We’ll Always Have the Memories (of eating bread)

They brought my burger without a bun to the 20 something boy next to me by mistake.  He said, “um, I think this is right, but… I don’t think I ordered it with no bun.”

“That looks like mine,” I said to the waiter.  And then to the guy, “you’re too young to be forsaking bread.”

Although I equate my dietary restrictions, which have become extensive as I try to figure out what makes me feel bad (everything), to age, when I eat right and discover what it’s like to feel good, I wonder whether these issues are even recent. The other day I had this fleeting thought after a particularly disciplined day of eating, that it feels good to be alive (I can’t remember ever feeling that way ) and then I wondered, “is this how other people feel all the time?”

Are food sensitivities that I remained oblivious to over the past 4 decades (or so) to blame for everything?  For why I have not achieved my dreams, like the one in which I am a writer, for instance? Is that chronic minor depression that I have learned to accept, and blame, and which has kept me from following through on such dreams, caused simply because I eat things that are poison to me?  Maybe it’s not mental after all.  Maybe it’s not who I am.

I love spaghetti.  Bread.  I even like drinking beer, but it’s always made me tired.  Who doesn’t like that stuff?  In any case, I can say is that I’ve been there and done that.  I’m old enough now that I’ve got experiences under my belt.  If I have to forsake some going forward, then I can at least say that I will always have the memory of eating bread.