Remember that really cold, really snowy winter we just had?
This is all that is left. I don’t think this little hunk of snow is going to make it through the day. It’s sunny and 60 degrees here in my part of New Jersey. This is the day that will put winter to bed.
Break out the beach chairs, people!
I was eating lunch in a diner today – because that’s what we people in Jersey are known for: eating in diners. It was my escape from the stress of the office. I thought I would do a little journal writing, a little reading, enjoy a cup of soup and a sandwich (which ended up being lentil soup and a chicken fajita wrap – with fries (see my last post about stress eating before you bitch me out for indulging in fries)).
TIME OUT.
Did you notice that parentheses with parentheses thing there? Is that permissible in writing? I mean, I do it all the time in my work as a programmer, aka: “developer,” aka: “software engineer,” aka: “FREAKING MASTERMIND GENIUS!” Not to be referred to as a “coder.”
if(salutation.equals(“Coder”)){
return(“Bitch, please! That’s like calling a runner a jogger!”);
}
Back to what I started with…
So, I was sitting at my table at the diner, nursing a Diet Coke (aka: schlepping my brain with aspartame), and I heard a woman at the next table say,
“You just have to make it through this life. Then everything will be okay.”
Now wait a minute! What kind of empty platitude was that? It inferred that “this life” is merely something to be endured, something to be weathered. Just lean into the wind and keep your eyes closed against the rain. It will all be over soon and then everything will be okay. That also assumed a lot about the afterlife, assuming there is an afterlife. Her statement contained as much dogma as the proclamations of the most radical religious zealot, with flippancy in place of fervency. THAT was faith: stating an eternal premise without a note of hesitation or a flicker of thought.
And what was the person possibly suffering through to whom she was offering this pithiness, who, I realized when I looked up, was on the other end of the phone into which the lunchtime philosopher was speaking? Cancer? Betrayal? Poverty? Good God! Maybe the trials and tribulations of old Job had revisited this poor soul! How harsh and hopeless was their condition that the only consolation that could be offered was, “You just have to make it through this life?” I couldn’t help but feel a measure of sympathy for this person.
Do you know what she said next? After the person on the phone spoke and she listened, presumably… after I waited in suspense and rehearsed all the tragedies listed in the above paragraph… after my lentil-filled spoon stopped in mid-air before my open mouth…
She said,
“Ok. So, I’d like to make an appointment for a mani-pedi. For two people. Thank you.”
Oh, come on! Jesus Christ, lady! You were on the phone with a nail salon?! (No, that’s not using his name in vain! I mean that as a prayer! Because SOMEBODY needs to straighten out this woman’s view of life and death and compassion! I mean, Jesus Christ!)
Well, that revelation demanded a reassessment of my beliefs about the suffering of old Job on the other end of the phone line. Cancer was quickly replaced by human trafficking. Poverty was usurped by money laundering. Heartbreak was displaced by prostitution.
I shook my head and thought, I just need to make it through this life. Then everything will be okay. Because, Jesus Christ willing, there won’t be any stupid people there! And if there is lentil soup on the menu, that will be paradise!
Devil Dogs, aptly named, are one of my old-time instruments of gluttony when I’m stressed out. I cannot resist their tempting allure. When the going gets tough, the tough eat Devil Dogs. I prefer them with a cup of tea. All my yapping about running and losing weight and being the best-in-my-age-group at 5Ks (because the rest of my age group were down at Acme Medical Equipment being fitted for their first walkers, chuckling that my name was on the list too), ALL OF IT GOES TO HELL while I stuff my face.
I remember many a rendezvous with a box of Devil Dogs way back in the late 1980s when my marriage was on its way to hell. Confusion, anger, frustration, loneliness, sadness… devil’s food cake. Devil’s food cake! And sugary cream filling! Oh, dear God! I had no restraint! The going was too tough! I broke the bread of Satan and drank of the cup of Tetley! With weeping and gnashing of teeth I groveled in the darkness in a barren land. Mmm… devil’s food cake… Dear Jesus, deliver me, these many years hence. For I do not wish to weigh 242 pounds again.
“But what are you stressing about?” the reader asks.
(Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they ask.)
Oh, I don’t know… money, work, death, fat, people texting while driving, fat people texting while driving, (see, commas are important), missing children, war with Russia, getting a haircut, the fact that I’m out of Devil Dogs now. Big things. Small things. Serious things. Petty things. But why do they make me shove food in my face? Why do I distract myself from the unpleasant by tickling my taste buds? Why do I grind my teeth in my sleep and wake up with my face hurting (I know, it’s killing you), and then seek comfort in the arms of fried, processed, and calorie-loaded foods, which I know damned well will only lead me down the greasy highway of ill health? WHY? WHY, GOD, WHY?
I know that when I eat better – and by better I mean healthier – I feel better. Less fat, less processed food, less sugar equals more energy, less inflammation, more good nutrients floating around in my veins. I know that when I exercise – and by exercise I mean run, in my case – I feel better. More running equals more muscle mass, less fat, more energy, and more endorphins skipping around in my brain. Not to mention the psychological benefit of a sense of achievement.
Lord, help me to remember all that goodness the next time stress starts whooping my butt. Give me the strength, Lord, to resist the temptation to stuff my face in times of weakness.
And Lord, just one question: How do you feel about ANGEL’S FOOD CAKE?
“Dear God, I hope you have a sense of humor!”
A little church humor during Lent.