Whole 30 update: Day 14, and I think I’m finally on top of it. I don’t spend most of my waking hours thinking and talking about it, planning meals, reading labels or contemplating my sanity. It just is.
On the positive side, my jeans do feel a little looser. I seem to have more energy, and my sleep has been stellar.
On the minus side, I’m still craving a piece of peanut butter toast more than anything else.
During the magical, floating, time-blurred space between Christmas and the New Year, I attended a party that was women and wine. Lot of women. Lot of wine. Everyone brought snacks and we were a loud, happy bunch.
Toward the end of the evening, I mentioned that my daughter, home from college, was coming to pick me up. (Who needs Uber or Lyft when you have a teenager with a license?) A woman I didn’t know asked me where my daughter was going to college.
“University of Arkansas at Little Rock.”
The woman put her hand on my arm and pulled me to the side. “I need to ask you something.” Her voice was low, intent. “I need to know, what are the people in Arkansas like?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer. My husband has a goodly quantity of family in Little Rock, so those are the people I hang out with in Arkansas. I’ll be the first to admit, in the in-law/outlaw lottery, I won. These people are smart and funny, and they laugh at my jokes. They’re fun to hang out with.
I said as much. Even after several glasses of Chardonnay, I wouldn’t claim to have extensively surveyed a representative population of Arkansans. I have not been appointed the Colorado Ambassador to Arkansas. In short, they’re people.
The woman’s quest became more urgent. She leaned closer. “But what do they think of Hillary?”
My first impulse was to ask, “Duff? Swank? Edmund?” I held back with admirable (I think) restraint. I debated saying that people who knew both Bill and Hillary back in the day said Hillary was the smarter of the two. I’m also under the impression that some Arkansans thought she was uppity for not taking Bill’s last name when they first married.
Instead, I pulled her claw-like hand off my arm and said, “How should I know? They probably have a variety of opinions, just like people in the other 49 states.”
That was all the launching pad this woman needed. She proceeded to rev up her rant to tell me what a horrible woman Hillary was, was a disgraceful human being, and (direct quote), “If they needed a vagina in the White House, they should have picked a different vagina.”
Don’t dwell on that quote for too long. Your head will explode. After a shrill diatribe about what an anti-feminist Hillary is, this little yapping woman reduced a presidential candidate down to her reproductive organs. Yeah, that’s not dismissive, condescending, sexist or anti-woman at all. What a moron. .
When she let me get a word in edgewise, I asked her, very politely, if she could possibly understand that the way she felt about Hillary was exactly the same way some people felt about Donald Trump. Because I was still trying to be polite.
Well. This woman feels close enough to Trump to refer to him as Donnie. Back when she was 19 and worked in New York City, all the power brokers loved him (and still do, according to her) and they ALL called him Donnie. She then proceeded to name drop a lot of people I’ve never heard of. I mean, if your claim to fame is meeting Walter Cronkite in an elevator, you should be cognizant of the fact that he went off the air in 1981. That was 36 years ago.
She also added in that New York loved Trump then and still does. Bitch, those are MY people. They don’t suffer blowhard assholes gladly. If he’s so beloved, why did Hillary carry that state in the 2016 election?
Are you wondering why I didn’t respond? Why I didn’t make any of these valid points? She must have had a blow-hole in the back of her head, because she never paused to draw a breath. I couldn’t have shoe-horned in a syllable, much less a word, much much less a complete sentence. This was a one-woman show, audience participation not required or encouraged.
After politely trying to disengage, I finally walked away from the Donnie Trump love-fest, because Thing 2 was waiting at the end of the driveway to drive my happy ass home. In my mind, that woman is still standing in the host’s kitchen, elaborating on all the ways that Trump is a superior human because Walter Cronkite called him Donnie. A surreal ending to an otherwise convivial evening, to be sure.
For the record, the people I’ve met in Arkansas that are NOT related to my husband have all been very pleasant people. And none of them have accidentally spit on my while raving about politics.