“About a forward”
I overhear some of the most profound, clever statements in my dreams.
Just this morning, a Japanese-American Jennifer Rappaport (OLTL) type squealed in delight at her unexpected surprise gift two bus seats ahead of me, adding an “Eddie! Thank you so much for the basketball shirt!” I’d stolen it from a locker room during halftime, wrapped and labeled it as from my husband for a reason unknown to my waking self, save for a sadistic urge to tweak the jealousy button. Eddie protested in my direction, but I swore up and down that I had nothing to do with it, all the while debating internally as to whether I’ll ‘fess up in bed later tonight. Instead, all I could come up with was, “Well, she is on a basketball team.” A friendly girl beside me gasped, “How’d you know? Wait, what’s her position?” “A forward, but then she’s tall enough to be one,” I added, shrugging off the mental telepathy.
Here’s the profound, clever part—Japanese Jen piped up sweetly, chatting with her seat partner about her physical endowments, “It’s not much. I think of my breasts as a sectional. Standing alone, they’re pretty flat, but put together with the rest of the package...”
Somehow this has to relate to my weight and health problems, my post-Christmas malaise and this nagging restless nitpicky aversion to favorite comfort foods.
About six months into my third bout with the Atkins diet, at Eddie’s instigation, I fell off the wagon, unable to sustain the high-protein/low-carb lifestyle, because my body had grown immune and the IBS-D refused to kick out, especially after lunch, where I’d end up reading the entire Sunday edition of “The Seattle Times” in sections each time an urge to purge overcame me. The diarrhea and the uneasy feeling of my stomach eating itself never truly went away.
For awhile now, I’d been putting off really thinking about a drastic change, finding another way I could live with longer and removing the spare clothes from the treadmill in our computer room to actually use the exercise machine for that which it was intended.
I’d remember the times back in 1992-93 when Eddie and I had a gym membership in Honolulu, I was a size 6 and had to always wait for an available treadmill, because they were so popular, all seven of them. And thinking then that if I only had one for myself at home, my problem would forever be solved.
Two months into the solution, circa the year 2000, and I developed a nasty tendency to feel a nasty snap in a tendon above my right heel every time I walked downstairs, so I stopped walking on the treadmill altogether, even thought about installing an elevator so I’d never experience that Godawful snapping.
Inevitably, my subconscious – or God Almighty – would intervene, through my dreams (since I sleep so much) and offer helpful advice, advice I usually slept through until the cycle repeated itself the following fruitless day.
Recurring dreams included me eagerly taking up jogging again after a decades-long absence, feeling the familiar rhythms beneath my feet and through my earphones, thinking, “Gee, this isn’t so bad, it’s almost pleasant,” and starting my day with a fruit smoothie and a bowl of Mueslix swimming in soy milk, setting the pace for as healthy and nutritional as possible.
But then, I’d also dream I’m still eight years old, able to do cartwheels and marathons without my tendons snapping, my knees locking or my drooping breasts swinging.
Besides, I’d have to wake up at the crack of dawn every single morning for the rest of my life to fit in the half-hour shitfest, one-hour treadmill, 15-minute shower, five-minute dress-up, 45-minute healthy and nutritional breakfast ... before tending to family duties.
To join Japanese Jen in conversation about our sectionals, while fending off the advances of the horny slobbering shallow human race and pretending not to notice?
I’m already married, for life, thank you, with child, possibly more in the near-future, I occasionally soil myself against my will because of a combination of irritable bowel syndrome (IBS), post-anal fistulectomy and just plain dumb luck, my glasses keep getting stronger with every yearly eye exam and I just may need bi-focals soon, there’s a faint but sure mustache spreading on my upper lip and no amount of plastic surgery, even if I cared to spend what little extra money we had, could ever firm up my C-section and myomectomy pouch.
Did I mention how dark my labia are?
I’ll be 40 next November, a concept foreign and frightening to me.
So again I ask, what’s the point?
There goes my dream again... I drive the Prilosec country road past country flowers and country hillsides toward the harbor, a quaint small town reminiscent of Maine, Cape Cod and Sydney. My entire family is there, waiting to go boating, catch catfish and lobster, hiking and camping afterwards, and my oldest son takes off with his father and his trusty dog, Patch, into the woods to forage for blueberries, laughing behind him, smiling at me and I’m standing, waving, so proud and so blessed to be able to see him grow into a fine young, inquisitive, man, a blend of GH’s Lucky Spencer (pre-Jacob Young/Greg Vaughan) and blues guitarist Johnny Lang, with a twinge of martial artist Bruce Lee.
I can be older, not old, with the energy as close to eight as possible, and give my husband and child the best of me.
For that, I’ll need the best fuel for energy and long life.
And a damned good alarm clock.
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