Comfort Food

It's past 9 p.m., closer to 10, and I have yet to shower today. The smells emanating from my crevices occassional waft past my unsuspecting nostrils. My bed sheets stink. I should do something. Hours ago, I contemplated working out, popping in the DVD featuring sleek women with taut abs and a visible line between shoulders and biceps. "Squat, round your back, flatten, and stand," the leader always instructs. I told myself I'd follow her cues after an afternoon nap, then after a snack, then after one more page read. With those tasks complete, all I want to do is eat a brownie sundae. My tongue can taste the warm sweet chocolate cooled by even sweeter vanilla ice cream. I can feel the thick fudge coating the back of my throat. I want it, badly. But I want to look like the women on the DVD even more. Besides Pizza Hut at breakfast time did enough damage for today.
If I sit here long enough the need to fill myself should pass. I'll think of my full stomach, protruding against my too large sweatshirt and remind myself of the guilt that will stay with me long after the sugar, fat, and calories have passed from my system. That should tide me over, knowing that I won't like myself after I enjoy myself. Worse, I'll still have this craving that decadence can't satisfy. I'll still need to know that my life will head where I want it to go, while door after door shuts in my face. What I want most in life can't be served on a plate, and if I can't have it, then I'll settle for the body a brownie sundae won't let me have.