Sort-of cravings and my new superpower

I am highly susceptible to the power of suggestion. Well, at least the little nugget is.

Saturday I was sitting on the couch at my mom’s, and a commercial for Campbell’s tomato soup came on. I really want tomato soup, I thought. Later, I also expressed a craving for Lorna Doone shortbread cookies. (De. Li. Cious.) “You’re definitely pregnant,” Brian said.

Here’s the problem – I can’t actually eat the tomato soup. It smelled heavenly when I made it (1:1 soup and water, stay away milk fans), and the first spoonful was just perfect. After that, though, the soup started to taste less like the marinara in my favorite lasagna and more like the ketchup I dipped a fry into at Wendy’s and promptly rejected. I gave it another go with some bread for dipping, but it was no use…for the moment, no more straight tomato soup for me.

I’ve been having a lot of those “sort-of” cravings, where I swear I really want one thing in particular to eat or drink but balk when I actually have it in front of me. None of my desires are extraordinary or too stereotypical (my only reference to ice cream and pickles was a TOTAL JOKE), they’re just…imaginary?

And it gets better – I have smell aversions to food that I desperately want to eat. Pasta salad was this week’s experiment. I can eat it just fine, no side effects, but that’s only if I can handle the smell long enough to get it on my plate.

The best part of all of this, so far, is my brand new superpower: I can tell that you’ve been drinking, even if I can’t smell anything else on your breath. (It’s like I have ESPN or something!)

Disgusting, right?

Poor Brian – on three different occasions he’s leaned in to give me a kiss, only for me to cringe and ward off the beer breath like that whole vampires-and-garlic thing. It isn’t as if he’s downing a case, either; we’re talking a single beer, four hours beforehand, with a cup of chili in between. I didn’t smell the chili, but I caught the beer as if he’d just chugged it before walking in the door. I’ve determined a compromise, however: if he starts drinking good beer, I’ll put up with the smell of it.

At least I can still handle Gatorade. I’d be sad if I had to give that up.

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