Day 22 | Husband’s Eating Cake and Drinking Beer
What’s worse than having the menstrual period of a fertile 18-year-old woman at 52?
No alcohol to numb the cramps inside the cob-webbed filled womb of a 52-year-old woman.
That little renown pinch flared deep in my core yesterday afternoon.
We had just finished up a 3-mile hike at Callahan State Park. It had gotten too late in the day with the type of hot heat that drains the life out of ya. I hadn’t eaten and didn’t have my usual freedom—just the dog and me in the woods by our lonesome.
I had invited Husband along.
On a subsequent errand, we happened upon a drive past a full half-mile’s length of the HEAVENLY aroma of barbecue. To say it beckoned my senses [stomach] is an understatement.
Wiping the drool from my mouth and chin, I dashed into the store for peanut butter [dog] and pretzels [husband] and to get a refund on a party-sized $60 “Greek” salad that lacked any Greekness [me].
At home, frenzied in desire for consumption—fingers knuckled around a serving spoon—I gobbled down an HMR entree the size of a matchbook. Husband devoured a fluffy and colorful 4-inch-square chunk of birthday cake and a beer.
There was conflict in my head. No voices, no synapses misfiring, just an overwhelming sense of desire and lack thereof. I persevered—a hangover of caving in would manifest in irrevocable measures—tossed the entree container with bits of gravy to the floor for the dog, showered, got in bed and watched Joan Crawford act out the same frenzied and overwrought performance in Possessed.
The end of the movie. Raymond Massey found he still loved Joan even though she was possessed and a compulsive liar in the name of being scorned by conniving Van Heflin, and was going to pay an exorbitant amount of dough for shrinks to rehabilitate her.
I then got halfway through Massey and Bogart in Action in the North Atlantic and sunk [into sleep] along with the Merchant Marines that got torpedoed by the Germans.
Unlike the Marines, I escaped the day unscathed.