Honey, I Shrunk the Stomach – Snakes in the Grass

Back when I was in my early twenties, friends of mine would play a drinking game of sorts where we would self-expose how we were more like our parents than any of us cared to admit. It was a half-cocked hybrid version of “Never Have I Ever” and “Truth or Dare,” focusing on the more embarrassing aspects of one’s behavioral DNA. For instance, my closest friend at the time, Billy, bemoaned how as a child he would cringe at his father’s tendency to ask highly personal and nosy questions of complete strangers; Billy complained that he now found himself doing the exact same thing with people he encountered on crowded subway cars. Another friend during that period, Ella, observed that she was already quizzing wait staff at restaurants about how fresh certain menu items were, exactly as her mother had done for years.

How the actual drinking part of our game came into play is lost to time. I suspect it was merely a transitory device before the next person offered up his or her confession. There wasn’t much much justification required back then to have a pint.

I still recall my own testimony, as it were. It was about being too much like my mother and her tendency to be an exaggerated storyteller. I’d describe her as a raconteur, but that would mean she understood that there was a beginning, middle, and end to a tale. Unfortunately with my mother, there was only ever a middle. Each of her stories were told with such epic detail that she ended up tormenting her audience. I can still visualize aunts, uncles, neighbors even, who never failed to nervously glance about a room looking for an exit opportunity. Mom was a social worker by profession, which meant that by virtue of her training she was supposed to be a good listener. She should have instead probably been a hairdresser. To this day, I’m constantly catching myself in the middle of any potentially long-winded yarn to put a bow on it already.

If I had only known that I was actually focusing on the wrong parent when it came to being worried about my inherited genes.

I’m thinking about all of this at the moment because of constant flashback film reels that are streaming virtually in my head. They have been on auto-replay, displaying isolated moments from early post-adolescent years. Specifically, my dad’s late-middle-age complaints about how he was always feeling so full.

“I can’t eat like this anymore!,” he moaned one particular Sunday evening after one of my mother’s famed Roman banquets. As usual, it had been a jam-packed affair with roast brisket, vegetables, mashed potatoes, Parker House rolls, and her homemade apple pie for dessert. The tone and tenor of Dad’s wailing was no doubt brought on by his own self-awareness of impending biological changes. This in turn resulted in him lobbing unfounded recriminations at my mother, accusing her of a diabolical desire to keep feeding him as if he was still a 30 year old young buck.

I remember him later making me walk around the block with him three, four, five times in a row until he felt that his stomach was somewhat settled. I had places I wanted to go, and people I wanted to see. But he was walking slow and keeping me firmly close by, all the while offering up a verbal litany of his intestinal complaints. “You’ll understand this yourself someday, mark my words!”

A half century or so later, the apple pie certainly hasn’t fallen far from the tree.

Just like Dad, I’ve now reached that stage where if I’m not careful I’ll be uncomfortably full for hours. Those days of going out for breakfast and cavalierly ordering steak and eggs are over because I will be uncomfortable for hours afterwards. A double hamburger with a side order of fries? Fuhgetaboutit. Dessert? DESSERT?! Are you kidding me???! Okay, sure, I can have dessert, maybe, but only if I have a salad or small filet of fish as my meal. Otherwise, no, we ain’t eating much in the way of dessert lately unless it’s the main course.

“I’ll have the pot roast and tiramisu dessert special, please. Hold the pot roast.”

Speaking of steak and eggs, may we digress for a moment? Now that I’m sitting in the catbird seat of nutritional judgment, I can’t think of a worse example of American epicurean gluttony than this particular entree. For years I would order it whenever we went out for breakfast because, like mimosas and bloody marys, no one ever really eats like this at home. I’m asking the six of you out there to be honest with me on this one. A steak and eggs special always comes with a side of hash browns, some toast, and sometimes even a stack of pancakes. Gorgeous would never fail to nervously look away from me and focus only on her bowl of yogurt with fresh strawberries. “Nothing to see here, just keep looking down until he’s finished.” She’s played the long game and got the last laugh from all of this: I’m now a two eggs-and-toast-only kind of guy.

But just like Dad, it’s dinner that is the most challenging meal for me. My eyes and hands are still wanting two servings of pasta. That’s what I’ve eaten for donkey’s years and it’s a hard habit to break. My brain, however, is now reminding me that one small helping one will suffice because in 20 minutes my stomach will be slowing at full capacity. I’ve learned the hard way that if I overeat, a night’s sleep will be an extremely uncomfortable adventure.

I’ve also discovered in the last several months that evening snacking is now a thing of the past. Popcorn, chips, ice cream? Again, fuhgetaboutit. If I’m lucky I can have one stinkin’ cookie. The days of stuffing my face on the couch while binge watching “Line of Duty” are over.

I know what you’re thinking, dear reader. You’re saying, “Good for you! You’re eating healthier now; smaller portions are better!” And you’re right, of course. But who asked ya?

Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a carrot stick with my name on it. Can’t ruin dinner.

Until next time…