Recently, I had a conversation with my stomach. Here is part of that conversation.

Stomach: “We need to talk.”

Self: “About what?”

Stomach: “About what you are sending down here. Last night before you went to bed, you covered me with pizza, coffee, fried potatoes, catsup, vanilla ice cream laden with gobs of chocolate syrup; and then you followed that with eight, count them, eight antacid tablets and a glass of fizz water.”

Self: “I was hungry; I worked hard all day.”

Stomach: “You call sitting around all day, drinking coffee at that office, work? If that’s work, think of what I go through every day just to keep you from becoming more obese.”

Self: “If you don’t want that stuff, why do you keep accepting it? You do know how to get rid of waste product, do you not?”

Stomach: “Yes. I don’t mind pizza, even gooey chocolate syrup, but not together. You should be eating more vegetables, fiber at your age, and less fatty, high sugar foods. Give me a break.”

Self: “I have a glandular problem you know.”

Stomach: “You have a case of over-active fork; your glands are fine; believe me they tell me the stress you put on them every day.”

Self: “So, what are you going to do, walk out on me?” Chuckle, chuckle.

Stomach: “No, but from now on, I’m going to start throwing anything I don’t need, back at you. I’ve already talked with esophagus, and he’s going to regurgitate some of my acids. You’ll need to take more than 8 antacid tabs when we get through with you. Because of your desire to over-eat, the antacid producer will need to add a third shift to make enough tablets to supply your required daily intake.”

Self: “You wouldn’t dare.”

Stomach: “Oh yeah; try this on for size.”

I felt it coming up from the pit of my stomach; I discharged, through my mouth, all I had eaten since yesterday at noon.

Self: “Okay, so you win. This time.”

Stomach: “And, by the way; no more peanut butter and banana sandwiches. I warn you, I will reject them. I’m not Elvis’ stomach. From now on I want a little more respect; please treat me with dignity. If you persist in irritating me with pizza pie, fried potatoes, and ice cream all in one sitting, I shall have no recourse but to reject, and eject your contributions.”

I’m wasting away to a ton. I have lost, over the last fifty years, at least 500 pounds, or three men; albeit 20 or 30 pounds at a time only to gain the weight back again, and more.

I guess, in a way, I’m kind of glad, I had that talk with my stomach. We got a few things straightened out I think. It took me a long time, but I now can see his side of the story. I have been a belly bully all these years. It’s time to consider his feelings and not just my own.

Stomach: “Good night. And, thanks for sending down the vegetable soup and fat-free gelatin pudding. Oh yeah, and the warm glass of milk. Good night, pleasant dreams.”