerbread houses covered in icing, the benevolent angels. The warm cheeriness and utter feeling of contentedness, that everything is beautiful and just right.
I encountered a moment of profound self-awareness and introspection earlier today when I glanced up and saw my reflection of myself consuming the contents of a tube of Pringles on the blacked-out screen of my laptop. One cannot experience a more evocative and startling instance of personal revelation.
My first reaction when I glimpsed into myself mindlessly gorging the fat free fried potatoes was, Shit, I can’t throw this up. I’m not bulimic anymore.
My next reaction was despair over my helpless lassitude as I contemplated just how long I have been tinkering about, snacking and woolgathering inside the caverns of my mind before my computer screen inevitably fell asleep and went black: Shit. I have done…nothing…at all today.
Maybe you’re wondering what a recovered bulimic is doing with a tube of Pringles to begin with, even if they’re the kind that are fried in that fake fat. It’s not actually my tube of Pringles. It’s my parents’ Pringles. I’m sitting in my parents’ house rummaging through their pantry. Because I moved in with my parents last month. Several years, two degrees and three cities later, weary, derelict, defeated, bedbug bitten, at the close of my youth, I have come back to the household from whence I came. Continue reading
I got off the phone with Mom a while ago after making her sit and wait patiently while I dumped my weekly baggage on her for an hour. In between my monologues, she took the opportunity to mention, again—as if my life isn’t already complicated enough—“You KNOW, you’ll be turning 29 soon! Oh my goodness!” Blah Blah. And once again she reminded me how my eggs—you know, my eggs—will only still be fresh for about another year.
“It’s just a fact,” she harped. “I was talking to my-friend-the-OBGYN about it. So many women make the mistake of thinking ‘they can wait’ and that everything will be perfectly fine and then they end up in trouble!”
So then I suggested that for my 29th birthday she and Dad pay to have a few of my eggs frozen. You know, a long-term security deposit, like buying a CD or a mutual fund or something.
“Ummm . . . sure. Daddy and I would pay for that,” she stammered. “We’d do anything for you.”
And this short story by Idra Novey makes me think of what I’d be like if I had lived in Latin America in the 1970s.
*Images are all from Wiki Commons, and I sure hope they’re on the public domain. Click the image to go to the source.