Since it is January 2nd, I should have some kind of musing on the New Year already. But I don’t. It was just an average weekend.
I did, however, start to think about my mortality and the signs of my imminent middle age-hood the universe is presenting to me. This was actually prompted by the discovery of a patch of new gray hairs, not so much ousting 2010.
Anywhooo, I shall begin with what was once typical restaurant scene between my mother and me:
Me: I’ll have the swiss bacon cheeseburger (this was before I began experimenting with vegetarianism).
Mom: I’ll have the chicken sandwich. But no onions, please.
Me: Mother! No onions? That is simply outrageous!
Mom: Well, I like onions, but I can’t eat them anymore because they upset my stomach. I’m also an old woman who has given up on the pleasures of life. (She never said that last part, but it was implied.)
Me: Psssh. Sometimes you have to put up with a little PAIN to get the things you WANT. (Which is kind of a wise sentiment, but I was really only referring to food.)
And then I would scream “YOUTH!” and bite into a raw onion like an apple. BECAUSE I COULD.
But now my tummy is getting a little testy and overly acidic things make it scream out in agony if eaten in large quantities. And since I’m a glutton (or gourmand, if you will), I always want there to be large quantities.
Seriously, if the following anecdote isn’t a testament to the ravages of getting older, than I just don’t know what is:
Recently, following a night of moderate drinking (yes, moderate drinking. I don’t even DO the college-type binges anymore, because this girl has got to drive her ass home like an ADULT), I woke up fairly hung over–headache, nausea, and all that crap. Complaint one: I never, ever used to get hangovers, except in the most extreme drinking situations. Occasionally I would wake up with a little headache, drink a glass of water, and then be ready to take on the new day. Not anymore, it seems. I have to pay the price for a night of MODERATE drinking. Makes me want to put the wine glass down in outrage, but I won’t.
Well, whatever. It’s not THAT bad, so by the end of the day I feel 100% awesome. I even go to the gym, which, of course, I have to do now or my body will just re-morph into a puddle of sludge. But in the evening, I decide to take myself out to dinner, just to get a nice sandwich. Occasionally, I deserve a nice sandwich. Not all the time, but sometimes I do.
So in this little neighborhood cafe I get a vegetable panini with some vinaigrette marinade sauce thing. It’s heavenly. I think there was avocado on it. That’s how good it was. The vinaigrette was perfection. However, the sandwich also had raw onions (or at least not well-cooked onions), which, thought tasty, reacted with the vinaigrette, and my stomach decided to call it quits. I couldn’t finish the damn sandwich.
I left still hungry and depressed about how I have wasted my youth not drinking straight hydrochloric acid and chasing it with lemon juice.
Lesson: at some point in your 20s, your body says, “Fuck you!” Also, I’m turning into my mother.