Friday, November 14, 2008

The Malady of More

I suffer from the Malady of More.

When I get a backache and I reach for the Ibuprofen, I always take an extra little brown pill. Why? Because I think two will not be sufficient for someone as special as me. My back pain is unique and I need something just a little stronger than the average commoner.

I try to be reasonable with caffeine too, but again I need more than most because I think that I’m extra tired and today I certainly need and deserve an extra shot in my Americano. Unlike overdoing an Ibuprofen dose which does not have any immediate painful reaction, too much caffeine makes me feel like a crack head. My eyes get intensely narrowed and start shooting laser beams. My feet get cold and my armpits sweat. I dash around the house like a rubber pinball, and I am just a little crabby. The good news is that I suppress my appetite.

Food is the biggest trigger to my Malady of More. I cannot bake homemade chocolate chip cookies in my house without a plan. The plan must consist of an immediate evacuation and distribution plan for the cookies. So its okay if I’m making them for a party, but the party must be immediately following the removal of the cookies from the oven. I have already tried everything else, and immediate evacuation is the only method that works for me.

My friend said that when she was growing-up, her parents taught her that nobody ate more than three cookies. I tried it. I would put three little warm love cookies on a napkin and walk into the next room. I’d say to myself “Three is enough for anyone.” Then when I had devoured two and a half, I could already see that three is not enough; four is much more appropriate for a tall woman like me. So I’d walk back into the kitchen where the gooey chocolate chips would be hardening to the perfect texture and I’d grab just one more. “This will be all I need - just this one more cookie. Then I’ll be wrapped up. I’ll put the cookies in a container out of sight and that’s that.” I’d make it half way back to the living room and the cookie would already be gone. “Well, since I’m already up, I’ll just grab one more.” By now the surge of chocolate and sugar has started affecting my pulse and I feel anxious thereby intensifying my feelings of guilt. So I’d walk quickly just in case someone on the street was looking in through my window and disapprovingly counting.

I’d feel ashamed and mad at myself, declaring “fuck it!” which is exactly what I say before I do something that I’ll later regret and have to apologize and/or pay for. I’d grab the whole container and sit angrily in front of the television by myself and polish off about a dozen justifying that it’s easier to just eat them all at once and really work out hard tomorrow, than it is to just eat three a day and have to work out every day.

I make myself feel sick, but not enough to throw-up. The Malady of More.

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