I have spent the weekend primarily in bed, recovering from a particular type of illness. My time tested self-medication includes: rest, water, ice, Canada Dry ginger ale, and Saltine crackers — in that order.
My menu has recently expanded to allow mugs of hot, salty broth and bowls of Wheaties seeped in rice milk. The chicken tandoori being consumed downstairs has been politely refused; yesterday, the smell of garlicky pork nearly caused a relapse.
Only hours before the gastric rebellion commenced, I had enjoyed (courtesy of a dear friend) a remarkable meal delicately prepared by a short, mustached man with the name Gustavo embroidered over his heart. He came to our table to explain each delicious course. I remember a kale pesto, a risotto with white truffle oil, and some other things only barely within my food vocabulary. Apparently, I was not meant to absorb the nutritional benefits of this feast.
Gustavo is not to blame, I want to make that clear.
I felt nauseated on the drive up to the city. I had thought perhaps my belt was too tight, and so the belt was left abandoned in the foot-well of the car. My dear husband had asked me earlier, “Is that what you’re wearing?”, so I wasn’t worried about spoiling my glamorous look. Without the belt, I still felt slightly ill, but I chalked it up to the mysterious ‘car sickness’ I have heard about from others. ‘There is a first time for everything,’ I thought to myself, rather optimistically.
I wished for my queasiness to go away long enough for me to enjoy a rare evening out. My wish came true.
Earlier in the day, I had looked inside the pantry and wished for the ginger ale and crackers I had bought weeks ago to be consumed, rather than wasted. That wish also came true.
I can think of better wishes, now.