Another thing I forgot about working in Toronto and commuting back to Georgetown: from time to time I thought I was suffering from depression. Which turned out not to be true; what I thought was depression was actually starvation. Let me explain.
My schedule went something like this: get up, have a bowl of cereal and a coffee, catch the train, eat nothing until lunch (which was usually a sandwich, some yogurt, and a granola bar), finish the day, catch the train; then either: go home and have dinner around seven, or go to the gym, then come home and have dinner around 8:30. Mood-wise, I was okay for most of the day, until the commute home where I’d feet—more often than not—profoundly unhappy. I worried a little that I might be depressed, but the feeling came to me so infrequently that I’d forget about it before long.
It was Sarah who made me realize what the problem was (which became more apparent after we got married and started living together): I’m a miserable bastard when I’m hungry. I mean, there are a dozen things that can set me in a bad mood from one day to the next, but more frequently than anything it’s when I haven’t eaten in a long time. And pointing this out to me while I’m in a mood is never received well. “Baby, you should eat something,” tends to get this response: “Fuck sakes—I’m fine! I’m not is a bad mood! IT’S NOT ME, IT’S YOU!” Anyhow, it was only in the last year, while thinking back to my commuting days, that I realized what was happening: that a guy who needs food in his belly every few hours to keep from going homicidal was eating squat for lunch and then starving to death for the next seven or eight hours. What I’d taken for depression was just my need for a goddamn sandwich.
My schedule went something like this: get up, have a bowl of cereal and a coffee, catch the train, eat nothing until lunch (which was usually a sandwich, some yogurt, and a granola bar), finish the day, catch the train; then either: go home and have dinner around seven, or go to the gym, then come home and have dinner around 8:30. Mood-wise, I was okay for most of the day, until the commute home where I’d feet—more often than not—profoundly unhappy. I worried a little that I might be depressed, but the feeling came to me so infrequently that I’d forget about it before long.
It was Sarah who made me realize what the problem was (which became more apparent after we got married and started living together): I’m a miserable bastard when I’m hungry. I mean, there are a dozen things that can set me in a bad mood from one day to the next, but more frequently than anything it’s when I haven’t eaten in a long time. And pointing this out to me while I’m in a mood is never received well. “Baby, you should eat something,” tends to get this response: “Fuck sakes—I’m fine! I’m not is a bad mood! IT’S NOT ME, IT’S YOU!” Anyhow, it was only in the last year, while thinking back to my commuting days, that I realized what was happening: that a guy who needs food in his belly every few hours to keep from going homicidal was eating squat for lunch and then starving to death for the next seven or eight hours. What I’d taken for depression was just my need for a goddamn sandwich.
Comments
:)
Hope you're having fun.
Speaking of Cruise, I'll be seeing him this weekend in that new low-budget thing he's in. I'll say Hi for you and pass on the good sandwich news.
He probably won't say Hi back, though, as he'll be "too busy" saving everyone in a city, or jumping motorcycles off buildings and through chopper blades and blowing shit up, or something.
Prick.
I think the word your looking for is "hangry"...I suffer from this daily..
hangry
When a fat bastard becomes so hungry he becomes violent or moody...
ed note: I only wish I could be an FB...so sub FB with bone rack