Days

Today for lunch I had a sausage patty sandwich on white bread with yellow mustard and a diet Dr. Pepper. Take that, traitorous body!

I’ve been inordinately touchy. The piece of paper inserted between the slices of my Kraft cheese was enormously upsetting. So were my attempts at banking on line and my struggle with the over-ripe avocado; the cantankerous jar of peanuts really displeased me and the fact that the dryer ate one of my favorite socks almost left me in tears. My food intake, which I’ve been watching for a while now (no sugar or other white refined stuff, very limited carbs and lots and lots of egg whites) has gone all to hell. Yesterday I bought frozen burgers and I hovered far too long in the pizza aisle. I am strangely drawn to Starbucks’ blueberry scones (350 calories) and less so to Greek yogurt. Why is it that the stuff that tastes the best is often the worst for us?

I have even more Vicodan, which I will still not use. Dr. K was effusive in his willingness to give me Percocet, Percodan and, pretty much anything to abate the pain which I must admit is actually minimal.The kitchen cabinet where I house my pharmacy is becoming a junkie’s dream. Here’s the interesting thing, though: I have not had a single desire to drink alcohol, which was, for years, the main remedy to all my ills. I’m grateful for this. Not that long ago, a woman I’d known several years drank herself to death after a series of increasingly alarming diagnosis.  

The world hasn’t stopped. It should have but I notice that life seems to go on pretty much as usual. The weird German butcher at my Giant food store is still weird, maybe even a little weirder than normal. The empty restaurant in the local mall, the one that never has any customers and that I am sure is a mafia front, it’s still clientless. I saw the dope-dealing kid (8/28/11 blog) this morning and he looks exactly as he did two months ago. This is all very disconcerting. Surely the change in me should be reflected in the universe…

So what I do in the evenings is watch The Office. I own the entire collection—one of my wiser purchases—and still delight in the chemistry of the cast. I haven’t felt that way since Seinfeld. I’m reading a couple of great books, Suite Francaise and 1,000 Years of Annoying the French.

I am trying not to feel sorry for myself because, after all, if you want something done well, do it yourself. 

I am only having limited success.