A Hyberbolic Tale of an Apocalypse


[Hyperbole: extravagant exaggeration]
[Apocalypse: a great disaster]

Sometimes naps are fantastic, wonderful, and refreshing. Sometimes, however, they just make me wish I could build a time machine for the sole purpose of going back five hours and warning my unassuming, younger self not to be so ignorant and lazy. Sometimes they (naps) are so terrible, I wouldn't even use the time machine for something useful like gambling or cool like meeting Moses. No, I would just use it to go back in time and not take a nap.

On Saturday, however, I did take one (a nap, that is). It was only supposed to last a half hour, but that half hour somehow doubled, then tripled, and I was still sleeping a solid two hours later. Sleeping and dreaming, I might add.

I obviously was extremely tired, because I only dream (or at least remember my dreams) when I am very, very sleepy. My pastor made an appearance (in the dream, not real life), chasing his two young boys around the stage at my church. His kids were, by the way, riding tricycles, which was unusual. And I was watching them while playing the violin in a strange sort of serenade for their family bonding. It was weird.

Suddenly, right as the youngest child was about to run me over with his glittery pink three-wheeler, I awoke with a start. I turned over and continued to lie in bed, snuggling my pillow. Then, cursed pains of hunger began their musical interlude inside my belly. (Not to be confused with labor pains, which I hear are just slightly more painful.) I'm pretty sure my stomach was eating itself.

I need to get to the store. How I was able to think in my muddled state is beyond me. I felt as if an overweight elephant had sat on my face and then flattened it like a cartoon character. I couldn't move. I need to buy food for dinner.

After sitting up, I immediately felt the urge to lie back down. You don't need dinner! What you need is sleeeeep...

No, I need food.

I slowly swung my legs over the side of the bed and walked over to the mirror.

"AHHH!" I screamed and turned around, wildly swinging my arms to fend off the beast of prey that was stalking me from behind.


I took a deep breath and turned back to the mirror. A hazy reflection of something that looked a little like me stared back. I exhaled slowly. Apparently the crazed mammal I'd seen just moments earlier was, in fact, me post-nap.

After taking in the sight of my half-loose ponytail, bloodshot left eye (up till this point my right eye had refused to fully open), and bright red crease down the right side of my face, I hung my head in shame while wiping drying drool from under my chin. I was a flat-headed mutant. At least I was three dimensional.

Food, my stomach demanded.

It took me a few minutes to make the long five-step walk to the bathroom, but I did and managed to snag a brush out of the top drawer.

"Urggggg," I said. I'd become a pirate.

After attacking my mane with a brush, rubbing away the crease, washing my chin, and a few short right eye-opening exercises, I was ready to hit the supermarket.


As we all know, one should never, never go to the store on an empty stomach--especially when you're half-crazed, sleep-deprived female. I know I would have been alarmed had I seen a twenty-something girl frantically swiping food of all sorts into her cart. Raw chicken, bananas, two apples, seasoning salt, a huge bag of red grapes, buttermilk, cereal, crackers, skim milk, yogurt, lettuce, BBQ sauce, frozen vegetables, oreos---I could go on, but I'm embarrassed enough as it is.

As the minutes wore on, everything looked and smelled and tasted (I may or may not have kept eating unwashed grapes from the bag) better and better. I finally convinced myself I needed to leave before everyone took a look at my overflowing cart and started thinking I had top-secret information about an apocalypse and began a frenzied stockpiling of cans and bottled water.

I just had to make one more stop: ice cream.

There's really nothing else to be said. Breyer's. Mint chocolate chip.

I reached into the frozen shelves and grabbed the treasured carton of calories. Then I hurried as quickly as I could to the checkout counter, where I again became disorganized and had to swipe my card no less than six times while the people behind me muttered under their breaths and judged me for my mountain of food in the "express" lane.

Upon returning home, my stomach had reached a crescendo, and I knew I was about to pop. I couldn't wait any longer. I had to have it.

So I pulled out a bowl, a spoon, and the ice cream. And I ate and ate and ate. Then I watched a movie. Then I ate some more.

When I was finally snug in my bed a few hours later, I realized, much to my eternal self-loathing, that I had not, in fact, eaten dinner. My only choice was to count my loses and hope when I woke up the next morning, I wasn't 500 pounds heavier from the 1/2 gallon of ice cream I'd demolished in a few short hours.

That night, I spent my entire dream running from angry cows.
Hannah said...

Love your post! (And I'm glad to know I'm not the only one who storms the grocery store and eats ice cream for dinner.)

Amanda said...

Haha! Most definitely not, my good friend :)