Glutton for Punishment

In terms of holidays, the Fourth of July has never been a big deal to me.  I welcome the day off from work, of course, and I enjoy a grilled burger now and then, but other than that it's just like any other day of the year.  It's certainly not in the same holiday category as Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter.

But not to Punky's dad's family.  For them, the day is truly Christmas in July.  It's a big deal, complete with a huge family gathering, lots of food and booze, and the utter need to end the night watching a fireworks display impressive enough to rival the largest cities of the world.  Lucky for them, his sister happens to live in a tiny town that does just that, and she opens her home every year to friends and relatives for the celebration.

Fireworks, meh.  I could honestly take 'em or leave 'em.  Yes, they're pretty to watch, but they've never been a big draw for me.  Even as a kid, I'd rather do something else.  I remember staying in the pool in the backyard while everyone else went out front to watch the fireworks at my grandmother's.  Swimming was simply more fun.  Disney World is another fine example.  Stop and watch the fireworks at the end of the night?  Hell no.  Go on as many rides as possible while the lines are short because everyone else has gathered to watch the them, of course.  I've just never been bitten by the fireworks bug, I suppose.

Anyway, even though I'm not really into the bangs, booms, and colors in the sky, I enjoy going to his sister's for the get-together.  We don't really see most of his family very often, and I want to make sure Punky has the opportunity to spend time with them.  They are her aunts, uncles, and cousins, and I want her to grow up knowing them.  It's important to me.  And the day is usually full of good laughs, good music, and good food.

Punky and Marley

This year we took the camper and parked it in her driveway so we could spend the night and not have to worry about having a few drinks or fighting the traffic to get out of town.  Punky had a great time playing with Marley, a little girl her age, and I enjoyed watching their interactions.  We walked down to the tiny carnival in town for a bit and Punky loved the rides and games.  She won a goldfish, but thankfully forgot all about it so we left it at her aunt's when we left the next morning.  I know, bad Mommy, but I'm seriously not up for cleaning fish bowls or hosting flushing funerals just yet.  And the fireworks display at the end of the night was pretty spectacular, but we would have enjoyed it more if it didn't start raining two minutes before it started.

We got home shortly after noon yesterday and by one o'clock I was in bed, sick as a dog.  My stomach simply ached.  It rumbled, grumbled, cramped, and turned for hours, despite the three doses of Pepto, eight Tums, and an enormous glass of baking soda and water.  I moaned, groaned and whined through movie after movie while Punky's dad thankfully kept her occupied all day so I could pray for death in peace.  He even took her out to the camper to sleep last night and spared me the usually lengthy and complicated bedtime routine.  I finally felt better this morning, until I stepped on the scale.  In exactly forty-eight hours, I gained three pounds on the nose.  And, aside from breakfast, all I ate yesterday was twenty-calorie popsicles because the cold was oddly relieving some of my stomach trauma.  

I suppose I overdid it a bit on Saturday.  Okay, a lot.  And it was somewhat premeditated.  I mean, I've been diligently counting, and watching, and exercising for months.  Once in a while I deserve a day to eat what I want and not worry about it, and what better opportunity than a family picnic, right?  I worked out just before we went, we walked miles around town, and I chased Punky around all day.  I wasn't exactly sedentary and I made the conscious decision to enjoy all the wonderful foods stockpiled in the kitchen.

Unfortunately for me, my body rebelled against my choice.  I'm just not used to eating like that.  Cookies, cheese and crackers, chips, candy.  A deep-fried bloomin' onion at the carnival.  A six-pack of wine coolers.  What the hell was I thinking?  All that fat, sugar, grease, and alcohol surely wouldn't sit well in a stomach used to mostly healthy foods and a low-calorie diet.  And believe me, over the last twenty-for hours I've paid for every single bite I took.

While I obviously have no intention on ever returning to old eating habits, once in a while it's nice to indulge a bit.  But one of the side effects of this body-changing journey is apparently the development of a finicky stomach.  Honestly, it really sucks.  I used to be able to eat whatever I wanted with no issues.  I never had indigestion, constipation, heartburn, or nausea from food.  Most women suffer with those almost constantly through pregnancy, but I got by with a handful of Tums over the course of nine months.

Now I've found that just one slice of greasy, cheesy pizza can block me up for days.  Sweets of any kind can set me up for bedtime heartburn.  And alcohol consumption leaves me bloated and gassy, with an occasional bout of the walking farts.  

I suppose these changes in digestion could be attributed to the fact that I'm getting older, but I'd rather blame it on something more positive.  If I tell myself it's from all the incredible changes I've made in the last few months, it's easier to swallow.  We have another camping trip and huge family picnic coming up at the end of August which will be the perfect opportunity for history to repeat itself.  I sure hope I internalize this lesson by then because I don't want to spend those days alone, on the hard bed in the camper, praying for my stomach to explode and put me out of my misery once and for all.