The weekend is upon us. This leaves only 5 short days of unrestricted food & alcohol intake before I re-start the pre-op diet on Wednesday morning. Truth be told, I was doing so well on the post Florida plan, that I am feeling real guilty about breaking it. I lost close to 13 pounds in 14 days and could actually notice the difference. As mentioned before, this is only a fly on an elephant's butt, but I see tangible evidence of success. I can now fit comfortably in my Level 2 emergency fat pants. Level 2 is the outside range of any clothes that I posses that will get me through a work week. Thankfully, I did not have to invoke Level 3 emergency protocols. That consists of two pairs of funky colored zubaz pants from the 80's and a couple of one size fits most "I'm with stupid" sweatshirts. And God forbid I ever hit Level 4. I have only 2 items there, a moo moo and a beach towel, neither of which works in corporate America.
My plans are just about set for my final fling. Friday, Blackhawks game in the city (maybe late night run to Gene & Judes?) Saturday, fancy soiree at the country club complete with cocktails, heavy hors d'oeuvres and vintage wines. Sunday TBD. I am actively searching for a place with the best liguini & red clam sauce in the suburbs. Monday TBD. I will probably opt for a simple home cooked meal and a store bought dessert. That brings us to the Last Supper.
Emails, calls and texts rapidly spread the word of my final surgery date. My close friends and compatriots decided that I should go out with a bang! So Gibson's Steakhouse in Oakbrook it is. The usual suspects and a few mystery guests will gather to bid adieu' to the "ass of the century". (You can construe that in several ways. For the purposes of this column, it shall refer to the massive blob on which I sit and not to my charming persona).
I called for the reservations.
"Gibson's Oakbrook. This is Candy. May I help you?" she politely asked.
"Candy huh....sweet name. I need to make a reservation for Tuesday evening, around 7."
"For how many?" she asked.
"A lot. The word is still spreading. People may be flying in from every continent other than Antarctica." I informed her.
"Wow. Is this a special occasion?" she sweetly inquired.
Because in my twisted little world, I believe this should be international news, I am once again flabbergasted that she has no clue.
"You mean you haven't heard about the Last Supper?" I quizzically asked.
"The Jesus dinner?" she wryly inquired. "No! It's a celebration with friends and followers of my last meal." I said.
"You mean like the Jesus dinner." she shot back.
I could see this spunky youngster wasn't getting it so I just reserved a room and got done with it. But it does make one wonder. With all due reverence to the Prince of Peace, my Last Supper is much the same from a human angle. It will be the last time, for a long time, that I can gather with a bunch of great friends and share a great meal and a few adult beverages. Thankfully, these gatherings are more about the friends than the food. However, it would be nice if I could turn the water into a nice Cabernet. It would save us a fortune.
More "soon come".
jt
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