Today was the first day of the past five that I haven’t woken up in extreme pain. I gave myself shin splints due to a series of really stupid decisions on Thursday night and even though my calves are allowing me to walk without the incessant urge to scream obscenities, I am still kicking myself.
It started around 3pm on Thursday. They installed an old-fashioned popcorn machine in the office lounge a few weeks ago, so every couple of hours the smell of movie-theater popcorn will waft over the entire office and lead anyone not trapped in a meeting toward its call like moths to a flame. I have gotten really good at resisting the popcorn machine lately, mostly because I’ve reached the point where I need to keep my sodium intake in check or else my ankles will swell up like lifeboats. If Baltimore ever floods, all I’ll have to do is look at a bag of Utz and my legs will buoy me to the surface. There’s your pregnancy Survival Man tip. You’re welcome.
Thursday, I was feeling saucy. I was on schedule to work from home the next day and that was followed up with a glorious three day weekend. I smelled the buttery salty goodness announce its presence and decided I’d let myself have a treat. I made my way around the edge of the cube desert and just as I rounded the corner to the lounge, I saw it:
The most beautiful ROYALE WITH CHEESE my eyes had ever laid eyes upon. It looked like the freaking commercial, with the mayo and mustard dripping ever so artfully, just peeking out from under the bun as if to say, “WHY HELLO THERE. I AM DELICIOUS.”
Suddenly, I lost all reason. Where am I? What am I doing? Popcorn? What fucking popcorn?! Nothing else could challenge the sudden craving of all unholy cravings that was overtaking me. I went back to my desk and did some work. I tried to distract myself, I really did. All I could think about was how much I needed it, the pickles, the onion, the melody of condiments.
By the time I got home I had convinced myself that one burger wouldn’t be the end of the world. I mean, maybe it was the baby wanting me to eat it, right? Right?? After all the spinach I’d been cramming down the kid’s throat, maybe they were trying to tell me something. Maybe this could be our first bonding moment – our first fast food hamburger together. Look at us, making memories already! Cue the Hallmark theme song!
Shortly thereafter I was face-to-face with the drive-through voice box, scanning the menu with rabid eyes. I don’t go to McDonalds much, so I didn’t really know what I was looking for. The only qualifier I could think of was the “with cheese” byline, and as soon as I spotted it, I shouted into the box, “A number three! Get me a number three!” as if I were standing on the beach of a deserted island waving a rescue ship into shore. I got home, opened the little cardboard box and realized: oh shit, did I really order a DOUBLE quarter pounder?
I stared at it for a good two minutes. I had talked myself into a regular quarter pounder, but the possibility of doubling that hadn’t occurred to me. This is crossing the line, I thought. I can’t do a double. I was already getting the McGuilt and I hadn’t even tried it yet. But there it was, staring at me, SMILING even, and I couldn’t look away. For whatever reason, life had brought us together and let no man tear us asunder. I ate that burger and loved every single bite. I know guys, I’m a fatass. It’s ok. I’ve accepted it.
Five minutes later, the McSweats started to set in. The burger had settled into my stomach and started to expand like those party favors that start out as capsules and turn into giant spongy frogs and aliens when you leave them in a glass of water. Oh God, now I was getting the McStomach Ache. All those memories of sweet tasty burger were degrading to shit and I suddenly couldn’t think of a single reason anyone would ever eat a fast food hamburger. I was going to McHurl.
Twenty minutes later I was emerging from my post-burger orgy of badness but still felt like complete shit. I could feel it coating my arteries, laughing it’s sesame seed ass all the way through my GI tract. I need to get my blood flowing, need to get moving, I thought. I felt my legs swelling up from the sodium and rearing their cankle-y heads. I got onto the edge of the stair and started to do calf-raises, you know, where you hang your heels over the lip of the stair and go up and down, up and down? I didn’t stretch, didn’t even think about it, just dove right on in. Look at me showing that burger bastard who’s in charge! Look at me go! Up down, up down. 50, 75! 100! WHAT UP YOU CLOWN BITCHES! I just owned your ass with my Calisthenics display!
The next day, I couldn’t walk.
By day three, I could get around by doing a regular granny shuffle, clutching on to Joe and walking at such an unnatural angle that the only other explanation to casual bystanders was a probable case of extreme wedgie hobbling through the grocery aisle. After it took two minutes to tackle the Safeway crosswalk, Joe said, “Don’t worry hon, it’s just good practice for later. You know, when we’re both 80.”
Pretty much all weekend was spent on the couch, on a bed of ice packs, drinking banana shakes and praying the potassium would do its magic.
How was your exciting three day weekend? Hopefully a lot more productive than mine.
