Until recently, my family owned a Scrabble game with light pink letter tiles. A special collector’s edition? No. You see, in the early 1980s, Scrabble was sold in a dark red fabric-covered box. The letter tiles were plain wood, just like always. One day I was doing whatever it is kids do to entertain themselves, when I felt a vague need to pee. Sure that this inconvenient urge would eventually just go away, I remained ensconced on the throne I had built by cushioning the Scrabble box with a decorative throw pillow. Perhaps you have already guessed that I eventually peed through the pillow and through the red box, transferring the dye from the box to the tiles WITH MY URINE. Gross, I know. Arguably grosser? The fact that my mom just washed the whole thing off and we played with that Scrabble game for years.
The problem in this instance (and, to be honest, throughout my entire life so far) was that I didn’t “listen to my body.” In fact, I HATE listening to my body. Even as an adult, I always wait too long before I give in and run to the bathroom. I don’t sleep. I drink Diet Coke instead of water. For some reason I feel the need to constantly assert the fact that I am in charge. My body is not the boss of me and I’ll do it ’cause I want to and not ’cause my body tells me to! Obviously this is very self-defeating behavior, but what can you do?
Well, my body is getting the last laugh. For the past several months, all I’ve done is listen to my body and try to anticipate and fulfill its every physical need. Why? Because now my body has the leverage it has always lacked: puke. Don’t get enough sleep? PUKE. Don’t eat enough? PUKE. Don’t eat the right thing? PUKE. Don’t eat at the right time? PUKE. Move too suddenly or in the wrong direction? PUKE. (Can you hear the maniacal laughter coming from the vicinity of my stomach?) Nothing says “I am not in charge of my own body” like a good round of vomit, especially when you hate throwing up as much as I do.
Say it with me: one more week. I’ve been in charge for 28 years–I guess I can listen to my body for one more week. I’ll even throw in six more months of above-average consideration.
But if you see a pleasantly pink-tinted Scrabble game at D.I., think twice before buying it.