I have a small problem. Okay, small may not cover the truth of the disease. My husband would definitely send me to a support group if such a group existed. I am not physically capable of a mediocre birthday celebration. I want balloons and fanfare and music and a buffet style feast. There should be dozens of birthday-celebrating party-goers, a DJ, and a table piled high with gifts. Or maybe a special birthday vacation, the kind where you steal the birthday girl or boy away on a midnight mystery with nothing but a haphazardly packed bag and the road before you. Yes, birthdays should be special.
So here’s the sad truth. I love bologna and cheese sandwiches. I was practically raised on this strange meatesque substance so you can hardly blame me. If I had to tell you my favorite comfort food, this would top the list. Nothing beats a bologna and cheese sandwich slathered with mayo on white bread. There. The ugly truth is out. If only I had known that one day I was going remove bologna, American cheese, mayo AND white bread from my diet… I might have commemorated that last sandwich – made it an especially “big deal” and celebrated with a holiday each year – in honor of my beloved bologna and cheese sandwich.
Whenever people ask, “What’s your favorite book?” I immediately think of my latest read, not my all-time-favorite. Then I feel a little guilty, as if I’ve let down my real favorites. And no sooner than the book-questioner walks away, all my real favorites come swimming back into my memory. “Wait!” I want to yell, “I didn’t mean it! Let me tell you about these other books, instead!”