Airport Limbo

Here's my current situation: I have traveled to a new land, one in which I will no longer eat emotionally. It has been a long, exhausting journey, and I am still half loopy from the Dramamine I took to keep from becoming ill on the journey. The plane lands and I gather my tote bag from under the seat in front of me and take my carry-on from the bin above me. I walk down the ramp toward the interior of the airport, and with every step, I can feel my will becoming stronger. This is it. I am going to end this. Forever.

I walk confidently toward the only obstacle I have left: passport control. I approach the stern-looking German in charge (seriously, who better to represent my subconscious than a stern-looking German?) and hand him my passport. He looks at it, glances at me, slams the passport down firmly and says, "Nein!"

"But my papers are all in order," I plead. "My passport is here. I have photo ID. You have to let me in."

"Nein!!" he says more firmly.

I gaze past his broad shoulders to the beautiful countryside behind him. I see a pastoral landscape. Peaceful. Filled with lovely mountain lakes, Adirondack chairs on expansive porches, meditative walkways, biking trails, lots of cats and dogs waiting to be loved. Everything one could want during a time of anxiety or emotional upheaval to calm oneself with something beyond the siren call of food.

I look back at the passport control agent. "Why?" I ask.

"You are not yet ready," he says matter-of-factly. "You are to stay here and learn what you need to learn until it is time to enter this land. Now turn around. Schnell, schnell! Next!"

I turn slowly, dejected, and look around at the holding area in which I am to remain. The room that surrounds me is both my worst nightmare and my wildest food fantasy. Surrounding me on all sides is -- what else -- food. Tables are stacked with the finest marzipan, women hand out samples of every flavor of pie imaginable, and freshly baked cookies are stacked sky high on silver trays. There is an entire table with authentic Key lime pie, while another is devoted to nothing but piles of fudgy brownies. Trays of scones and danishes are surrounded by muffins as large as a baby's head. Approximately every other delectable food table is followed by a coffee kiosk, serving coffee, latte, cappuccino, and tea. Tables with books of poetry, works of great literature, and blank journals are set up in the middle of a grand courtyard, encouraging the patrons of this vast wonderland of sweets to get comfortable and stay put, eating and drinking for as long as possible.

I look around and slowly come to the realization that I have been sent to my own personal hell.