Right now I'm sitting here on the couch typing this next to my long lost pal Old Lady Hunger. And when I say long lost pal I mean horrible bitch who is single handedly responsible for that big doughy mess that bulges out under the back of my bra strap as well as that fleshy, jiggly flying squirrel bull shit where my triceps used to be.
We were first introduced when I was a kid and finally old enough to ride my bike to the grocery store and use my babysitting money to buy whatever donut I wanted. As I took off from the driveway she would run behind me and hop on the back of the bike, holding on to my shoulders, our hair blowing in the breeze as we laughed in happy anticipation of what filling we would choose. Would it be lemon, or apple? Or maybe we would just get a giant bear claw! Or both! The possibilities were endless!
But we really got serious when I was in college.
She would usually pop in around 2 or 3 am when I was on my way back to the sorority house after a long night of scandalous and mostly illegal activity. I would look over just in time to see her lunging at me from the passenger seat grabbing the wheel and driving on my lap like a bat out of hell to the nearest Long John Silver's while I sat helpless.
She's surprisingly strong for a 3-foot-tall lazy eyed hunchback.
After college I stopped returning her calls and we only saw each other once in a while. I was single, hunting for a husband, and she was ruining my mojo.
Things came to a head when we had a big falling out about two weeks before my wedding, three days into my cabbage soup diet. She would keep me up all night long screaming racial profanities that made Mel Gibson look like Dora the Explorer. I would hold my pillow over my head, trying to quiet her with thoughts of me in my wedding dress and honeymoon bikini.
Once I had trapped Nick and stopped caring what I looked like we rekindled our friendship, though not to the level we once were.
She's been noticeably absent throughout my pregnancy, popping up here and there, usually at the most inconvenient times. One morning a few weeks ago I was on my way home from the grocery store and looked over and saw her panting and staring at me from the passenger seat and without warning she leaped into my lap, one hand around my neck and the other steering the car to the nearest Taco Bell.
We both waited in silence in the parking lot until they opened.
And then yesterday morning I woke up and there she was, just like old times, standing at the end of my bed looking at me all happy and googly eyed, two overflowing suitcases at her side. I saw she meant business and I figure it's easier to let her hang around for the last week or so of the pregnancy rather than wasting precious time fighting.
And from the minute she unpacked her bags we've been partying like it's 1986. We quickly launched into a 36-hour food bender that doesn't show signs of stopping any time soon.
Last night I woke up at 3am and thought I was going to vomit. Probably from the three pieces of pie and ice cream that topped off the cheeseburger, baked beans, pasta salad, bag of chips and can of cheese dip, turkey sandwich, bagel sandwich, biscuits and gravy, hash browns and two granola bars I ate for dinner.
She also followed me to my appointment and jumped on the scale with me when I went to see J.T. My Trusty OB this morning. Apparently she weighs five pounds.
That's right. Five pounds. In one week. That officially puts me one pound over the weight I was when I delivered Ellie.
AKA... my highest weight ever.
Thank god Nick is at work today because the bender continues. In fact, Old Lady Hunger is getting impatient and pissed because all of this typing is taking away from valuable eatin' time.
On to the Fruity Pebbles.