Sandwich Marathon, Part 1

It should have been a nice, 3400-calorie dinner. I threw 2 pounds of sphagettini into the boiling oily salt water and a can of sauce into a side pot, and proceeded to dig in. 4 plates, which should have gone down without a U-turn.

Unfortunately for me, I hadn't realized that the stomach goes by volume, not weight. Since the spaghettini had expanded through cooking, my stomach ran out of room at the end of the third plate. I couldn't get the rest of it down.

To be candid, a little of what I ate came up. Yep; five or so minutes after I had given up, my stomach has issued the final warning that some of what I had ingested needed to be evacuated. So, off to the toilet I went. I actually vomited like a momma bird: just a little, to get the tank down from extra-full to full. No more. It makes me wonder if birds use the same correction-from-overflow technique.

Flopping in this manner makes a person cautious the next time round. So, I stuck to a sandwich marathon in my bid to get (if not my weight, then) my stomach capacity up. Not counting an introductory ralf-down, I managed to get four peanut-butter-encrusted sandwiches down my gullet before taking the prudent way out.


Weight before climbing back up on the belly-bloat express: 236 pounds. The recent plateau phase may be no more.