In my life history of worst performance as a human being, the fall of 2019 is beginning to emerge as a strong contender for first place. I’m thinking that, on a scale of 1-10, it ranks about -24.
This week I have eaten, in various quantities, at least one of each of the items that follow. Little Debbie donut sticks. Reese’s big cups with cookie pieces. Papa John’s Pizza. Cream filled donut with caramel icing. Chocolate chip cookies. Fried pie. Raisin pastry. Baked oatmeal. Pumpkin roll. Taco Bell. Antonio’s pizza and stuffed bread sticks. Is that all? As I continue writing, I’ll likely think of some other contraband that my foggy mind is not recalling at the moment.
I suppose you are all looking back to the beginning of that last paragraph thinking, “I was thinking she said week but it must have been this year.” No. You read it right the first time. Not only that, I was so close to my weight goal I thought I might make it by October. This summer I survived our grueling 10 day trip to northern Ontario and still lost weight. I even did decent on our little excursion last weekend. But those memories seem like mirages now. Somehow, I wasn’t quite ready to come back from last weekend’s excursion to face reality and somewhere in the process I fell apart.
The boys went to Sarah’s last night and Marnell and I, both having worked all day, collapsed on a chair and discussed going out to eat. We talked about going to Miles Lab.
“Too high up,” I said. “I need to go to a place where it’s normal to look dumpy and overweight.”
Marnell considered this stupid stipulation for a bit.
“McDonalds?” he suggested.
At least we had a much-needed laugh.
It’s not that I’m the only one dealing with the stress. Sarah, and others from church, help out on the days I work or other random times. Marnell is mentoring one of the robotics classes. He also stayed home from work for a few hours one morning to fend off a temper tantrum. Then he sat up late two consecutive nights listening to said person. Even the window AC running upstairs in my hideout in the bedroom didn’t drown out the explosive words from the angry boy below.
If asked to name the most dysfunctional person in the house currently, the only thing I would be confident of is that it’s not Marnell. The only positive thing I can think about myself is that I am aware that I’m not thinking clearly and I am also aware that a diet of dessert is counterproductive and that binge eating is no better than anger. But I’m still in a nightmare state where I’m falling, sliding toward the edge of the cliff, but my legs won’t work to move.
(Ah yes, I knew I would remember more junk food. To the list of foods above, add a generous corner of chocolate fudge made by my patient’s classroom at school and an oatmeal whoopie pie that was half stale.)
Then, there’s this, from the other boy.
“Mr. O’Brien told us to write a story today,” he explained one day this week after school. “About a superhero.”
“I see,” I said foggily.
“I chose you and Marnell,” he continued. “I wrote, Marnell and Katrina are superheroes because they took us in when our parents were looking for a house.”
“I see,” I said weakly.
See opening paragraph, if you wondered what I thought about that.
But I guess it’s not a bad thing to hear a different perspective now and again, is it?
And there is one tempting thought. I wonder how many calories I could burn in one week as a superhero?