I am, by all accounts, a miserable faster. I like to spend my days in a continual state of grazing. Cut off from my day-long snackfest, I become irritable, irascible, and downright impossible. This Yom Kippur was no exception. (I do think that candy corn are more medicine than food. Next year I shall be petitioning the powers that be to let me sneak a bagful in to synagogue.)
Starving is one thing. Starving in the presence of five children who are either asking you for food or fighting with each other, is a entirely different circle of hell. When I should have been contemplating my soul or all the ways I could be a more decent human being, I was slipping on a puddle of pee that nobody would own up to.
At some point I escaped to the bedroom and hid under the covers in a haze of hunger and anger. I think I drifted in and out of sleep, but it’s very possible that I spent a good hour hallucinating.
I was doing all right for a while. At first I dreamed I was a pastry chef. But then at some point I left the pastry shop and it suddenly dawned on me that I am now officially older than all the characters on Thirtysomething … and there was no candy corn on hand to help me get through the freakout.