Easter Purging

Yesterday afternoon, I was at the end of my rope. I was on my knees gripping the lid of the toilet, with my finger as far down my throat as I could muster. I am ashamed to say I had been here before and it was all my doing. I don’t know what put me over the edge. Perhaps it was that last meatball or the fresh mozzarella smothered in balsamic vinegar and olive oil. No – I know what it was. It was that bowl of chocolate trifle for desert. In my defense, it was fat-free cool whip.

Oh boy, I really felt sick after Easter dinner. Between the yummy appetizers, Italian wedding soup, and pasta my dad slaved over, I was donezo. I could hardly move. I ran/crawled upstairs to the bathroom where I wasn't quite sure what would happen. After that clammy feeling came on and writhing on the floor for a few moments, it became very clear to me what had to be done.

"Pull the trigger," I heard over and over in my head. "You have done this before." Well, normally it’s done 3am and only because the room is spinning. This was not the case yesterday. Anyone who has ever had the pleasure of eating anything my dad makes knows what I am talking about. The man, if nothing else, can cook. And he wants you to eat until you drop. I've been known to give in on a few occasions, yesterday was a holiday, after all.

However, Big Mike is also a fan of the summer BBQ at our beach house in Clinton. Sissy won’t eat in a bathing suit. I think she is on to something. Nothing says sexxxxy more than a bathing suit busting at the seams and a face covered in Big Mike’s bbq sauce (I don’t know how he makes it, but it takes several days and is quite labor intensive. His ex-sister-in-law says Big Mike has made 3 good things in his life: me, sissy, and that bbq chicken). In order to avoid the busting bathing suit syndrome, this summer I vow to eat in stretch pants. Crisis averted.