Purgatory

I was being punished for my behavior the day before.  I wasn’t rude outwardly, but inside I wanted to scratch out the eyes of the idiot cashier who apparently thought I was trying to pull a fast one on Wal-Mart with a couple of coupons.  And they weren’t even computer printed coupons--I had peeled them from the packages themselves.  I wasn’t having a good day and I could not act properly in my mind. 

It was 5:30 am on Friday morning.  I was looking forward to the long Labor Day weekend for weeks.  Three whole days off!  I slipped on my flip flops to take the laundry to the car and promptly opened up the front door across my left foot.  I fell to my knees and fought the urge to cry as I did, in fact, cry.  I hobbled my laundry basket to the car and back again.

In the light, I could see my middle toenail was purple and bleeding.  It was completely lifted from the toe itself except at the base where it grew out.  I was being punished, I’d decided.  From then on, each journey between machines at work, to and from the front counter seemed like miles.  My band-aided toe in my loosened sneaker throbbed and I just wanted to go home, even though I kept reminded myself of the many errands I had awaiting me after I clocked out. 

“What happened to you?” was the question I was asked first.  And once it was asked once, I knew I would hear it at least twelve more times from each of my coworkers, or at least the ones who spoke fluent English.  I was asked at the tobacco shop where the clerk I had gotten to know knew specifically which cigarettes Shawn preferred to smoke.  I was asked at all sorts of places and got strange pathetic smiles from total strangers as though I had a brace around my back leading up to my neck.

It was telltale sign of weakness and not a soul at work witnessed me cry.  At some point I was putting on a sock and winced, my eyes filled with water as I told Shawn I hated to be such a weenie about it.  “You’re not a weenie!” he exclaimed.  “They do this to torture people with bamboo shoots.  If I gave your toe a good thump, you’d tell me everything I needed to know.”

Once home and car unloaded, I contemplated going to Jack in the Box.  It was once a secret desire of mine.  It was once a favorite treat.  I had vicariously tucked away a coupon in my wallet, never intend ding to use it.  I got in the car and drove the two miles, got my 1500 calorie snack.  I felt like I had deserved it.  I had toughed out the day in sneakers, standing on my feet all day.  I hauled cartons of soda, limping out of the Family Dollar to the car, after all. 

As I ate it, I found that it wasn’t very good.  The fries tasted of old, dirty grease and I just kept eating it.  It was nasty and I kept eating.  Why did I keep eating?  I ate that way for the rest of the day.  I figured I had blown it so why bother to count?

But I did count.  And by the time I went to bed, I had consumed 3000 calories as written on my white board on the fridge.  I erased it so I wouldn’t see it the next day. 

I had prepared for the long weekend by stocking up on healthy snacks, stuff that was healthy but seemed naughty.  I thought I could do well although I a little panic stricken with all the free time in my hands.

By the time I went to bed on Friday, I felt too full.  I almost wished I could throw up so I’d feel some relief.  I was so sick and so full.  Why did I eat so much?

The next day I visited my Aunt Louise for the first time in six months, hung out with my parents as my mom cooked up chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes and homemade gravy.  I’d eaten very little that morning in preparation for that meal.  “Go ahead--EAT!” my mother jabbed from across the table.  “I can’t drive on a full stomach and all sleepy, Mom,” I told her.  They sent me home with three steaks and the remainder of the potatoes and gravy.  Sigh.

I picked up BBQ sandwiches because God knows when I’d be back again and I know how much Shawn loves them.  That little grease stained paper bag filled my car with a wonderful aroma, mixing with the fried steak and gravy.

Once it was all in the fridge, panic over came me.  There was so much food in the fridge.  Chicken from a couple days before, a bag of half eaten Cheetos, steaks, gravy, BBQ….

I decided that I no longer cared.  This would be the ending weekend and after this I would get very serious about it all.  I even got a pint of ice cream this morning, along with a bottle of Magic Shell.  I’ve been eating as if I am trying to gain weight.  I’m not proud of it, but I am enjoying my favorite foods, watching my favorite programs on TV and simply enjoying this wonderful weekend.

After all, I've got three months to prepare for Thanksgiving.  Maybe by then, I can have my Mom's gravy and enjoy it without feeling guilty.