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epitome of incomprehensibility
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Tallying up the money I made at the non-big craft_show last week, I came to this number.
99. A twinge of anxiety. Anxiety? Okay, I sold more cards there last year, but why the anxious feeling? Why the feeling that the number SHOULD be over 100??
It had some other association. Like Zoroastrian_purple, but angsty.
Today I remembered it, or rather narratively linked things in the inky recesses of my brain: in St. Catharines in 2012, the Summer of My Exile, I saw the same number on a scale. 99.
Me in pounds - I'd lost about 11 in a few weeks. I don't think 100 would have scared me, but 99 did.
I called my parents, worried. Besides reassuring me I wasn't on the brink of death (we had that conversation a few times that summer, for various reasons), Mom advised me to eat eggs for breakfast. Dad e-transferred me $40 to order a pizza. I queried: "How much do you think pizzas cost?" Their generosity felt extravagant, the subject of it undeserving.
Over days my weight swung back into place, like it had done in the other direction after kitchen-assistant work at Gracefield - 2010, the Summer of Extra Muffins.
Ah, to be young and...well, 2012 I'd rather not relive.
I wouldn't mind free muffins, though. Right now I feel like getting fat and round. Hibernating underground. Rhyming at the drop of a sound.
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