Every week hubby sets aside one evening specifically for the purpose of taking care of the household so I can go some place quiet to work on my writing.
In my ideal world I would have lots of time to escape to my well-organized home office, with a nice window and no clutter begging for my attention. But the reality is, whenever I sit down at our home computer, the kids run in and out asking questions, hubby yells at the kids for bothering me, the toddler knows I’m in the house and refuses to have anyone else change her diaper, the T.V. is in the next room blaring my favorite sitcom, and the stack of paperwork that should be in the filing cabinet instead of the floor won’t stop calling my name.
During the spring and summer, I find a nice quiet room at our church and hole up there with my laptop, a bowl of popcorn, and large Diet Coke from Speedway. I’ve made friends with the little church mouse that runs back and forth between the kitchen and my popcorn crumbs, but the truth is, even in a church, I’m scared of the dark. So, with the early twilight of autumn and winter, I find that I’m frequently startled out of my writing reverie by unexplainable noises. Could be Jesus; but probably not.
Occasionally, I tell the family good-bye and sneak upstairs to work from my bedroom. This is effective if I turn on some white noise and the bedroom is already clean. But most days there are baskets of laundry waiting to be folded, a bed to be made, drawers to organize, dusting to do, and if I walk into the adjoining bathroom all hope of writing is lost.
This week, the schedule changed a bit. We were busy every night so hubby took off early on Friday and gave me the afternoon to work. I didn’t have an article topic in mind so I figured I should go someplace where I could relax and maybe find a bit of inspiration.
It was cold and gray outside, so I wanted a cozy place. My jeans were feeling snug, so I wanted some place where I could sit comfortably, preferably in a booth. I would be dragging along my laptop, asking for a seat near an electrical outlet, and staying for quite a while so I wanted a place that would be accommodating and welcoming.
P
arky’s Smokehouse fit the bill to a tee. I settled into the booth and asked the waitress for a diet Coke.
“The chef made a great clam chowder today,” she said pleasantly.
I love their clam chowder, and couldn’t imagine anything better on a cold, gray day. I ordered a cup, but then changed my mind. “Go ahead and make it a bowl,” I requested.
“If it gets cold I can always reheat it for you,” she responded helpfully.
This confused me for a minute. Why would the clam chowder get cold? Then I realized she thought I might not be able to eat such a large portion before it cooled. I had to laugh. Only a skinny person would let their food sit so long that they actually had to reheat it halfway through consumption.
It makes sense for people who actually take time to enjoy their food. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy my food, it’s just that I enjoy it no matter what. Hot, cold, lukewarm, doesn’t matter to me; I just shovel it on down.
I wonder if I would get skinny if I paid more attention and truly took the time to think about enjoying each bite. Eating is pleasurable for me in the sense that pushing dirt is enjoyable for a backhoe operator. The pleasure comes, not only from the food, but from the mind numbing result of not having to think about anything else during that time. This is why eating is an effective form of procrastination. As long as my hands are busy with brownies and potato chips I can’t really accomplish much else, so I’ll have a snack rather than, say, pay the bills or mop the kitchen.
I tried eating the clam chowder slowly, typing a few words between bites, but it was too good. I downed the whole bowl and finished the crackers before the waitress had a chance to check back with me. She seemed somewhat surprised when I handed her the still warm, yet empty, bowl, but that’s okay. She’s too skinny to fully appreciate good food.
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