No one dare mention a word about the morning after. The kind of secrecy one holds after an evening with a forbidden lover. But we all feel it, the unsettling, undigested feast from the day before, wishing, longing, we had not had the final heaping of turkey with fresh cranberry smothered in gravy and mash potatoes, topping it off with coffee, liquor, and the obligatory over-sized helping of pumpkin, and, oh yes, apple pie and fat free cool whip.
Lying on my queen size bed, I kick Sampson to the floor as all good dogs should lie on the floor, besides this leaves me more room to digest. I don on knickers, socks, and sneakers, but I can't move. I feel more like a weeble-wobble that actually fell down and I don't have my necklace with the button to press "I've fallen and I can't get up!"
Slowly coming to from my food coma, stupidity overtakes me and I step on the scale--5 lbs! Really? I lace up my sneakers, make it to the door. I manage to open the door, kick Sam out, watch him run around on the grass. Well, that's enough exercise for me in one day.
I vow next Thanksgiving I'll do it differently. I know I won't. I know I'll be invited to a feast of a thousand feasts. I'll gorge once again.
Perhaps before next year I'll invest in a king-size bed.
No comments:
Post a Comment