CHARLESTON, W.Va. -- I don't want it.
Doesn't matter. Now you can't have it.
But you said you didn't want it anyway, so why does it matter?
Because it needs to stay my choice forever.
So I have these arguments with myself. The semi-sane voice of reason takes on my internal unreasonable 4-year-old self, who is occasionally egged on by the hormonal insomniac.
"There's one last Otis Spunkmeyer banana nut muffin in the cabinet," the hormonal insomniac will whisper (sometimes repeatedly) to the 4-year-old me.
"Those have gluten!" screams Semi-Sane. "You'll get sick!"
But the hormone queen will insist it's a lie, will recall the joy of peeling away the muffin wrapper to eat the bottom half first. Save the top part for last. It might get ugly and there could be name calling and if the irresponsible side wins, there's the inevitable (and thoroughly unsatisfying) "I told me so" at the end, when Reason proves she was right.
I don't know how it works for everyone else, but that's a simplified version of the inner workings of this particular Fuller's head. Lately, though, the conversation's been even less sensible.
It began with a convergence of things. A friend's pregnancy. Some upcoming weddings. Shower invitations.
Joining the committee to plan Nitro High's 30-year class reunion.
Followed by blood test results indicating I'm at the earliest tip of menopause.