Spaghetti squash. I literally had never heard of it until around two months ago. And I was okay without it. With all the buzz around me, I figured I had to try it. But last night, as I took it out of the oven, and then, ever so delicately removed the seeds, and then with surgical precision, scraped out the “spaghetti”, I actually felt my blood pressure rising.
I was getting really emotional. Is it because I can’t cook, and this effort I was making would definitively be rejected by my family? Even as I warmed up spaghetti sauce to mix with it, I knew there would be a full bowl placed back in fridge. This wasn’t my first time at the dinner rodeo, and I have developed a thick skin as my family rejects my meals regularly. There was the gluten free bread crumb covered chicken outrage, and then there was the time the shrimp quesadillas with soy cheese stuck to the wall. Thank g-d for the quick reflexes.
But it wasn’t the meal rejection I was getting so upset over.
It was the damn spaghetti squash. Because to me, this squash represented youth lost. That damn squash was saying, “You are in your mid-forties, where you and your friends talk about recipes, and healthier options, and Bed Bath And Beyond squash machines, (and The Affair.) Your metabolism can’t handle real spaghetti. Twenty-somethings don’t even know how to spell squash, because they are too busy eating real pasta. I can’t believe I have gotten so many people to think I am like spaghetti.”
Needless to say, yesterday was a low day for me.
I mean, I was talking to squash. I knew I had to talk to someone. Scott would just tell me he loves me and that I’m not old, and that I can have fettuccine if I want to. Jerk!!!
I need to really talk to someone. Someone who will understand and help me.
So, I have an appointment with my dermatologist on Friday.
**Can’t wait? Try one of my favorite products that gives me a great glow and tricks me into thinking I’m spaghetti.
Buy it: Benefit High Beam Liquid Face Highlighter