The Saturday that went by was chaotic for the mind and the stomach. It seemed like my mind and stomach were tugging at extreme ends with the former the mind feeding endless ideas about the next best option on the menu, while the stomach decided to oppose in what I would describe as a smart way of teaching the mind a lesson. No wonder, the evening’s gastronomy, which was a result of not wanting to make my weekend escapades sound like a waste, chose to mock my desperation the next day.
After binging on the choicest bites the previous evening, I needed some serious motivation to get out of bed the next morning. My stomach felt just as heavy as it did the previous evening. It felt like my mind and stomach had been warring the entire night with my mind just refusing to accept that it had pushed my stomach to a far edge.
Here’s a sinful extract from their conversation:
Stomach: Everything doesn’t seem fine.
Mind: It’s alright! You don’t binge everyday.
Stomach: You don’t realize the pain of suffering from loose motions.
Mind: You are not the only one with problems. So, just relax.
Stomach: Don’t you realize that I’m suffering because of you!
Mind: Whatever.
One of the most comforting feelings in the world is to wake up on a day off and know that you can still go back to sleep. Just when I decided to sleep a little longer, my mother stepped in and brought along a bout of animated stimulation. ‘Good morning! Can you please come in the kitchen and assist me in preparing the breakfast? And I hope you don’t have any plans for lunch. We shall be going out for lunch, today,’ my mother said in an unusually hyperactive tone. It turned out (quite predictably) that our domestic help hadn’t turned up for work.
My morning was clearly not a usual one. After spending some 25-odd minutes in the toilet, I arrived at the conclusion that I had been punished. All the talks about how futile life would be in the absence of what is possibly the most valuable pressure situation suddenly held true for me. Sitting in one corner of my drawing room, I observed the morning frenzy in my house to keep myself from envying the ‘flushed' joys of those that were excitedly acting on their Sunday plans. My mother was stirring the contents in the cooking pot and talking away to glory on the phone, simultaneously, while my father was anxiously awaiting the arrival of his newspaper. For years, now, my father has been used to carrying the newspaper every time he makes a trip to the toilet to perform the big chore. My dog, after returning from a long morning walk, chose to sit across from me and stare at my me with a wide grin. For a tummy that was clogged, grumpy and truly desperate, everything around tried hard to convince me that I was one unlucky soul and I needed to achieve orgasmic satisfaction on the toilet seat to feel complete.
After downing a glass of milk only to lose hope, the steaming hot Manchow Soup at the lunch table filled my heart with hope, once again. Although my constipated stomach hardly gave way for a constipated expression, all I could think of through the day, be it lazing at home in the morning, devouring the hot soup in the afternoon or reading my favourite Jane Austen novel in the evening, was about the pleasures of being relieved in the true sense of the word. A bunch of Sunday evening visitors only ensured that food remained free-flowing, which, for once, did not entice me one bit. While the guests preferred to sip either on tea or coffee, I, with all my hope and food from the previous day all intact, within, flaunted a glass of warm milk. I was sick, uncomfortable, pained and almost on the verge of blasting out. And what got things even worse was the fact that I could only see cheerful faces around. Just when my little cousins looked thrilled to spot my milk mustache, my stomach decided to give up. Thankfully, after spending what seemed like an eternity in the washroom, I had achieved the fruit of my labour. My matter (I so missed it!) was finally out, ladies and gentlemen! And, for one, I couldn’t be any happier to announce its safe exit.
After binging on the choicest bites the previous evening, I needed some serious motivation to get out of bed the next morning. My stomach felt just as heavy as it did the previous evening. It felt like my mind and stomach had been warring the entire night with my mind just refusing to accept that it had pushed my stomach to a far edge.
Here’s a sinful extract from their conversation:
Stomach: Everything doesn’t seem fine.
Mind: It’s alright! You don’t binge everyday.
Stomach: You don’t realize the pain of suffering from loose motions.
Mind: You are not the only one with problems. So, just relax.
Stomach: Don’t you realize that I’m suffering because of you!
Mind: Whatever.
One of the most comforting feelings in the world is to wake up on a day off and know that you can still go back to sleep. Just when I decided to sleep a little longer, my mother stepped in and brought along a bout of animated stimulation. ‘Good morning! Can you please come in the kitchen and assist me in preparing the breakfast? And I hope you don’t have any plans for lunch. We shall be going out for lunch, today,’ my mother said in an unusually hyperactive tone. It turned out (quite predictably) that our domestic help hadn’t turned up for work.
My morning was clearly not a usual one. After spending some 25-odd minutes in the toilet, I arrived at the conclusion that I had been punished. All the talks about how futile life would be in the absence of what is possibly the most valuable pressure situation suddenly held true for me. Sitting in one corner of my drawing room, I observed the morning frenzy in my house to keep myself from envying the ‘flushed' joys of those that were excitedly acting on their Sunday plans. My mother was stirring the contents in the cooking pot and talking away to glory on the phone, simultaneously, while my father was anxiously awaiting the arrival of his newspaper. For years, now, my father has been used to carrying the newspaper every time he makes a trip to the toilet to perform the big chore. My dog, after returning from a long morning walk, chose to sit across from me and stare at my me with a wide grin. For a tummy that was clogged, grumpy and truly desperate, everything around tried hard to convince me that I was one unlucky soul and I needed to achieve orgasmic satisfaction on the toilet seat to feel complete.
After downing a glass of milk only to lose hope, the steaming hot Manchow Soup at the lunch table filled my heart with hope, once again. Although my constipated stomach hardly gave way for a constipated expression, all I could think of through the day, be it lazing at home in the morning, devouring the hot soup in the afternoon or reading my favourite Jane Austen novel in the evening, was about the pleasures of being relieved in the true sense of the word. A bunch of Sunday evening visitors only ensured that food remained free-flowing, which, for once, did not entice me one bit. While the guests preferred to sip either on tea or coffee, I, with all my hope and food from the previous day all intact, within, flaunted a glass of warm milk. I was sick, uncomfortable, pained and almost on the verge of blasting out. And what got things even worse was the fact that I could only see cheerful faces around. Just when my little cousins looked thrilled to spot my milk mustache, my stomach decided to give up. Thankfully, after spending what seemed like an eternity in the washroom, I had achieved the fruit of my labour. My matter (I so missed it!) was finally out, ladies and gentlemen! And, for one, I couldn’t be any happier to announce its safe exit.
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