We are what we eat...

In times of stress in my life the food rules are the first thing to go. Just this past week, after yet another flood in my apartment and wrangling endlessly with the management office to get the problem resolved, the lovely dinner I planned with grilled fish, roasted vegetables, and brown rice was quickly reduced to a glass of white wine and a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios.

I don't know why, but the impulse to feed myself drains out of me at exactly the time when being nice to myself would be the best remedy. I've gone through bad breakups subsisting on raisins and coffee, microwave popcorn eaten with peanut butter straight out of the jar, a grapefruit-spoonful at a time. Waiting for my GRE results drove me to having nothing but canned soup for days on end.

Mornings when I am running late for work are the worst. The food I have ingested some mornings would not be called breakfast by even the most primitive society on the planet. A slice of corned beef wrapped around a breadstick. Leftover sushi rolls. Today it was six Wheat Thins with pickle slices on them, and half of a diet Pepsi. Even a pregnant woman would recoil in horror. Lunch isn't much better. I really try to make something normal, but when you are in a hurry you'll be surprised at what sounds good. "Hmm, well...here's some lettuce shreds that are only a little brown, and canned chicken. Let's throw in a tomato, and 3 leftover mushrooms. Here's a handful of chickpeas, a few olives to chop. And surely if you put some salad dressing on it, anything could taste good."

In case you are just tucking in to your own sumptuous lunch at this time I will spare you the lurid details of my Greek-chickpea-chicken-wilted salad debacle. I gritted my teeth and ate it, let's just leave it at that. But tomorrow I will definitely get up in time to make myself a good lunch.

Hmm....maybe a cheese danish. With a side of hummus.

I've got to stop reading the news first thing in the morning; when it's bad, it puts me off my whole day. Peter Jennings died last night. He was only 67 years old; he had just retired.

It's weird. When I was 14 and heard someone in their 60's died, I was like "well, they lived a nice long life." Now, I'm in my 30's and it's "My god, he was ONLY 67."

This sucks. My idols are dropping like flies. Makes me feel like I am next. I think I should go to the doctor. Or at least give up red meat for a few months.