After 36 hours of vomiting, I have found the answer.
No more weight loss programs. No more vitamins. No more carbs, or no carbs, or high protein, or low protein, or massive amounts of whatever vegetable I fancy. It's much simpler than that.
As it so happens, the only thing fierce enough to shock my digestive system back into functioning is my mother.
If you've met my mother, you understand. She's a force of nature. You don't cross her. Two years ago she came to watch a 7th grade poetry event. One student that I sent out every day for three months for cussing me out started to be rude. I say "started to be rude" because she didn't get to finish. Once my mother caught wind of the tone of voice this student was using, she raised her eyebrows, said, "Excuse me?" and this girl cowered in fear. COWERED IN FEAR. I mean she shrunk back, wide-eyed, and ran out of the room. If you work with me, and you want to know which student this was, just ask. She just graduated 8th grade. Unless she was held back, I don't know.
Back to my intestines. I've had a fucked up digestive system for most of my life. There's no rhyme or reason to it. As a child, doctors tried to figure it out. I don't really think they did. They made me drink this stuff that tasted like chalk so my stomach glowed. Well... that might not be what happened. I am remembering this through my seven year old eyes. In any event, throughout my life, on multiple occasions, my insides stop working. Food comes out incorrectly through either or both ends. It's awful.
The epiphany began at around noon today. I was lying on the floor of my bathroom, head propped up on a pillow, playing words with friends. By this point, I figured I'd shorten the commute to the toilet. Something odd occured to me... The only thing I hadn't puked up in the last day or so was a pupusa. If you don't know, a pupusa is probably the most fattening food ever. It's a Salvadorian GODSEND. Picture a homemade corn tortilla, except as you're making the tortilla, you built in all the things you would normally wrap inside the tortilla. And it's fried. VERY FRIED. There is no reason my body should have processed this food... except that my body knows quality.
The is a list of my thoughts in order:
Moms know quality.
Moms know quality food.
The pupusa in question was hand made my the mom of a former student.
The pupusa was quality.
I did not puke up the pupusa.
My mom knows quality.
My mom's food must be the cure to my mysterious illness.
My next thought was SHIT. My mom's in Lexington, and there's no gas in my car, and last time I checked, there's no reliable way to vomit while driving without crashing.
Then I remembered the contents of my freezer, carefully wrapped for a time when I wasn't so strictly dieting: EEVB (Existential Experience Veggie Burger) and OCC (Orgasmic Cheese Cake).
I then did what any normal person who's spend the last day vomiting would do: I stuffed myself with my mom's home cooked veggie burgers and cheesecake.
I AM PROUD TO SAY THAT I HAVE SPENT THE LAST 8 HOURS VOMIT FREE.
Fuck diets. Fuck weight loss. Fuck low carb bullshit that prevents me from running. Fuck all of that. I'm going to eat food again.
I just called my mother to tell her this, and her response was hilarious, in that she didn't really respond at all. There was no attempt to explain this phenomenon using science. There was no laughter, no acknowledging the transformative nature of her cooking. She simply said, "We're grilling for Father's Day, what time will you be here?"
LOVE YOU MAMA.
PS: I called her again, read her the blog, and she laughed hysterically at the last part.
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