My stomach hates me

When I was a teenager, I could eat anything without consequence. My appetite was boundless and my daily diet didn’t fit into the suffocating confines of a silly nutritional pyramid. During my senior year's Radio and TV class, my best friend and I had permission to wander off-campus and would regularly indulge in McDonald’s greasy breakfast foods. Their bacon, egg and cheese bagel sandwich was my personal favorite–thick slices of overcooked bacon; a slimy, yellow square of maybe-it’s-egg-maybe-it’s-not, and a flimsy triangle of cheese nestled inside of a half-burnt bagel. Pair that with a crispy hash brown frisbee and an ice cold Coke, and I was in heaven. We inhaled our meals in minutes with the guarantee that we’d be ravenous again before Pre-Calculus.

Nothing bothered me. My digestive track was a well-oiled machine of adolescent splendor. Not only could I eat whatever I wanted, I could eat however much of it that I pleased (Oh, to have the metabolism of an 17 year-old). At my all-time skinniest, I was working at a custard shop and eating ice cream for dinner almost every night of the week, sparing my young body no extravagance. Sprinkles, whipped cream, peanut butter topping–you name it, and I was cramming it in my face in record quantities.

Work has been stressful and lately I’ve been feeling very overwhelmed. Today I decided to eat my feelings for lunch and skipped up to McDonald’s golden arches and ordered chicken nuggets.

Now I want to die.

I can only achieve abdominal relief through the unbuttoning of my pants, but I heard a rumor somewhere that taking off your pants at work is poor business practice.

I ate my feelings and they gave me gas. A physical manifestation of my feelings is farts.

I can’t believe how much my body has changed in 7 years. Things are bigger, lower, different sizes (*ahem*), and I can’t go through one week without complaining about my back hurting. I’m also getting more headaches this year than I ever did in my entire life. What gives? Seriously, I’m not old by any stretch of the imagination, but my body is still so different than what it was just a short time ago.

One of my good friends told me that your body starts dying at the age of 23. Once you hit that age, your body is on a steep, down-hill roll into deterioration and decay. I don’t know if he’s right, but I’m too bloated to log onto Google and prove otherwise.

I blame most of my physical woes on the societal and emotional consequences of being an adult. Your first year of joining the workforce is the equivalent of the dreaded Freshmen 15. Sitting at a desk all day isn’t good for your digestion … especially when you’re sitting at said desk eating slices of cake because every damn day at the office is someone’s birthday. Staring into the artificial light of a computer screen not only gave me chronic eye spasms, but my dentist told me I clench my jaws together while I work and that’s the cause for a lot of my headaches. And are you aware that sitting down all day is physically draining? When I was a book designer and did not move from my desk for 8 hours except to go to the bathroom, I would come home at the end of the day and immediately fall asleep. It was pathetic.

And bills suck. Everything about bills suck. In fact, bills suck so much that I'm not even going to formulate a paragraph explaining why they suck (that, and the whole “I’m bloated and lazy” thing). You have bills, too. So you know what I mean.

Too much responsibility. Not enough free time. Too many bills. Not enough money.

Being an adult sucks.

And that’s why I have gas.


  1. Oh, I feel you -- and feel like I could have written this post myself! Since taking my office job three years ago (and, yes, only getting up to walk to the bathroom/soda machine/front door to even try and see the sun at some point in my day), I've gained weight and lost energy. Working on correcting that now -- but it's a tough battle!


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