So, I’m sitting at my desk, waiting to tuck into a steaming hot and late afternoon lunch, noticing the piles of projects absolutely everywhere, answering email, coaxing the space heater into service, yet again, and recommitting myself to a life worth living even if infrequently examined when, all of a sudden, the hilarity of it all tickles my funnybone and I start laughing out loud. Never mind there are people, academics even, outside who know A) I’m in here alone and B) I’m not on the phone. Never mind that the laughter has caused my feet to slip off the local phone book that has been pressed into service as a foot rest and the chair to back into the outlet where the temperamental space heater is tenuously connected. Only the laughter matters. It is long overdue. As I wrestle the chopsticks out of their wrapping and pry them apart, being careful to create enough friction between them to dispense with any splinters, it occurs to me that now, at the butt end of the semesters that I am taking and giving, at the end of my 78th day of fasting – but who’s counting. (Not in a row, mind you, once a week for the past year and a half or so, give or take the days I’d forgotten I was fasting and stuffed the closest thing to a food group in my gullet, or the weeks before each Thanksgiving where my entire church takes the cure). Yep, now’s the perfect time to start that book I’ve been meaning to write. You know the one: The diet for a simple idiot, a.k.a. Everything I Know About Dieting I Learned From My Chopsticks and it’s equally enlightened prequel, Chew. Well, I thought it was the perfect time to put on what I’d been putting off but then I looked at my desk, got distracted by the noodles falling through my chopsticks and a student knocked on the door.