After not having had the pleasure of seeing him in awhile, I ran into a local shopkeeper outside of a Dunkin’ Donuts earlier this summer. The second-to-last time I saw him was nearly 2 years ago. I hadn’t seen him in awhile then either, and he told me I looked bigger than before, that I must be eating too much. He urged me to take up fasting. (When his shop later went out of business, he worked at the store across the street from it - until that outfit tanked too.)
Yesterday, I texted with a friend about her Ramadan routine. For medical reasons, she’s not fasting this year but her husband (the one who prodded me into creating this blog) sure is and I’m a little scared to call or text him when he’s not eating. Everybody should be scared to call, text, or approach me in any way if I haven’t semi-recently chewed or sipped on something. I’m not the lady at the party who will respond to an antipasti tray set before her at 9 p.m. with a flippant, “Oh good, I haven’t eaten since 10 o’clock this morning.”
I intensely dislike the feeling of being hungry (for food, that is; I can take those other forms of hunger that merely confirm you’re alive and underwhelmed with stagnation), and used to handle anyone undergoing a fast with awe, insisting that I wouldn’t be able to do what they’re doing. Except I probably could, as long as I reduced my physical activity level and really applied myself during the nighttime bingeing opportunities. I’ve lost count of all the things I once said or thought I could or would never do until the time came when there wasn’t much of a choice but to do anything otherwise.