I Hear Audrey Hepburn Had a Thing for Red Velvet

Because it's been brought to my attention that I could keel over or get hit by a monster truck or attacked by a pack of rabid raccoons at any time, I recently applied for a life insurance policy.  I suppose MathMan is right when he tells me that leaving him alone to raise these children would be inconsiderate enough, but to leave him broke and alone?  Unforgivable.   (Please take note:  MathMan is the beneficiary.  I'm counting on you to watch my back.)

Besides, saying that I'm worth more dead than alive and meaning it, knowing it's true strikes just the proper morbid tone I need to help color "those" days.  It lends a faux-authenticity to the narrative I indulge in right before I quell and admit to myself that I still like me just a little to much to do that.  Well that and an unmitigated fear of the unknown. Plus I'm not so keen on final acts. Too final.

So now we begin the process that often ends with a body in the library.  At least in the mysteries of which I'm so fond.  Those wacky Brits.  They're not dying of gunplay.  Well, not so much.  They're much more creative.  Arsenic poisonings, stabbings with ancient Celtic spear points, "accidental" shotgun wounds, shoving one another off church towers.  They're so not gangster.

But back to this life insurance business.  It's a three step process because it's that much fun.

First I went to the office of the nice lady who sends us those colorful birthday greetings postcards with The Big Insurance Company Logo.  I gave some them information about my height and weight, paid my money and signed on the official line.

Next I answered four hundred and six questions about my health history, the health history of my parents, my siblings, my next door neighbor Ed and the Boxer down the street.  That was over the phone.  I said yes as my "electronic" signature.

Step three is a visit from a nurse who will give me an exam.  She told me to fast for 4 - 6 hours before she gets here at 2pm on Friday.  Fast?  No problem.  I've been in a near starvation state for three days now. It's technically a low carb eating plan, but I prefer to think of it as a slice of hell.

Many years ago I smoked.  I quit.  No problem.  I like my alcohol, but I can take it or leave it.  No problem.  But breaking up with sugar?  Well, I'm not climbing the walls, but I assure you there have been moments when you might see me stealing empty Oreo packages from my neighbors' trashcans just so I could lick off the crumbs.  Did you know coffee grounds look an awful lot like Oreo crumbs?

Addiction is so undignified.

So the nurse is coming and I'll be all ready to pee in a cup and my stomach will be growling like Leonard Cohen without the clever lyrics.  It will be like tea time at the Manor.  Without the tea and fancy cakes.  I'll try to be gracious, of course, but it may be difficult from my place on the floor where I'm sure I'll have fainted dead away. 

It occurred to me tonight as I stood on the scales for the 82nd time today that I should probably stick hard to this eating plan because I may have told the woman at the insurance office that my weight range is Audrey Hepburnish.

I stepped off the scale and wandered aimlessly around the bedroom in a stupor.  My pants remained on the bathroom floor where I left them when I weighed myself.

"I need that cake," I whined to MathMan.  That cake is what is left of the red velvet confection from Chloe's birthday.  Just one piece sits there oozing cream cheese frosting.   

MathMan would not play along.  He understands his role, my role and the role of the cake.  Were I to give in to temptation, I'd spend the rest of the evening extolling how I should now go ahead and have some ice cream, that stash of Hershey's in the top drawer, what's left in the potato chip bag and the remaining chocolate truffles from Mothers Day.

"Forget about that cake.  How about a little workout instead?"  He was looking at me over the rim of his glasses as I lay across the edge of the bed where I'd flopped so unceremoniously.

Silly me.  He meant the gym.

I still want cake.