Around noon, Alexander is
ready to go. “Bye, mom,” he announces as
he’s putting on his coat. He thinks he might
be able to catch the 12:30 bus. He still
needs to find where he’s going, buy a ticket, pick up lunch, and take a cab
crosstown in midday to Port Authority. I
tell him he’ll never make it, and wonder aloud what would make him think he could. I convince him (through food, not logic) to take the 2:30 bus instead. "This will give us time to go out for breakfast," I say. He doesn't resist.
We choose a local
diner. It’s crowded, but we manage to
get a table right away. Alexander orders
simply: an omelet, toast and orange
juice. I want the eggs benedict or
pancakes, but because my son is showing restraint, I order two eggs over
medium, then cave and get bacon and an English muffin. At least I pass on the potatoes. I enjoy the company, but less so the food and
surly waiter. I feel greasy by the time
we leave.
Alexander is back at
school by six, and I am on my way to theater with Penny, having eaten only soup
and yogurt with fruit for dinner. There
has to be compromise somewhere.
I am home by ten, hungry and
a little lonesome. The big bowl of
sorbet I eat helps only the former.
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