These days my memories of the past are rich cuisine to my soul; they both feed me and torment me. I was once a slender 125 pounds, fitting into my shapely size 7 tight jeans. I was a real looker! This year, 2011, at 54 years of age, I am a frumpy, just-past middle-age, out-of-work administrative assistant, and tipping the scale at 230 hefty pounds. Absolutely nothing looks good on me these days. My clothing manufacturer might as well be Omar the Tent Maker. Funny, I can remember when I eagerly looked forward to my time in menopause, leaving those messy monthly periods and up-and-down moods behind.
Well, menopause isn’t everything I thought it would be. Is it ever?
Now I deal with night-sweats, waking up soaked, feeling hot one moment and cold the next. And then there’s the crying; I cry for everything! I am a wreck.
But my husband still loves me, just as I am, so he tells me, often reassuring me, with all the tender words required, and necessary hugs and kisses. So is love blind?
Food for my starving soul
Our first date was a dinner held at my church, in the school’s drafty gymnasium, on Friday, November 6, 1981. The church was raising money for the youth group. We sat at long, folding tables, on cold, hard, metal fold-up chairs, elbow-to-elbow with fellow church-goers, old and young alike, and for just a few dollars we dined on Kentucky Fried Chicken with all the fixings—coffee and tea included, and dessert provided through the generosity and talents of the old saintly ladies of the church.
We were waited on by members of the church’s youth group. We ate off of paper plates and drank out of Styrofoam cups, and our weapons of choice, plastic utensils. As we sat close together for the first time, enjoying the simplicity of food and company, little did we know we’d be setting a pattern that would serve us for years to come. With our arms touching, my heart was pounding, racing a million-miles-an-hour. I was happy. I was newly in-love. And the KFC dinner was the most delicious food I’d ever tasted. KFC, go figure!
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