Agony Island
A stomach ache, the debilitating and cold-sweat inducing kind, is a very isolating thing. It traps you in an island, all by your lonesome, or worse, among the islanders who drone out an out-of-this world dialect, which I imagine to be about as maddening as a Smackdown and Formula I episode being watched simultaneously on two TV sets less than twenty feet apart, as was the case here last night. The pain detaches you, and makes surreal your surroundings, like, say, a bunch of monkeys garbed in Maria Claras (like the subject of my friend Jay's painting exhibit a few years back), jumping out of your drawers.
I knew in my gut it was the peanut butter, that which I attacked with cold-blooded guiltlessness, spooned out of the jar, thrice, and stuck into this mouth, butter-side down, like a pacifier or a welcome dental implement.
The blinding light of pain instinctively seeks the solace of dark and quiet, which, even on Sunday night family primetime is manageable, and happened to be the island of my daughter Toni's room, who let me have hers for the night.
In the dark I lay, not too remorseful, but matter-of-factly accepting that I have known about peanuts and legumes not exactly being friendly with my tummy so look what happens, and thinking that I will never ever be Madonna-excessive in discipline and regimen, but more like Drew Barrymore-excessive, who I imagine to be having a life in a down to earth fashion, and not of carefully planned and manufactured perfection.
You know I have to justify all things that enter my mouth, and rightly so, but in the blinding light of pain, there's no escaping the fact, even in manufactured darkness, for me to do well to add peanuts and legumes to 'I won't dos', along with Coke (regular and Colombian), shoplifting, beating the red light, thick-sliced bacon, having an affair, you know, these things, and other self-imposed parameters.
A stomach ache brings about the worst of feelings and the best of things. Last night, Arianna,
my baby who loves me, brought out the water, medicine, hot-water bag, and a lot of love and a good night kiss to go with after all of that. At some point in the night, the island of pain submerged, and I drifted back to the shore of sanity. This morning, I'm left with nothing but dissolving memories of peanut butter, the cherished and rewarding love of a youngest child, and the sting of knowing oneself to be stubborn and to be, but not too soon, I hope, falling again for the irresistable badness of a jar of Skippy. I tell you, some things never change.
Filed Under: Pain
I knew in my gut it was the peanut butter, that which I attacked with cold-blooded guiltlessness, spooned out of the jar, thrice, and stuck into this mouth, butter-side down, like a pacifier or a welcome dental implement.
The blinding light of pain instinctively seeks the solace of dark and quiet, which, even on Sunday night family primetime is manageable, and happened to be the island of my daughter Toni's room, who let me have hers for the night.
In the dark I lay, not too remorseful, but matter-of-factly accepting that I have known about peanuts and legumes not exactly being friendly with my tummy so look what happens, and thinking that I will never ever be Madonna-excessive in discipline and regimen, but more like Drew Barrymore-excessive, who I imagine to be having a life in a down to earth fashion, and not of carefully planned and manufactured perfection.
You know I have to justify all things that enter my mouth, and rightly so, but in the blinding light of pain, there's no escaping the fact, even in manufactured darkness, for me to do well to add peanuts and legumes to 'I won't dos', along with Coke (regular and Colombian), shoplifting, beating the red light, thick-sliced bacon, having an affair, you know, these things, and other self-imposed parameters.
A stomach ache brings about the worst of feelings and the best of things. Last night, Arianna,
my baby who loves me, brought out the water, medicine, hot-water bag, and a lot of love and a good night kiss to go with after all of that. At some point in the night, the island of pain submerged, and I drifted back to the shore of sanity. This morning, I'm left with nothing but dissolving memories of peanut butter, the cherished and rewarding love of a youngest child, and the sting of knowing oneself to be stubborn and to be, but not too soon, I hope, falling again for the irresistable badness of a jar of Skippy. I tell you, some things never change.Filed Under: Pain
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