A Yeasty Extremist

Breaking the mold

Last night I was laying in bed, reading to get sleepy. I drank too much coffee during the day, but it was unavoidable, since it's the perfect pair to pan au chocolat. I ate seven delicious homemade pastries, and felt guilty for living in excess.
I can't drink, because I like to have 12 beers instead of two. Plus, a 12 beer hangover makes life unbearable, the only happy thought existing in my pickled brain, being squeezed by an invisible vice, is that I didn't fall over during the night, hit my head and die from a brain injury. So, there's that; barfing bile in the toilet is better than being dead.
Even exercising has to be done in extremes, eight mile daily runs or I'm completely dormant, like a hibernating bear. Foods another complicated situation. I don't like to keep ice cream in the house because it's relentless, calling to me from the freezer, even at 7 am, I stir it into my coffee. Oh, and there's coffee; I can't just have a couple cups, I need a minimum of 8.
I am starting to accept myself as an extremist, and have to stop giving myself so much shit for being the way I am. (Just thought of a great New Years resolution)

I remembered a time in high school, I was at work, and my boss came into the store, returning from her gynecologist appointment. She told me that her doctor was able to identify my boss drinks a lot of beer because of high yeast levels in her vagina.
My high school boss came to mind because I'm reading Kitchens of The Great Midwest. The book is like The Corrections, in that each chapter is a continuation of a story, told in a new person's point of view. Eva reminds me of my old boss, a punk rocker from England. I thought she was as cool as cool gets. I once watched in awe as she ate an egg McMuffin with a knife and fork. I was blown away looking at a portrait of Jimi Hendrix she painted. My boss was a legitimate artist, heading up souvenir shops in Lake Tahoe, when she should be making art installations for The Louvre.
My childhood best friend can also draw. At eight years old, when most kids are perfecting drawing a circle, she was able to beautifully draw whatever the hell she imagined in her mind. Being artistic in this way is not in my lineage, out of my forty cousins there is only one person who can draw, and he uses that talent to draw marajuana leaves or dragons toking on a hookah, so I find anyone with drawing capabilities to be alien, or having an elite state of mind.
I read about forty children's books a day and one evening, I proclaimed to my husband, "The illustrator should get priority in the credits for these books. These elaborate drawings must take months, whereas the clever poem or juvinille story took the writer a night to come up with. They were probably drifting off to sleep, and then the story popped into their mind, and they quickly transcribed it to paper, thirty minutes of work."
He said that was a biased assumption, and totally false. I figured I was acting like my mom, attributing my strengths and weaknesses to the entire population.

Back to the yeasty diagnosis, after I remembered about my boss, and her doctor's appointment, I thought, "Oh great, I'm surely going to get a yeast infection from eating eight croissants today!" There wasn't much else to that thought because a yeast infection is a quick fix. This morning I looked at the last croissant, under plastic wrap, sitting alone on a plate littered with cracked croissant crumbs. I poured the first of my many coffees, and reached for the croissant, saying, "I'm so happy I didn't eat you last night because I get to eat you now."