Man this Thanksgiving holiday always does it to me.
Every stinkin’ year. It’s the same bloody story.
Don’t get me wrong…I love this holiday.
Nope…it’s the end of it, the sorry final death-cackle of that fourth and last day of the annual turkey-gorging extended weekend that kills me. That makes me depressed and turns me into a sentimental fool as I long painfully for Thursday morning to return, a Thursday which seems like just moments ago.
Has it actually been 4 days since I was boiling some potatoes and mixing in nauseating doses of half and half and butter? Salting that fluffy creation and drowning it in chunky gravy?
How could 4 days fly so sneakily?
Why does life seem to accelerate as you draw closer to the end?
Why do I become so morose as the 4-day weekend is dies like a spent ember?
I was an absolute swine. In spite of my “gluttonization” post from yesterday and my reasonable gastric behavior on Saturday, I fell off the wagon today by eating in excess of 4,000 calories. In fact, I just finished up the last gooey piece of some key lime pie which I had been unable to finish earlier after eating a 3/4 pound steak, baked potato and assorted veggies.
God I’m sick.
From Thursday morning to Sunday night…I’ve gained 5 pounds.
Does it show? When you gain this much weight in a short period of time, where does it go?? My gut? My ass? My face? Crap, I hope not my face. I’m incredibly sensitive to facial fat.
Am I man damnit? Why does all this crap bother me?
Or does it even bother me and am I just making a spectacle for the global blogosphere and my hundreds of thousands (forget that shit, millions) of readers? Am I acting like a hysterical attention whore? Is it all the food and short-term fat accumulation that has feminized me? Is it the fact I have to drag my sorry ass back to work tomorrow and start eating steamed vegetables again?
Perhaps I’m still slightly traumatized by coming face to face with the pony-sized cockroach that has been squatting in my apartment for the past month or two. It’s a lone-wolf cockroach, has no spiny companions, and I seem to catch glimpses of it ducking under my stove or scooting its gnarly ass across the kitchen floor before I can spring to Rambo action.
I don’t squash cockroaches, especially the ones that size. This sucker is a beast. I can only imagine the slimy entrails which would burst out its little insect asshole if I drop a hammer on it. I just let it live, no skin off my back. Until tonight…it was sitting in my bathroom when I got home. Big, shiny, brownish-black and a pair of antennae so large that NASA could probably employee them in the search for extraterrestrial life. And it was mine. I grabbed a bottle of Chlorox bathroom cleanser and sprayed away. It literally floundered on its back for an eternity, waving those antennae as if it was sending out an emergency beacon to Recon I somewhere beyond Jupiter’s orbit.
Fucking creepy animals. Now I feel like insects are everywhere. I feel like some crazed drug-addled freak who just ate some mushrooms and now the carpet is turning into a sea of slugs.
Tomorrow is bench press morning. Let’s see if these extra five pounds added five pounds to my reps. Usually doesn’t work that way, but resigned optimism is charming.