For the past four years, I’ve either been pregnant or nursing on Yom Kippur, so I got a pass on the whole fasting thing. Yes, I was that super classy pregnant woman waddling her way out of services every couple of hours so I could hide behind the building and scarf down my nuts and cheese and take long, satisfying gulps from the water bottle I had hidden in my purse. It felt so wrong, and yet so, so right.
But this year is different. I’m not knocked up and I haven’t needed a nipple pad in months. (Can I get a Hallelujah here, people?) But the joy of having my body back is somewhat tempered by the Big YK. I’m supposed to fast this year.
And I’m not going to.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to be chowing down on pasta or burgers, and I’ll summon the willpower to steer clear of the coffee maker and the Chunky Monkey. But I will be snacking from time to time, and I’m not going to feel guilty about it. Probably not.
The thing is, I’m a crappy faster. Within a few hours of my last meal or sip of water, I get grumpy and snappy, and by mid-afternoon, I’m downright bitchy. I lose patience and composure, and my problem-solving skills pretty much disappear. I can generally make it through the day when all I have to do is sit alone in contemplation. But this year I’ll be running around with a husband who fasts (and cooks while fasting) with a smile on his face, and a preschooler and a toddler who will be eating every two or three hours. You can imagine how well that’ll go for all of us. Read the rest of this entry →