My stomach started hurting at a cocktail party. I asked for a ginger ale, but the bartender gave me beer. Confused and in pain, I spotted my friend Robert.
“Robert, my stomach is killing me and I think they gave me beer instead of ginger ale,” I moaned.
“Oh, sweetie, you’re right. Here, let me get you some Sprite.” And he did.
Then I woke up, with a massive stomachache.
As I was doubled over in the bathroom this morning at 5 a.m., I thought about why Robert had rescued me in my dream last night. Robert was my best guy friend in high school, a time when I suffered from chronic stomach pain and daily diarrhea. Robert was always so sweet and sympathetic and never seemed squeamish when I complained about my intestinal maladies. I really should have been less surprised when he confessed to being gay my senior year.
Unfortunately, my stomach is still hurting, so we stayed close to home today. We walked to the library, played basketball on the top of the parking garage, and baked homemade bread. The kids took very long baths. Most of the day I attempted to lay on the couch and read The Help. I managed to get to page 122, and now I’m eager to dive back in.
p.s. For my literary friends, Kathryn Stockett, author of The Help, lives nearby and sends her daughter to a neighboring public school. If we were to buy a house here, I would not have considered her neighborhood because it’s not zoned for the “elite” school we’re at now, but knowing that it’s good enough for a New York Times bestselling author really makes it good enough for me.