I ate a bug tonight. It was an after-dinner bug that entered my mouth during an after-dinner walk around the neighborhood with Ryan. The after-dinner walk was taken because I was on the verge of an after-dinner coma and needed a recharge, and while it makes no logical sense to me, a brisk evening walk is almost as effective as a Red Bull.
Actually, I was jogging at the time of the bug-eating incident. We were entering the homestretch of the brisk walk when Ryan said, "Want to jog for a while?"
"Not really. I'm bad at jogging." I said.
"Jogging is not a skill," he said.
"Even still, I'm bad at it," I said.
We started jogging and after twenty seconds, he said exactly what I was thinking, "All I can feel when I'm jogging is my fat."
It's true. Jogging (and its cousin Running) sends the fat sloshing around, making me painfully aware of it with each step. I feel approximately 223 pounds heavier when I'm jogging. And just in case I was unsure of the presence of any back fat on my being, it was confirmed at that point. Again and again and again.
"I guess that's the point," I said. "We're supposed to keep running until we don't feel it anymore."
We kept jogging up the steady incline, fat sloshing, arms swinging, noses inhaling, mouths eating bugs. Make that mouth eating bug. My mouth.
I was in denial at first. I kept jogging as I sent a quick memorandum to my brain, "PLEASE DISREGARD ANY RECENT INFORMATION SENT TO YOU BY MOUTH OR TONGUE REGARDING THE EATING OF A BUG. THE INFORMATION IS FALSE. I REPEAT, THE INFORMATION IS FALSE."
It's funny how your priorities can change in a matter of seconds. One minute I'm figuring out how to eliminate back fat from my life, and seconds later in that same minute, I'm figuring out if I'm going to vomit and/or die after eating a bug.
Why? My brain sent a forwarded response to my earlier memo: "Hi! I am in your mouth. From, Bug"
"I just ate a bug." I said calmly. I was saying the truth now because the truth is allegedly supposed to set you free. And I wanted freedom.
Ryan didn't react. After all, we were still jogging at this point. Perhaps he figured that there was little he could do? Perhaps he believes this is par for the course? I decided (while still jogging) that I was going to handle this calmly and rationally. I figured that I had already been through the most difficult part of the process--the sensation of the bug in my mouth. The easiest route at the point was gross, but the least taste-filled: swallowing.
So I swallowed.
I swallowed the bug.
And then I swallowed again.
And then I realized that the bug was still in my mouth.
I sent another quick memo, this time to my esophagus: "ABORT MISSION! I REPEAT, ABORT MISSION!"
New mission: SPIT! I spit. I spat. I blechted. (Guess what? Still jogging at this point, too.) But no matter how much I spat, I could still feel the bug in my mouth. It was lodged behind my upper left gum. I was left with no choice but to send in backup via my tongue. You know, just root it out and end this disaster once and for all.
Guess what? No bug. My brave little tongue (bless its heart) went searching, but found nothing. Nada. And yet, I could still feel the bug there!
Then, I remembered watching a documentary about people who've had limbs cut off and they are tortured by the sensation that they still have their limbs. I think they call the phenomenon Phantom Limb, which makes it seem like a cool, torturous phenomenon to suffer. (I bet Emo kids are really into it.) But anyway (still jogging at this point), I realized that what I was experiencing was a similar phenomenon known as Phantom Bug.
Three hours later, as I type this, I am still experiencing Phantom Bug. The bug is not there, and yet, I could swear on a chocolate chip cookie that he is. Logically, I know that the bug is about to tour my colon; but if you ask me to point to the bug, it's upper left gum all the way. It's a troubling, icky sensation. And it's the number one reason I will never jog again. Please consider this a public service announcement.
Protect yourself. Give up jogging. Back Fat Forever!