Honest Abe opened a do-nut shop down the street and around the corner from my house. In the earliest morning the smell of that hot, sweet, frying goodness saturates the air. When I was a girl, I could eat ALL of the hot do-nuts, and still have begged for more. So light, so sweet, they will never fill you up. Luckily I was tall then and blessed with the supercharged metabolism of youth. A do-nut shop in my neighborhood…it would have been heaven.
Now, in addition to the Age-Defeats-Metabolism syndrome, I have discovered even one do-nut makes me nauseous. What mean tricks that old coyote Life holds in store for us.
The question: Who is luckier? The girl who loves do-nuts and lives next door to the do-nut shop, or the girl who loves do-nuts, lives next door to the do-nut shop, and cannot eat them?
An addendum: In my own interpretation of The Tibetan Book of the Dead, after the death of the physical body, the consciousness floats around in different realms until something attracts its attention, then wham-o, back in life, and hope you didn’t land in a pig sty. Here’s my problem…even though do-nuts make me sick, when I smell them cooking in the early morning air, I want one. Or twenty. Every time. So if I’m floating around in some bardo and Honest Abe fires up his grease vats, whoever is trying to conceive, watch out…here comes your baby flying home.