It all started out so innocently.
Lately, eating has lost its appeal for me. Trust me— once you’ve shot Mint ice cream out your nose so hard that you had a nosebleed for an hour, food just doesn’t look all that edible.
On a side note— why can’t I vomit like a normal person? Seriously. This whole constant-vomit thing would be a lot easier if I could just find a way to make it come out my mouth, and not my nose.
Let’s all say it together: “EWWWWWWwwwwww.”
So, yeah. Moving on. Like I’ve said before, morning sickness sucks.
Nevertheless, life goes on. I’ve got a couple more weeks of this (C’mon, second trimester!). On Monday, after nibbling listlessly at stale Triscuit crackers for the better part of the morning, I took my lunch hour and went to the overly fancy, over-priced grocery store that’s near my work: Bristol Farms.
The difference between Bristol Farms and a regular grocery store is the same difference between Nordstroms and Walmart. Only classy people seem to shop at Bristol Farms (they’re probably the only people who can afford it), and the sales people fall all over themselves in an effort to ensure that your grocery shopping experience is all that you hope it can be. Seriously— I think if I asked them to bag my groceries in the hide of an endangered baby spotted seal, they’d probably do it. It’s a pretty neat store, with a great bakery, delicious fruits, and a ridiculously large selection of cheeses. Maybe I’m being a little dumb here, but how many different kinds of cheeses does this world need? It’s cheese. You put lots and lots of it on everything, and it makes things better. Seriously, people, it’s not rocket science.
My only complaint about Bristol Farms (aside from the price of everything) is that everyone who shops there looks like they just stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. Do you think I’m exaggerating? I dare you: The next time you are in Southern California, go to the Newport Beach Bristol Farms and see if I’m lying. I’m not. It’s almost creepy how beautiful everyone is. Most of the people there during the lunch hour are upper-class executive types who have stopped by for their power lunch. All the men are over 5’11” and glowing with bronzed muscles, expensive clothing, and exuding an all-around aura of health and vitality. The only women who aren’t a size 1 or lower are one or two really gorgeously curved stay-at-home-moms in a size 3, dressed in running clothes and obviously on their way back down to a size 1. They fill their baskets with things like organic tofu and bean curd, and probably even find a way to buy diet fruit.
Insecure much? Me? Nah.
Anyways, last Monday I was walking around Bristol Farms, basket dangling from my arm, letting Squidgelet do some shopping. The Squidgelet method of grocery shopping entails me wandering up and down the aisles, staring at stuff, imagining eating it, and then letting Squidgelet increase or decrease the nausea to let me know whether he/she approves. I’ve tried eating healthy and forcing the angry little bean inside me to obey my salad-and-boiled-egg preferences, but I never win. Healthy food equals an immediate puking. Letting Squidgelet choose lunch usually means I’ll keep down at least half of it. I’ve learned not to argue.
The first thing that seemed like it might work was a piece of string cheese. I grabbed a piece and threw it in my basket… then realized that I might as well grab a couple and stock up for the week. So I grabbed a couple of string cheeses, and then threw in several individually wrapped cheddar slices just in case I got the urge for a couple later on in the week.
I wandered down the aisle a little further, and passed the soda section. Oooh! If I grabbed a Dr. Pepper, I might actually be able to mask the taste of my prenatal vitamin. Good thinking, Becky!
I wandered the rest of the store, but nothing looked good. I glanced down at my nearly-empty basket and sighed. A piece of string cheese was not going to hold me through the day. I needed something with substance, even if I would probably puke it back up later.
I wandered over to the Deli & Prepared food section and glanced around, but nothing seemed appealing. Still, I needed to eat something. I grabbed a little to-go tray and scooped a miniscule amount of macaroni and cheese into the corner. If Squidgelet wanted string cheese, maybe he/she would accept macaroni and cheese too? Grabbing the next spatula, I scooped a small amount of beef pasta into the other corner. The pregnancy books always say protein helps morning sickness, right?
I stared at the nearly empty tray in my hand, and at the lonely little bits of pasta in them. I couldn’t bring this up to the front. I’d look stupid if I bought a tray with only 2 spoonfuls of food. Grabbing at random, I snagged the spatula that belonged to the vegetable lasagna, and went to slice myself off a piece.
The spatula slipped.
Suddenly, instead of a tiny slice of lasagna, I had cut myself a WAD of lasagna. It was enormous. Gigantic. Cake-sized. Garfield would have been satisfied with this slice of lasagna.
I glanced around, and sure enough, there was a woman waiting in line behind me. I mean, I couldn’t put the slice back, right? She’d probably get all offended. Barely managing to balance the behemoth on the spatula, I put it in my to-go tray, where it almost didn’t fit.
Great. I was now the proud owner of 97 pounds of vegetable lasagna. Lucky me.
Tossing the container in my basket, I made my way to the checkout counter. It was there, standing beside the candy aisle, that I realized the entire reason for my visit: I wanted— no. I NEEDED a Twix.
I stared at the Twix.
The Twix stared back at me.
I began to drool slightly. In my entire life, I’ve never seen anything that looked tastier than that Twix.
The golden wrapper winked at me seductively. Hey baby. Headed my way?
Heck, YEAH, I’m headed your way!
I tossed one into my basket, then realized that one probably wouldn’t be enough. This was the first thing that had looked appealing in weeks. Surely this was an occasion to celebrate? I tossed in a second, gleefully. Two Twixes. Four little chocolately bars, all to my own. Ah, sweetness.
Standing there with my now-full basket, I realized that I was sandwiched in line between two outstandingly fit, good-looking people. The Asian woman in front was a vision of loveliness. Petite and beautiful in an expensive skirt business suit, she looked like she’d just wandered off the set of Ally McBeal. I mention her race because in my experience, certain Asian ethnicities take “petite” to a whole new level. While totally proportional, this woman was TINY. I tried to find some sort of reference for how tiny she was, and finally realized that her hips were the size of my thigh.
Let me emphasize that again: her entire hips were the size of my ONE thigh.
It was hard to believe we were even the same species.
Suddenly grossed out at my disgustingly large whiteness, I glanced behind me and saw Brad Pitt.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t Brad Pitt. I think it was his better-looking younger brother.
Red faced, nauseous, and feeling completely unattractive, I turned around to face forward, starting at Little-Miss-Tiny-and-Perfect in annoyance.
She placed one tiny package of sushi rolls on the conveyor, neatly arranging the singular package low-sodium soy sauce beside the chopsticks.
I glanced behind me at Mr. Pitt. In his hands he held (of course) a protein bar.
Sighing, I repositioned my basket and unloaded my oversized sugary soda, a several-pound plate of cheesy lasagna, several candy bars, and finally dumping the approximately 47 pieces of cheese in a large mound over the pile.
Behind me, Mr. Pitt carefully placed a divider bar between us before laying his lonely protein bar on the conveyor belt.
I swear, I’ve never felt so fat in my entire life.