Last night, as I desperately sought comfort in my bed, I rolled slightly toward Grassfed and said "I feel like a piece of furniture." It was true. There was an ache around the circumference of my abdomen and it was so distracting that I had convinced myself I was a useless ball of flesh and instead of just being there, I should have some sort of function. "I should at least be serving food." That actually came before the furniture comment but makes more sense as a followup. The state of my body last night is hard to describe. Even more difficult to articulate is the connection of it to my mind. I had been able to somehow justify that the solution to whatever I was feeling physically was to turn myself into something inanimate but useful, such as a platter carrying shrimp balls and mini quiche. Or a coffee table that doubles as an ottoman. You know, meaningful things.
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