Edit: I wrote this several weeks ago. I haven’t posted it until now because…well, I’m not sure why. Part of me was like, “Girl, so TMI.”
Then the other part of me said, “Girl, you live such a transparent life these days you might as well be a jellyfish.”
So here I am in gloopy, slimy, tentacled glory!
P.S I have some incredibly exciting news to share with you all. Nothing to do with my book, either. Separate to that, though still writing related. I won’t make the big announcement until I have the confirmation letter in my hand. Just wait a couple of days!
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I ate Rice Bubbles last week.
Now for the record, I only like my rice bubbles when they are combined with cocoa powder, copha and a bit of whatever else it takes to make chocolate crackles. On their own, I liken the experience to eating pelletized styrofoam. But, you know, I made do because I am a martyr, too lazy to shop, that’s the kind of girl I am.
However my insides took more kindly to this energy source than my taste buds did, apparently. Because boy! once I again purchased my normal favourite of Tropical All Bran did things get a little…congested…for a while.
I think I have Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Actually, I often like to pretend I could have Irritable Bowel Syndrome because it is so easier to entertain such a notion when it feels like a bowling ball is being shoved down your 30-odd feet of intestinal tract than perhaps it is to admit to oneself, “Hey – don’t blame the wheat. How about you pay attention to the fact you are eating a newborn’s weight of chocolate?”
[Self-knowledge is a terrible thing, isn’t it? Says me, nearing 30! *snort*]
So when Keira comes up to me and says, “Mummy, you’re a fattie” and then pats my stomach to put an exclamation point onto the sentence, I guess I could again blame it on the cereal. But I won’t.
At least I’m getting a taste now of what my poor girl is going through. I guess some would call that karma.
My nutritionist would say it’s self-inflicted. When I’ve gone in the past and I’ve written down my eating patterns she taps the list with her pen and asks: “Where’s the PROTEIN!?”
As if I had the time to prepare grilled chicken breasts or fish two times a day. Complete with a lovely, delicate side of beans and greens. Yah – WHATEVER.
In sum: Still bloated. Or it’s fat. Either way, no picnic!
