I’m not a big fan of pie.
I don’t like banana cream pie or cherry pie. Pumpkin pie is just disgusting. Blueberry pie is okay. Apple pie is decent, but only if it’s hot. I think crust is pretty tastleless, too.
Okay, now that most of you are done picking your chins up off the floor and closing your widened eyes, I can continue. Unless you haven’t forgiven me for that thing about pumpkin pie.
I hope we can all move past that.
We’re good? Okay.
Thanksgiving is a time for pie. Thanksgiving is practically synonymous with pie. Yet on Thanksgiving, I didn’t want any.
At the end of the evening, my husband asked me why I didn’t have a slice of apple that day: “It’s Thanksgiving! The one day set aside to eat pie. Why couldn’t you have it today?”
He didn’t ask it in an accusing, “you’re so disordered” kind of way, but there were shades of worry and confusion in his words.
(Of course, this is from a man who has never met a pie he doesn’t like.)
I wasn’t disturbed in the slightest, though. Yes, I didn’t have pie on Thanksgiving, but I did go home and have a bowl of ice cream. Because I love ice cream. Because that’s what I wanted.
Husband: But you have ice cream all the time. Why wouldn’t you have pie instead, just on this one day?
Me: Because I didn’t want it.
Husband: Then just say you don’t like apple pie.
Me: But I do like apple pie. I just don’t love it. It’s okay. It’s meh. So I didn’t want it.
Husband: But it’s Thanksgiving! Can’t you make an exception this one day?
Yes, it was Thanksgiving. That’s a valid point. And if the traditional Thanksgiving dessert was brownies or cupcakes or trifle or cake or cookies, I’d have had some. I’d have decorated those cookies to look like a turkey and even let out a big “gobble gobble” after I was done eating.
Because I like those desserts. I’m a fan of them.
I’m not a big fan of pie. I know that now. It’s an honest opinion, too, not like the way I used to say that I hated cake and hamburgers. Those were total lies, brought on by utter fear. Brought on by a disease.
(Because man, do I love cake and hamburgers!)
I can tell now when my brain is telling me lies and when it’s being honest. I know how to listen to what my body wants. I know how to analyze my brain.
But sometimes I analyze it too much.
Sometimes being “recovered,” or “recovering,” or whatever you want to call it, is confusing. My husband is influenced by my history of making clouded choices. I’m still influenced by that history of making clouded choices.
Sometimes, even though I know I’m better, I still overthink myself. I wonder if I’m making the decision to go fo run because I want to burn calories. Or if I’m having yogurt for a snack because it’s “lighter” than something else.
Because those used to be the reasons that I did everything. And even now, maybe my mind will flitter by them sometimes.
But a hummingbird doesn’t alway settle upon every flower. It picks the ones with the highest sugar content and drinks from those. The other flowers are rejected. Shunned. Overlooked.
That’s the way it is for me. I’m not even tempted by the lesser flowers anymore. Most of the time, I don’t even see them.
I still know that they’re there, though. They poisoned me once and I know they can poison me again. So I’m cautious. I overthink things. I wonder if I’m doing things for unhealthy reasons. Sometimes others think that, too.
And that’s not necessarily an awful thing. I’m not offended or angry that my husband asked me why I wasn’t having pie. It’s understandable. But not following a holiday tradition isn’t a cause for concern anymore.
Most of the time, a slice of pie is just a slice of pie.
Or, better yet, a bowl of ice cream.