This post could
be about my perma-nausea[1]
– the persistent, hungover/seaksick/queasy/woozy feeling that seems to peak in
the morning, evening and at unforeseen moments in between[2].
This post could be about how I wallowed for a couple days, dramatically
dragging myself out of bed in the morning and keeping saltine crackers on the
nightstand in some effort to ward off my early morning blood sugar nosedive.
This post could be about how I grimaced at the smell of garlic and could be
nowhere near the kitchen during most hours of the day or night lest I lay eyes
on some deeply offensive food group like cookies[3],
salad or anything not made exclusively from white flour. This post could be
about how this morning, I put on my big girl pants, dressed up like some
reasonable facsimile of a competent attorney, went and saw my client in jail
and realized how frigging great I have it, you know, not having to spend my
birthday incarcerated and not facing potential deportation from my home. And
then I ate a tuna fish sandwich because damnit, I was in my big girl pants
I am very lucky and I need to just deal
already.
But that’s not
what any of this post is about. Because I am nothing if not a promisekeeper,[4]
here
I am to deliver on my utterly captivating
here-is-how-my-diet-has-radically-changed post.
Once upon a time,
way back in the forever-and-ever-until-now, I ate fruits, vegetables, and whole
grains. I delighted in perusing the aisles of my local Whole Foods (because I
am a liberal who detests the CEO’s philosophy[5]
but loves produce more). I loved cooking and baking, having dinner parties and
browsing food blogs and other cliehe stuff that white people like, like camping and picking my own
fruit. Today, I am sorry to say, I am but a shell of my former self. That Sarah
of the past is dead to me now.
In the span of several
days, my diet has shifted radically from this:
 |
| CSA farm share + cookies. You know, an eminently balanced diet. |
To this:
 |
| Not pictured: copious amounts of oatmeal and lemon-ginger tea. |
(The
oranges are included to ward off scurvy!). It is utterly disgusting. So, dear readers. When you find me,
so many days from now, a bloated, constipated, white-flour-filled corpse[6],
my hair thinning from lack of nutrients, my skin grey and pockmarked, you will
know why. A moment of silence, shall we?
Very
well then. As I mentioned, today I turned a corner. I ate a tuna fish sandwich[7]
and I felt fantastic. Now if you’ll excuse me, let me just slip these “sea bands” (seriously, how much fun are those two having with their “adult wristbands”!) back on each wrist and crawl under the covers with a saltine cracker and
my will.
[1] Replace “stole that blind guy’s hot dog”
with “the time I cheated at Banagrams as a 29 year old woman” (it wasn’t my fault I saw the other side of my tile
letter “T” now was it?).
[2] Yes, yes, grateful for these signs,
embracing any possible, plausible “affirmational (not a word) symptom” of a bona fide
pregnancy, etc. But also not unwilling to concede that this is all just a dirty
trick, played on me by SHINGLES. That bitch. I guess we’ll just have to wait
and see at the…first ultrasound this Friday. (Like how I stuck that in the
footnote, eh?).
[3] Cookies are a food group. What?
[4] Wait, that came out wrong.
[6] Too graphic?
[7] I know. You can tell I’m pretty proud of this. The thing is, I
don’t even like tuna that much. But the bar is low here.
