A young professional’s take on the trials and tribulations of everyday life in New York City.

By Nina Pajak

Please, no more food.

I know last week I was singing a different tune. I was just a naive 28-year-old kid, excited and hopeful, who thought she could conquer the world one gigantic meal at a time. I was brash and eager and cocky enough to think I could drink my way through six weeks of bacchanalian binges. Ah, to be young again.

Now that I am a solemn and sobered 29-year-old, I realize how I was misguided by youth and distant memories of former resilience. No longer can my body handle days upon days of eating, and more eating, and still more eating. Will the leftovers never end? I think my stomach expanded so much that I was actually hungry for a straight 120 hours, and I ate steadily through approximately all of them. In my estimation, I have consumed roughly 19 bottles of red wine and a bathtub’s worth of martinis. My carb count would kill a Celiac sufferer—dead on the spot.

See Also: The 5 Best Gluten-Free Restaurants In NYC

In previous years, this would in no way daunt me, and I would continue through New Year’s as planned. But age is creeping up on me despite the fact that I am still 364 days (2012 is a leap year, you guys!) away from being 30, and I just can’t hack it anymore. I woke up on Monday morning feeling simply disgusting. Disgusted with myself. Disgusted with my life. Disgusted by the many slices of pizza I allowed myself to eat in the name of birthday festivities, amid Thanksgiving indulgence. Awful about the booze which is now coursing through my veins (possibly permanently). I can’t think straight, because my brain is soaked in butter. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion, walking around in a visible haze of calories. All I want is a vegetable that hasn’t been gratineed. I’m dying to go on some sort of psychotic juice cleanse where I spend the next ten days drinking seawater and raw kelp milkshakes in which the “milk” is squeezed from cashew fruits or trees or however a person milks a cashew.

Alas, it shall not end for me. And most likely, there are many worse problems to have. I’ll just have to soldier on and wear my bravest face through this gauntlet of merrymaking. Also, I’m probably going to have to start starving myself at all possible intervals, as well as purchase a pair of emergency “oh my god none of my pants fit” pants. I look forward to at least two more people congratulating me on my presumed pregnancy before the end of the year.

If this is what 29 looks like, I can’t imagine 30 is going to be very pretty. I probably should just get pregnant. Then I could at least say, “well, I had a kid!” instead of “well, I had a lasagna!” Both are impressive in their own ways, but for some reason the former gets so much more respect.


Dear Readers: While I am rarely at a loss for words, I’m always grateful for column ideas. Please feel free to e-mail me your suggestions.

Nina Pajak is a writer and publishing professional living with her husband on the Upper West Side.

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