My family thinks I'm anorexic. I mean, seriously, they wait until I get over my eating disorder to accuse me of the wrong one.
I haven't been feeling well lately. A combination of anxiety and cigarette-cravings has formed at the pit of my stomach and made me a very grumpy Cipri. And grumpy Cipri also started her period today, which of course comes with agonizing cramps and gut-wrenching nausea. Which I've held down pretty well, may I add. Anyway, these lovely feelings make me not want to eat much. Reasonable, no? Yet I can't say these things at the dinner table. Polite conversation only, you know. Plus, my parents neither know nor will ever find out about my short-lived tobacco addiction.
Anyway, where was I. Dinner...
I served myself some moro (Dominican dish, don't ask...) and pollo guisado. But only a spoonful of moro and the smallest piece of chicken I could find. Even then, I choked it down in the time it took Luis to eat two heaping plate-fulls. And then they all lay into me... Imagine this conversation in Spanish and this is exactly what happened.
"Why don't you ever eat?" Daddy asked, opening up the topic for the table to discuss.
"Yeah, Cipri," Mami blurted.
"I eat all the time," I complained, "I just haven't been feeling well lately."
"Yeah, right," Fred scoffed.
"This isn't one of those crazy diets, is it, honey?" Daddy asked.
"NO Daddy," I said. "As if I diet..."
"Yeah, you do," Luis mumbled. And they all turned and stared at me. The whole table. Silently. And, of course, I did the wrong thing.
"Buen provecho, it was great." And stood up, took my dishes to the kitchen, and went up to my room. I'm sure they are still downstairs talking about me.
Ha... that's my family for you. Gossipping through their concern instead of coming up and talking to me. Now I bet I'll be under surveillance at all mealtimes.