Button Popper. That’s what someone called me once. I prompted that Button Popper comment cuz I complained about how I should have stopped eating an hour ago, and that the threads were straining to keep that little button on my jeans.
There were many times when I overstuffed my pork cutlet. One of those times was in 7th grade. Lori was my new best friend. She invited me to dinner at her house. Lori’s mom was going to let us shape our own hamburger patties and put on as many toppings as we wanted! Lori’s mom was awesome! (Also, Lori’s mom had the sweetest, smoothest voice I had ever heard up to that point in my life, the kind of voice that only black women are blessed with.)
The burgers we made were quarter pound burgers. Lori and I each ate two. Don’t ask me how. I felt great as I swallowed my last mouthful. Five minutes later, not so great. I sat down and stopped participating in whatever game we were playing. Lori did the same. But Lori’s little sister, who was much smarter and only ate half of a burger, wanted us to keep playing. I told her I couldn't move.
Lori went to the couch. I stayed on the floor. It hurt to breathe. I thought that was the last meal I was to ever eat. I wanted to cry. Lori’s mom looked sympathetically at us. Her expression was one of pity, but on the verge of laughing in my face. Now that I think about it, why did she let us eat so much??? Well, I think I passed out because I don’t remember the rest of the night.
After that and numerous similarly excruciating experiences you would think that I'd learn to eat slowly and stop when I’m full. I think you can see where I’m going with this...I’m pig-headed.
