Guilt has quite the negative impact on your Bacon brain cells, let me tell ya. I’ve already mentioned throughout many of my posts some of the stupid scenarios that were caused by my feeling guilty. When you veer towards guilt, you move in the OPPOSITE direction of your Bacon (i.e. your true, unadulterated-by-guilt self).
There are two potential outcomes when you take the guilt route: pure misery or pure stupidity. In my experience, it’s usually a combination of the two. Although some of the situations I have gotten myself into as a result of guilt have produced some miserable results, there are also quite a few humorous ones that give me fun stories to tell. In either case, the situations are always ridiculous and make no sense when I say them out loud…
(Like wow, I used to think eating the last slice of cake was the equivalent of telling the rest of my family to fuck off… DO YOU REALIZE HOW MANY SLICES OF CAKE I HAVE MISSED OUT ON OVER THE YEARS BECAUSE OF THIS?? Tragic…)
(Don’t worry, I’ve more than made up for it by eating entire ice cream cakes all by myself… Don’t cry for me, Argentina.)
I like to tell myself that I am not the only one out there who has used some seriously flawed logic due to guilt. So in case someone out there considers him or herself a closeted guilt weirdo like me, here are 5 ridiculous situations I’ve gotten into because of guilt. Perhaps you may be able to relate to one or two of them. (I really hope so, because then I can tell my therapist, “SUCK IT!”)
#1: The Fart Squat
My body does this weird thing where it refuses to burp. Like I’ve literally only burped once or twice in my life. So when I eat a lot of food (especially carb-filled or sugary junk food… so basically the only foods I eat), my belly inflates like a painful balloon. I either look 8 months pregnant (I wish this were an exaggeration) or like a giant child who has yet to shed any of her baby fat.
As you can imagine, this condition can be very problematic; not just because it is painful and I am a very gluttonous individual. Whenever anybody offers me seconds for food I love or exerts any effort whatsoever to prepare something delicious for me (even if it’s just scooping ice cream into a bowl), regardless of whether I’m ready to explode into a massive shart dystopia, I feel too guilty to refuse.
Everyone knows how much I enjoy eating certain foods, so they get really excited about giving it to me. So I feel bad about saying, “No, thank you.” I can suck it up, right? Well, when you suck things in, sh*t typically comes out the other end. (In most cases, anyway…) Take this recent situation as a perfect example…
I’ve been seeing this guy (I will not name him to spare him any embarrassment and in the hopes that he won’t know he’s the one I’m referring to in the story). He loves to pamper me, especially when it comes to food, and it’s AWESOME. Recently, he prepared a special night of pampering just for me. He grilled us two giant steaks, made mashed potatoes from scratch, and cooked some carrots to buttery perfection. (I only eat carrots if they’re cooked… Raw carrots are an insult to the eating experience.) He also bought Coca-Cola to drink (one of my favorite beverages, along with Mountain Dew… You know, in case y’all wanna send me any gifts or whatever).
It was the dream dinner. (The only thing missing was bacon… But he made that for me the next day, so it evened out.) It also stretched my belly circumference to maximum proportions. And then he brought out the ice cream, which he had bought specifically for the two of us to enjoy that night. And candy. And more Coca-Cola. It certainly wasn’t the first time this has happened to me. But he wanted to cuddle and watch a movie… Imagine wrapping your arms around someone and accidentally squeezing them just a little too tight until a very warm, smelly gas rises from the spooning point…
If I had gone home right then and there, my parents would’ve argued that I was pregnant until I got the ultrasound to prove otherwise. But instead of politely declining the offer of ice cream and candy heavenly goodness, I not only ate it, but I ate it in surplus. He was just so excited about giving me all the deliciousness I always love that I couldn’t disappoint him and didn’t want any of it to go to waste. I wanted him to know he had achieved his goal of giving me the best date night ever. However, my belly wanted to kill me, and I knew that it wouldn’t be those cute little farts that make boyfriends go “awwww!” It would be the slow, warm, sharty fart that makes everyone in the room want to DIE.
So AFTER I ate all the ice cream and candy, and chugged a couple more glasses of Coke, I calmly excused myself to the bathroom. I had about 40 seconds before he’d start to think I was dropping a giant deuce, which wouldn’t have been a very pleasant alternative. So I got right to it. I pulled down my pants and squatted really low to speed up the process (my ass only 2-3 inches above the floor). I had to waddle around the bathroom in circles a couple times to get it going. I was a squatting, gassy mass getting a serious leg workout. It was painful and smelly (I was in a confined space, after all), yet oh-so liberating. I had to go through this process about 10 times throughout the evening before I felt comfortable again.
A lot of work caused by some unrealistic fear about disappointing someone, huh?
#2: Gaga Broke
I love making my sisters happy. So when my younger sister Maria said she wanted to see Lady Gaga in concert in Toronto, I was all on board to make that dream come true. The problem? I was dirt broke. Like negative-10-dollars-in-the-bank kind of broke.
But I didn’t want to let my sister down, and I didn’t want to let anyone else in the family know about my financial problems because I didn’t want them to worry. So I did what every illogical, broke American does in these types of situations: I used a credit card.
I remember the night I bought the tickets. Maria and I were staying with our aunt in Chicago. She and I had called our mom a few hours earlier asking for her permission (since Maria wasn’t even 16 yet). We convinced her and Maria was over the moon. It would be her first concert ever, and it was going to be with one of the biggest pop stars ever.
I was half excited and half panicking. Of course, I didn’t let on that I was panicking. I pretended everything was fiiiiiine.
Later that night (after Maria and I walked through my aunt’s apartment in the dark as she slept, snickering at how overly organized she was and the giant bathroom closet containing an enormous supply of body washes and shampoos… she’s going to be just fine during COVID-19), I stayed awake late at my computer, sweating my organs out.
I navigated the website through which I had to buy the concert tickets. They were something like $80-$90 per person for the seats we wanted. (I know that sounds cheap for a Lady Gaga concert, but I WAS BROKE, DAMMIT.) I wasn’t even sure if the credit card I was using was going to work. I had already almost maxed out my credit limit. The amount left was almost exactly the total cost of the tickets. I took a deep breath and held it as I clicked the “confirm purchase” button.
Success! …but I was still holding my breath.
Cue the anxiety attack.
Keep in mind that I was in Chicago. What if I wanted to buy something? What if I needed to buy Maria something to eat? What if we got lost and I needed to pay for a cab? What if I missed my chance to be the greatest improviser on earth because I couldn’t pay to see a show at Second City???? (Okay, so even if I hadn’t paid for the concert tickets, I still wouldn’t have had the money to pay for that last one… BUT I STILL HAVE DREAMS.)
In the end, I have no regrets about taking my sister to that concert. (She legit burst into happy, emotional tears when Gaga appeared on stage.) But I do regret not talking to my parents about my financial situation and trying to figure out a more doable method for paying for the tickets.
But I felt too guilty to do so. I didn’t want to ruin the illusion that I was the sister that always came through and could make my sisters happy, no matter the cost. Like who cares if it meant not eating for two weeks, right? (I care. Good lord almighty do I care… My bloated belly can attest to that.)