I’ve written a couple of blogs recently about willfully starving oneself to death. I am not capable of this behavior. First, because it’s bad for your health—dying and all. And second, Frankie wouldn’t let me.
Who’s Frankie? He’s my appetite. He lives in my belly. He’s ornery, cantankerous, bratty, willful, and indulged. We’ve had a contentious relationship for decades. But I give up arguing with him. When it comes to my body, Frankie runs the show.
If Frankie’s happy—everybody’s happy. If Frankie’s feeling neglected—watch out! If I don’t pay attention to Frankie on a regular basis—like every four hours—he starts yipping. He will growl and yell. He will gurgle and squawk. I swear I can hear him curse in some strange gastro-intestinal language I’m not fluent in. The ONLY thing that will get Frankie to shut up is to feed him.
So that’s what I do. Frankie is on a set feeding schedule—several times throughout the day. As a result, I never miss a meal. Holy forbid if I did! I also carry food in my purse at all times—just in case. People who know me for a period of time also get to know Frankie. Ye Ol’ Hubby Man has learned (the hard way!) not to ignore Frankie.
Sometimes HM says, “Would Frankie like to go out to dinner?” And afterwards, “How did Frankie like his meal?”
Remember, if Frankie is happy, everybody is happy.
I wouldn’t mind Frankie being so demanding if I could feed him a handful of grapes or some carrot sticks. Unfortunately, Frankie’s favorite foods are cookies and fried chicken—just the legs. If that’s all Frankie ate the rest of his life, he would die one happy little pot belly.
But luckily I am smarter than Frankie. I know about nutrition. I know the value of eating well. And I value my health. Consequently, I am able to shove a plateful of organic greens down my throat before Frankie is able to throw a fit. A salad will quiet Frankie for a while. He’ll digest it. But later he’ll say, “Hey wait a minute, where’s the sugar and grease?”
Frequently (like four out every five nights) Frankie wakes me up in the middle of the night or at the crack of dawn. He starts with the yipping, demanding food. This is when I have to get firm with him. I tell him to be quiet and let me sleep OR I am going to put him ON A DIET.
OMG! The D word scares Frankie. He can’t tell if I’m serious or not. So he backs down. He lies in wait, waiting for me to get up. Fortunately, coffee or tea with soymilk will keep Frankie off guard until the thought of eating food early in the morning doesn’t nauseate me.
So there you have it. Frankie is king of my metabolism and therefore, he makes the eating rules. There isn’t a chance in hell he would ever consider starving. And to that I say, “Way to go, Frankie!”
Coming Soon: A continuation of Frankie stories with a new series of blogs entitled: The Frankie Chronicles: Tales of a Tumultuous Tummy. This blog is Part 1. Subsequent stories will include how Frankie got his name; Frankie’s pal Morty; who are Frankie’s relatives and why are they here?; Frankie’s origin; Frankie and Hometown Buffet; Frankie and P.M.S.; Frankie and booze; and the ONE GOOD THING Frankie has done for my figure. Stay tuned…
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