This explains, then, why I spent Monday indoors, spending 20 or so hours alternating between sporadic 90-minute periods of sleep and 15-minute periods of quiet introspection in the smallest room in the house (no, not the coat closet.) It was the exact same thing what hit me a few weeks ago -- and a few weeks before that, and once or so before that -- and caused me no end of gastric grief. Once it is feasible to do so, I shall be bringing the matter to the concern of a valid, licensed professional, and then we can all play the medication and dietary game so that this problem does not keep on ruining a full day for me. I can handle the bloating, I can handle the gassy crampy stomach pain, I can handle the light-headed hallucinations, but honestly, if I wanted to waste an entire day lying in bed, I could think of seventeen different ways to go about it, all of which would be a lot more fun and involve a whole lot less time on the john.
This series of unfortunate events also underscores the coming awareness of one's mortality and frailty; the Invincible Twenties are nearly over for me and the realization that no, the human body is not a perfect machine has begun to set itself in and I am willing to accept this, though not without as much resignation or chagrin as I can muster up. Up until now, apart from some rotten colds, flus, virii, migraines, caffeine dependency, childhood asthma, insomnia, heartburn, misaligned knees, allergies and genetically weak teeth that grind themselves down to nearly nothing, I've always considered myself rather hale 'n hearty, so these revelations do tend to be as unpleasant as expected.
Unfortunately the one thing which I was not yesterday was prepared, and although I vaguely remember a 2 AM stumble to the CVS for some Gas-X, I hadn't bought anything else, so I had nothing in the apartment in the way of true illness nourishment. (This basically means no Instant Breakfast, which is usually the only thing one can nurse down when one needs to. And for what it does when it does it, it's brilliant.) As such, I have not eaten actual food since Sunday, and truth be told I'm rather ravenous at the moment. Problem is, it's 6 in the morning and there's nothing to eat here other than some pretzels and Pecan Sandies. All right, I've nibbled a bit on the pretzels, but right now I feel as if I've just woken up from hibernating. The closest open restaurant is a McDonalds and I don't believe they are serving anything at the moment which I require.
01. I require food. I require a hearty meal. I don't want anything spicy, I don't want anything junky. I demand starch, though -- mashed potatoes is key. I also demand meat, yes, meat, enough protein to keep me going. At this point the thing I want most in this world, right now, other than 40 hours a week at $10-$12/hr, is pot roast. Oh, yes. Delicious pot roast with mashed potatoes and gravy and probably some carrots on the side, carrots are good with a dish like that. Bring on the salad, I'll eat the salad too. Bleu cheese if you have it, otherwise the house Italian will do. Rolls? Yes please thank you. I won't need dessert.
If you know of a place in Boston that can serve me this around noonish, and can do it for reasonably cheap (I have some cash from Mom that I'm willing to put up for "recuperative and restorative expenses") then please, by all means, let me know. I shall take another nap and wake up in a few hours and when I do, I will be ready to take on the world, or at least the fold-out menu.
10. I also spent yesterday alternating between two books -- Catch-22 in the bathroom, so the madness could at least be contained to one room, and James Thurber's My World, and Welcome to It at the bedside for the twilight periods right before another fitful nap. I've really grown to appreciate Thurber's stuff. He strikes me as a slightly more accessible S.J. Perelman, equally as entertaining but less reliant on highfalutin' booklarned three-dollar words. While Thurber was a staunch proponent of maintaining the purity of the English language (and detested such corruptions as the use of "spectacular" as a noun, for instance) you can read his work without a concordance.
Both men wrote about their homelife (Perelman's slightly more metropolitan than Thurber, who lived in a Connecticut suburb) and both wrote about traveling abroad. The second half of My World... involves Thurber's stays in Paris, and in reading I was nostalgically grasped by my own memories of staying in France for a while (well, okay, it was two weeks total, but when you're twenty years old and you have four days in Paris by yourself, it feels like a magical lifetime.) I am no Francophobe, I feel no need to jingoistically bash another country for their political beliefs. I still love the country and most of its people (really, outside Paris, everybody's cool. In Paris itself, you just have to simply remember to, oh, I dunno, speak the language.) While enjoying a wonderful morning at a farmhouse somewhere near Poitiers in 1995, I wrote this to my girlfriend at the time:
Come run away with me to France and we can grow old together in a small town. You can befriend all the neighborhood cats, and I shall write angry letters to the local newspaper...Can't say a high percentage of that flight of fancy doesn't still appeal to me.