Ramble: A Big Day for Tapeworms

I'm not even going to bother inserting the words "I digress" after every 3rd sentence of this post. There is no unifying point, therefore there are no digressions. That's why the word "ramble" is up there; so you can't sue me for misrepresenting this post as being anything other than a bunch of unrelated crap I wrote because I was bored. Welcome to the nightmare my close friends have to live EVERY DAMN DAY.

I have a Tapeworm Meeting tomorrow. That's not to say I have a business meeting with actual intestinal parasites (although sometimes I wonder! HAR!), it's just my term for the kind of event that drives me to spend the preceding days/weeks/months/years eating as if I'm carrying Triplets. And they have tapeworms. And I've been fitted with a modified bomb from "Speed" that will explode if I stop eating. And the whole thing is being sponsored by Starbucks and Pop-Tarts.

(I eat a lot when I'm nervous.)

Yesterday, we had a farewell luncheon for my boss. We went to the Cheesecake Factory (HAVE A HEART!). Anyway, the conversation turned to weight gain and weight loss, as it always will when a bunch of women with nothing in common get together to eat food. And when I pointed out that I wasn't always the tub of lard I am today, a girl in her mid-20s replied, with the wisdom that only a girl in her mid-20s can muster, that people end up fat later in life "because they lose a lot of weight, and then they get hungry and try to make up for all the calories they didn't let themselves have". I didn't have the heart to tell her it's actually just "the difference between being 25 and being 32", or that her own future will consist of either eventually being 32 herself or being dead. That's a pretty crappy set of options. And I should know!

But sitting there stuffing my face with all the cheese and fried starches they could fit in one wheelbarrow (NOTE: despite its frankly misleading name, the Cheesecake Factory is not a factory in any real sense of the word, nor can they arrange for a conveyor belt to dump a nonstop supply of cheese directly into your mouth, so DON'T BOTHER ASKING), I reflected on my tendency to eat when I'm nervous. Twice in my life I've heard brides on their wedding days who, upon being complimented on their newly-slender figures, plead "too nervous to eat".

Wow.

How the hell do I get in on that?

I've never been married, so maybe it's a different kind of nervousness than, say, taking the comp exams for my Master's degree, or auditioning for GHP, or doing an improv show, or interviewing for a dream job. Maybe all those other kinds of anxiety make people eat, but wedding-anxiety makes food turn to ash in one's mouth.

I've always figured I'd have the opposite problem if I ever got married. I wouldn't be standing around in a size 2 dress, inadvertently impaling flower girls on my jutting hip bones as I swan around saying, "Ha ha ha! I've just been too nervous to eat!" I expect I'd be rolled into the sanctuary like that girl in Willy Wonka, yelling, "They've had to let the dress out four times since breakfast! And the ceremony's at 11:30 IN THE MORNING! Then again, 'breakfast' would be more accurately described as 'me sneaking out to Waffle House at 4am to cry on the shoulder of a toothless waitress named Lynette who served me mug after mug of warm syrup while I agonized about whether I'm really ready to flush my entire life down the toilet for the sake of a decent health insurance plan to cover my imminent Type 2 Diabetes'. Hey, are we doing communion at this thing, or should I stick a fluffernutter in my bra for the road?" Wow. That hypothetical groom is a lucky, lucky man.

Hm. You know, I was a bridesmaid at my best friend's wedding, but not the Maid of Honor. That's not a big deal or anything, but I can't help but think about it as I reread the paragraph I've just written about my thoughts on matrimony. Yeah, I wouldn't have let me give a speech at the reception either.

So wish me luck at my Tapeworm Meeting. Those who love me will have a bucket of Chipotle burritos delivered to my home every hour on the hour until 6am tomorrow. Extra guacamole, please.