Invasion of the Body

Invasion of the Body

I am feeding a stranger multiple times a day, every day. It's true that I feel guilty about it, but I do it anyway. The stranger doesn't care and wants only to be fed. His pleas seem to surface at various times of weakness, especially prompted by boredom, uncertainty of what to do next, lack of purpose and anger. It's not a logical hunger, not a need for nutrition. Instead, the call comes from a void, an emptiness, a hole that demands to be filled with cheese, crackers, sour cream, cookies, trail mix, mayonnaise, peanuts, but especially cheese--cheddar, Swiss, Havarti, Monteray Jack, Colby, Munster, cheese, cheese, and more cheese. I see it as a work in progress, filling up the hole. The job never ends.
The stranger is building a monument to its unfulfilled need in the middle of my body. It's a soft mound that can best be viewed from the side, in profile, like a criminal's mug shot. The consequences are frustrating. Jackets won't button, last year's clothes don't fit, shoes are a struggle to tie, unkind observers ask "When is the baby due?", heartburn wells up. I've asked the uninvited guest to vacate the premises but he refuses, saying he knows an available piece of property when he sees it. Why leave?
Because of the monument, I've decided not to attend my high school class reunion and I probably won't put on a bathing suit to swim this summer. As I see it, the only cure is a full-time job that takes me away from the kitchen and my best friend, the refrigerator. Or a passion greater than that of the stranger's. What could that be? Acting in Hollywood? Painting a great work of art? Playing Rachmaninoff's Third Concerto? Writing? Whatever it is, it will have to be very powerful, very demanding, a Superman to defeat the stranger that lives within. He will not concede easily without a fight. He desires his snack, every day, lots of calories, cheese, cheese, and more cheese. Pass the olives, please.