The other night I was texting with my older sister when I sent this one around 9:35 PM: Alright, I’m going to bed. I’m not feeling well. She latched onto that pretty quickly. First off, I’m a night owl so going to bed at 9:35 PM, even though I wake up every morning at 5, is unheard of for me. Second, I hardly ever get sick. I attribute that at least in part to my immune system being so strong because I’m like a goat—I’ll eat anything * —and my body has had to learn to overcome the challenges I’ve thrown at it. (For more tips on how to maintain a healthy, balanced existence, subscribe to my life coaching page, linked at the bottom of this post.) What do you mean, not feeling well? What are your symptoms? My sister fancies herself a nurse, so as I began to explain how I’d been feeling lately—light-headedness, shortness of breath, body really heavy, heart pounding hard like it’s working overtime, not being able to finish a workout—she told me, wit...
One Thanksgiving about 20 years ago, I made brownies. “They taste like….” my younger brother said, chewing around a piece carefully as he furrowed his brow in concentration, hoping to find just the right word, “…they taste like paint .” I snapped my fingers and nodded because he’d done it. He’d found the right word. Even though I had never actually tasted paint, not even one tiny lick of the wall when I was a little girl, they did. Those brownies tasted like paint. There were a lot of excuses made for me that day from well-meaning members of my extended family: the oil was probably bad; the butter might’ve been salted; maybe the chicken that had laid the particular egg that I’d used in the recipe had been feeling a little “off” that day… “Or maybe she just sucks at baking,” my older sister suggested as she floated through the kitchen to refill people’s drinks. Well, of course she would say that. She was the one hosting Thanksgiving that year...
I love mushy food. I’m going to make a great old person someday because I won’t need teeth to chew; the stuff I like to eat slides right down. Most people complain about soggy, wilting McDonald’s fries. I don’t. That’s actually the way I order them: “Do you happen to have, like, an undercooked batch? Or could you scoop a few of them out of the frier a couple minutes early for me, maybe?” I love when the fry is so soft and greasy with oil that it just sort of flops onto your finger when you take it out of the bag. YUMMY. At restaurants, I ask for my steak “as rare as you’re legally allowed to serve it, please.” The servers’ reactions to this request are always fun—especially if the server is a 20-something male who is ready to watch how this challenge will go down. His eyebrows will shoot up and he’ll nod his head, giving me a knowing smile. I sometimes like to imagine the server and the chef in the kitchen, roaring with laughter about the still-bleeding ...
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