For the Thrill

People hear the word thrill
and think of danger.

I think of consistency.

Of showing up
when there is absolutely
nothing glamorous about it.

No inspiration.

No lightning bolt.

No grand revelation.

Just me

standing in my kitchen

trying to convince myself
that protein is a personality.

Just me

forgetting breakfast

misplacing lunch

and then deciding at five in the afternoon
that I should probably eat
all three meals at once.

Salmon.

Vegetables.

Coffee.

Because apparently
I approach nutrition
the way gamblers approach roulette.

And then

boom.

Pain.

My stomach crossing its arms
like a disappointed parent.

My gastritis reminding me
that consequences
are not a myth.

The funny thing is

I know better.

I know exactly what happens.

Yet every few days
I behave like a woman
who has learned absolutely nothing.

Still

there I am

eating from one of my sons’
cereal bowls

with a dessert spoon.

Everything that should be eaten
with a fork

I have always eaten
with a spoon.

I don’t know why.

Maybe comfort
rarely makes sense.

Maybe some part of me
still remembers childhood.

Maybe some part of me
still remembers motherhood.

Because everything
in this house
reminds me of them.

Their cups.

Their plates.

The cabinet opens
and there they are.

Evidence.

Proof.

Love left fingerprints
on everything.

Maybe that is why
I forget myself sometimes.

I spent so many years
making sure everyone else ate

that hunger still feels
like something
I can postpone.

And still

I try.

One more workout.

One more protein shake.

One more attempt
at behaving like a woman
who has read the instructions.

And then doing it anyway.

For the thrill.