Dearest Rachel –
There are some mornings, honey, where I come to the conclusion that I don’t necessarily like who and what I’ve become. This morning found me lying in bed at a little after four, with that little nagging voice in the back of my head telling me that “well, as long as you’re awake, you might as well get dressed and head out to the gym now.” The rest of me, however, responded (quite reasonably, considering it was barely after four in the morning) with, “but I don’t want to be awake yet,” and actually managed to prevail for the next hour or so.
Eventually, however, my bladder betrayed me, and my superego pointed out that, even if I wanted to go back to bed – and I certainly did, without question – it wasn’t going to get any darker or quieter than it was at that point; in fact, very much the contrary. Since I skipped out on exercising yesterday, it insisted, gently but firmly, that I do so this morning, adding that, the sooner I do it, the sooner it will be over with, and I can get out with the stuff I’d rather be doing (or not doing – somehow, as long as I work out, it doesn’t seem to concern itself with however lazy I might choose to be for the rest of the day. Go figure)
Apart from a palpable layer of humidity, it’s actually pretty cool out for a July morning; in fact, it was almost uncomfortably chilly as I made my way north to the fitness center. Maybe it’s just because I’m still not (and let’s face it, never will be) used to wearing shorts, even after doing so for several months as the ship made its way through Asia. Speaking of which, I can’t help but wonder how hot some of those places are getting at this point in the year; most of them were bordering on being uncomfortably so three and four months ago, so I can only begin to speculate as to how oppressive they might be getting. Of course, most of those places are so much closer to the equator that one day or another doesn’t make a whole lot of difference to them. Still, it’s funny to recall how many of those port cities were partially reclaimed from the sea, rather than the other way around; you would think they hadn’t gotten the “doom-and-gloom” memo about how the seas were going to be eating away at the land. Either that, or they’d simply refused delivery.
Speaking of which, my superego is trying to persuade the rest of me that everything is going to be just fine, even as we trudge reluctantly on to the gym, and the rest of me would just as soon ignore its chatter. Undaunted, though, it starts by appealing to my stomach, which (strangely enough, given that it hasn’t been fed since two o’clock on Saturday) hasn’t actually been complaining about being neglected.
“Look, once we get home, I’ll let you fry up one of those salmon patties, and have it on a bagel for breakfast. Whaddya say? I’ll even let you slap on some cream cheese, and maybe a little dill mustard, if you want some flavor.”
The word ‘flavor’ gets the attention of the real complainers – my taste buds. “Actually, we were more in the mood for frying the bread straight up on its own.” I can practically hear my superego’s puzzlement as they continue to elaborate: “Maybe dredge it through an egg-and-milk wash, with some cinnamon, nutmeg and –”
“Are you talking about making French toast?” The tone steps beyond disapproval, and very nearly into anger. “Are you out of your mind?”
At this point I, personally, have had just about enough. “Considering I’m arguing with a piece of it as if it were a separate (and dissenting) entity,” I retort, “…maybe? But I assure you, it wasn’t my idea.”
Confronted with this much opposition, my superego backed down, somewhat. It is, after all, supposed to be the diplomatic portion of my personality. “Okay, okay; I guess that was uncalled for. But still, French toast? That’s as much of a mess to prepare as the salmon, and not as good for you. Sure, they’re both hot meals, but at least I’m talking about having some meat.”
“Not to the Catholics, it’s not,” I can’t help but grin.
“You’re not Catholic.” My superego refuses to give me the satisfaction of smiling back, but it’s having trouble maintaining its stern expression. “Besides, you know better than they do. It’s animal protein; it’s meat.”
“And the eggs aren’t?” It actually struck a chord with me about the cleanup factor involved with the French toast; however, I’m still not persuaded about the idea of frying salmon for breakfast. Besides, I don’t really feel like agreeing with my superego twice in such quick succession. I’m already making my way to the fitness center before five in the morning; do I want to concede with it about breakfast as well?
And as befitting a diplomat, my superego ignored the baiting question. “Look, we’ll figure it out after the workout, after we get home, after we get showered, after we get dressed for the day, okay? You’ll come around soon enough. Hey, if you want something sweet, there’s always the pineapple chunks you got at the grocery the other day.”
At this point, my stomach finally woke up (now that it had finally gotten something to process, I guess) and pointed out that this was hardly enough to call a meal. Besides, the bagels, thin as they are, only amount to a hundred calories each, and several of them had to be pitched to the birds, owing to improper (and too-lengthy) storage; might as well take care of another one, wouldn’t you say?
But it still didn’t seem to be quite enough, even after going through half the container of pineapple. Now my sweet tooth was getting involved, in coordination with my taste buds, and they clamored for a dessert, of sorts. At this point, I was all but looking around to see if my superego was going to say anything about such a request, but, having gotten what it wanted, it seemed to have wandered off.
Such was my morning, honey – my reward for basically not having eaten for some forty hours. Maybe it’s a case of three steps forward, two steps back, but that still puts me a step ahead from where I was. Besides, it’s no worse behavior than back in the day, when I wasn’t even trying to be healthy; without the occasional (even regular) splurges, the sacrifices don’t feel as if they’re worth it. Hopefully, this doesn’t set me too far back.
In any event, honey, keep an eye on me, and wish me luck. I’m still going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 