When my in-laws hear that my husband is sick, it means one thing: baggie time
I’m not one of those women.
My attempts at eating healthy include occasionally checking calorie counts, reaching for the olive oil when I remember, and selecting whole wheat bread at the grocery.
I skip over recipes containing sugar substitutes, can’t bear to think about sourdough, and most of all, despise vitamins. The only relationship I have with them is when I take prenatals for a stretch of about nine months every few years, and even during those times, I give the bottle the hormonally empowered evil eye every single day.
“I only tolerate you,” I assure the pink label, “on account of my child.”
It never deigns to answer me. It knows I’m a foe.
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