I attended an event for my new internship with the Neighborhood Writing Alliance tonight. It was pretty incredible to see the different lives the organization has touched and to feel that I am a small part of that now. However, these types of events always build up to a slightly awkward moment: The moment when the food comes out. It was mostly finger food, lots of veggies and things. It looked wonderful, but since I was working the event I decided to stay on the safe side and just wait until I got home to eat. The last thing I needed was for Myrtle to throw a fit while I tried to garner donations for the organization.
As I sat next to my fellow intern listening to the series of fascinating speakers, however, she turned to me and asked if I was going to eat anything. The question was entirely innocent and absolutely nothing out of the ordinary, but it still set my mind whirring trying to find a simple answer. Should I just come out and say why I am not eating? Do I want to take the time to do that? Is that even appropriate right now? In the end I decided to bypass the subject entirely. I smiled politely, shook my head, and continued listening to the presenters.
These moments come up all the time. When Myrtle groans particularly loudly. When I pick the lettuce off a sandwich. When I pause during technique class to let my stomach settle or try to loosen up my stiff joints. I am really good at just brushing off the looks of concern and confusion my body inspires in others, but is that really the way I want to deal with these situations? Instead, I could use these looks and questions as moments to open a dialogue about disease, but that requires time that I do not always have. Let alone my potential listener.
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