As a Child

When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. –  1 Corinthians 13:11

1) This has been a quiet week. It took seven whole days to recover from last Sunday’s house party. I can’t even think about any form of alcohol touching my lips at the moment; everytime I think about drinking I feel a bit nauseous. Oh, last Monday was not a day to remember, as much as Sunday night was a night to remember. Not only are the memories of my hangover lingering, but photos have popped up of a very inebriated, and therefore “affectionate” V sitting on the laps of my housemates and others.  Remembering only seventy-five percent of the night disturbs me a little, so no drinks for me until our Christmas house party. (Then it’s on).

a) I went to an izakaya in Shibuya with M, J, and R a few nights ago and only drank milk (in case you don’t remember what an izakaya is:  When I ordered my first glass of milk, the waiter repeated it three times, “Milka?” He asked it once in amusement, once in surprise, once in pity. (At least it wasn’t cranberry juice). We had a grand time at the hole in the wall in Shibuya; we ordered two four cheese pizzas, oysters, fried shrimp salad, a plate of sausages, and fish and chips (fries here are amazing).

b) One of my days off was spent entirely in bed, undercover (and under covers, with the heat on 75 degrees), eating a personal-sized, jalapeno and anchovy-topped pizza, watching The Biggest Loser. The day was so wrong and at the same time, ridiculously right. After inhaling my pizza, I fell into a carb-induced coma, and didn’t reawaken until 6p.m. (I should be ashamed, but I’m not). Shame arose when I tried to get rid of the pizza box in secret and my housemate RT saw me with it. “Pizza again, Valerie?” he asked with a tone that I’ll classify as disbelief mixed with unbelief.

I should mention here that my housemates never eat, only drink, and have recently placed a scale in the living room. Yes, a  pink scale is in the living room beside the couch. I should also mention that the men in my house weigh less than most of my female friends everywhere. I don’t know if all Japanese men are weight conscious, so I won’t make a sweeping generalization, but my housemates surely are. Let’s get back to the pizza, why should I be ashamed to eat the most perfect food: bread, cheese, and tomato sauce? Pizza has been nothing but good to me, and I shall remain faithful to it.

2) When I was 14, I ate a medium, Dominos, cheese pizza everyday for a week. Alone. Towards the end of the week, I ran out of money and paid the delivery man entirely in coins. Ten dollars in coins. I don’t have to tell you that he wasn’t very pleased, and warned me to “never do it again.”  When I ran out of my allowance and all the coins in the jar in my mother’s closet, I grew desperate. I needed ten dollars to feed my pizza a day habit,  but my mother refused to shell out anymore cash for pizza. So, I did what any feening, pizza addict would do, I decided to make my own pizza from scratch. How hard could it be, right? Wrong. I got out the flour, water and tomato sauce, and started slapping the dough like I’d seen the guys in the pizzeria do it. I kneaded for a maximum of three minutes, then I threw it into the air. It never came down (there may still be pizza dough on that ceiling in Long Island). My mother gave me ten dollars that night.

3) I’m a woman who hasn’t put away childish things. Not even a little. (I’m not ashamed).