Pop and Pizza Night
Last week my parents invited several family members out to a local pizza parlor (their treat) so we obliged and were happy to see one another. I indulged in either 4 or 5 pieces of pizza and a glass of root beer, with 3 more refills. I don’t normally eat that way but was enjoying myself, not really paying attention to the food, catching up with nephews, sister-in-law, younger brother, and Mom and Dad of course. We had a splendid time, laughed, hugged, said our good-byes, and began leaving the restaurant.
Before I left, I decided to use the restroom because I could feel the bloating begin. I tried to expel what I could, but to no avail. Walked slowly to my car, rubbing my lower belly, and drove home in a very uncomfortable manner.
As I drove, my body began emitting the cacophony of gurgling and intestinal churning associated with the eventual explosion of air yet to come–only it wouldn’t be air.
Finally, safe inside my home, I laid down on my couch, moaning and groaning, rubbing my belly, releasing the gas in any way, shape, and ghastly form that it would take. Just leave my body! I thought I’d never eat another pizza again and maybe never take another drink of sweet soda either. Of course I will but I will seriously reconsider eating the amount I ate, add more vegetables, no soda, and drink only water to wash it down. Okay, maybe a beer to wet the taste buds in the future.
Is there a moral to this? No, just a lesson from my intestines telling me to get back to the plant-based food it’s used to and stop delivering the crap that many Americans often eat several nights a week. I am not like the others, and my body is glad.