Ladies, What Are We Doing?

I had a really interesting conversation the other day and it made me stop and ask myself, “Ladies, what are we doing!?”

A man at my gym and I were talking and I mentioned how I had forgotten to eat for 8 hours on a Saturday. He lightheartedly laughed and said only ladies forget to eat. Men never forget. He wasn’t being mean. I definitely wasn’t offended by what he said, but it did make me stop and think.

Normally, I don’t forget to eat. I suffer from low blood sugar. I’ve gone to the doctor many, many times to get my sugars tested because, often, suddenly I can barely keep my head up or I’m trembling so hard I can’t even hold a pen steady. Doctors have simply said to eat every 2 hours and carry a snack at all times.

That’s cute and all when you are in your 20s, but I’m now a married, 40-year-old and have 2 kids and a dog with severe anxiety. Who are you kidding? My needs? Who has time for their own selfish needs!?

But on that particular day, I was on the run for 10 straight hours. Running across town to get my daughter’s friend home, then to the cookie booth on the other side of town, back home, and get ready to go out with friends of my husband’s in Ohio (okay, not really, but it sure felt like it because it was that far away) and next thing I knew, I hadn’t eaten in 8 hours and suddenly I’m craving every single food establishment we pass – including a Wendy’s. A WENDY’S. I don’t eat at Wendy’s. No offense to them.

I bottomed out. My sugars hit the floor. I was shaky and crabby and I couldn’t get food in my face fast enough.

To be clear: this is not a post to rag on men or my husband – who is amazing and takes on his fair share of the duties in the home and with our family – this is a post about why we as women fail to remember we matter and we have needs and it’s okay to say things like, “I’m sorry, I can’t. I need to eat.”

The man I was speaking with was right. Men don’t forget to eat. Women worry if we aren’t holding up the weight of the world with our own two hands everything will collapse. Or is that just me? Please hold while I call my therapist and see if this is what’s called a breakthrough.

You should know my husband frequently asks me if I need something to eat because he knows what happens when I become a crabby gal and it’s no good. I frequently tell people, “A hungry Heather is not a happy Heather.” It’s so true. Sadly, on the day in question recently, my husband was running around with our other daughter and wasn’t there to be my emotional support snack fairy. 

Maybe we should start interviewing people for that job. What do you think would go in that job description? Must be willing to have high protein snacks with quality carbs, healthy fats, and some chocolate because, obviously?

Let’s discuss. Come back on that one when we have viable candidates and, of course, charcuterie and wine.

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Heather Chastain

About Heather

(So, my web designer says I needed to include a bio, though I find this task silly because, if you’re here, you know me.)

I’m a writer. It’s what I do. It’s a cathartic mechanism when I need release from my anxiety. I’ve had blogs in the past; I’ve taken them down, but I never stopped writing. I simply can’t. My notes app is forever long as it’s filled with pages and pages of different topics. Sometimes I just write a few sentences. Sometimes I write paragraphs.

Recently, I've been writing long essays. My friends and others I hold dear have coaxed me into sharing my work again.

So that's what I'm doing, you wicked, pushy people. LOL

I have no desire to see my writing be anything more than an opportunity to share what I love doing most. I have no interest in this blog reaching the masses.

I thought it would be fun to call it My Spicy Disaster because that's often how I feel. A complete mess of epic proportion. So join me, if you'd like, and let's pretend we're not sitting amongst the chaos crying, but laughing instead.

Or maybe we do cry sometimes, but then wipe our tears and remember one person’s disaster is another person’s … well, who the hell knows …