For my forty-ninth birthday, I’ve gifted myself a story about a guy with a problem similar to my own. After writing this quirky piece, I’m no closer to knowing why this problem persists for me. At least I had fun writing. Enjoy!

“Happy birthday, Henry.”

“Oh! Thanks. Surprised you remembered.”

“Of course I remember. I’ve been seeing you for, going on…what? Five years now? I should hope I’d remember.”

“Yeah, but you have lots of patients. You remember all their birthdays?”

“Not all of them. Just the ones for whom their birthday is a trigger. You’re…what? Thirty-nine today?”

“You nailed it, Doctor S. Yer good.”

“So, how are you feeling?”

“Fine, fine.”

“Yeah? I notice you’re sitting on your hands. Is there a reason for that?”

“No, no reason. Just keeping them warm, I guess.”

“It’s July. It’s eighty-something degrees out. Your hands are cold?”

“Yeah…well, no.”

“Do you want to show me your hands?”

“Not really. Why do you want to see my hands?”

“Why don’t you want me to see them?”

“I didn’t say I don’t want you to see them. I’m just wondering why you’re interested in my hands all of a sudden.”

“Henry? I think you know why.”

“Fine. Here.”

“Yikes. You’ve been chewing your cuticles again.”

“Is that a big deal?”

“You tell me, Henry. Is it a big deal?”

“You know I hate when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Answer my question with another question. Especially when you know the answer.”

“So, what’s the answer, Henry? Is it a big deal that you’ve been biting your fingers?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? It’s been…what? A year since I’ve seen your fingers looking like that? I mean, your thumb is bleeding. You must have been nibbling right up to the moment you walked in here.”

“You got me. Guess I’m off the wagon.”

“What do you think triggered this? Is it because it’s your
birthday?”

“It’s not because of my birthday. Well, it’s sorta because of my birthday.”

“How so?”

“It’s been almost a year since I chewed my fingers. Would have been a year, tomorrow.”

“I see. A milestone.”

“Almost.”

“Hmmm. I have an idea of what’s happening here.”

“Yeah? What do you think is happening?”

“Mind if I share a story?”

“Mind? You know how much I love your stories.”

“You being sarcastic?”

“Maybe. Yes. No, not at all. Just tell the story.”

“Very well. It’s about a former patient. I’ll call her Remington.”

“Remington?”

“It’s not her real name.”

“No, I get that. But, if you’re gonna use a fake name, why make it atypical? Use something, like, Sarah or Rachel. But Remington?”

“Henry? Can I just tell the story?”

“Fine. Lay it on me.”

“Thank you. So, Remington came to see me because she was having trouble losing weight.”

“Let me guess. You told her she was eating her feelings?”

“Henry?”

“Sorry. Proceed, sir.”

“To answer your question, no, Remington’s problem had nothing to do with feelings. She simply loved food. So I recommended she take a cooking class.”

“You told a fat person to take a cooking class?”

“Henry.”

“Sorry. We’re not supposed to call people ‘fat’ these days.”

“Stop interrupting, please.”

“Crap. Sorry.”

“Remington’s issue was that she was disconnected from her food. She was eating takeout all the time, lots of it. By learning to make her own meals, I thought she would gain a better appreciation for food, be less likely to abuse it. More importantly, it would give her a sense of purpose.”

“Did it work?”
“It worked. Almost too well.”

“Like, how? She got too skinny?”

“No, she never became skinny, just got down to a healthier weight. The problem occurred when she realized she not only enjoyed cooking, she was also very good at it. Her first cooking instructor recommended she take more advanced classes, so she did. One day, she created a dish that was so good, she was encouraged to enter a cooking contest. Call it…the Framingham Cook Off.“

“Framingham?”

“That’s not the real name of the town.”

“Yeah, but, why Fr––”

“Henry?”

“Sorry. I get it. So Remington won the…Framingham Cook Off, I assume?”

“She did win. And then she won a couple more contests. She was so encouraged by her success, she decided to audition for a televised cooking competition.”

“Next Food Network Star?”

“No.”

“Top Chef?”

“Doesn’t matter which show it was––”

“I knew it! It was Top Chef, wasn’t it? I love that show. Did she make it? She made it, didn’t she? I probably saw Remington on TV…”

“Henry!”

“Sorry.”

“No, Remington didn’t qualify. She didn’t even make the first cut. Turns out, she was good enough to win small competitions, but against more experienced cooks, she was average at best.”

“Poor Remi. See? Now I feel like I know her well enough to give her a nickname. So what happened after that? Is Remi still cooking?”

“Yes, she is. But it was difficult for awhile. She was so crestfallen over her dismissal from the competition, she lost her love for cooking. She ‘fell off the wagon’, as you might say, stopped making her own meals, started eating takeout again.”

“She got fat…er, I mean, she got less healthy?”

“Yes, she gained back some of the weight she’d lost.”

“That’s a bummer. But, are you actually comparing my finger chewing to some lady pigging out on KFC?”

“You’re missing the point.”

“Enlighten me, please.”

“The point is, sometimes, when a person realizes they are good at a thing, the thing gets ruined by the expectation of how good the person could be.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“What don’t you believe?”

“I don’t believe you’re comparing the idea of me being good at not chewing my cuticles to someone being good at cooking.”

“It sounds a little stupid when you put it that way.”

“Because it is stupid.”

“Henry? Do you want to chew your fingers right now?”

“More than anything. I want to devour them. Truth is, while you’ve been regaling me with the tale of Chef Remington, I’ve been picking at some loose skin, and it’s ripe for biting.”

“Do it.”

“Seriously? I’m paying you to help me not give in to my compulsions; now you’re telling me to do it right in front of you?”

“Only because you say you really want to. More than anything, you said.”

“Yeah, but that’s only because…”

“Because, why? It’s your birthday, and you’ll bite if you want to?”

“Oh, you’re funny.”

“I have my moments. Here, I have a gift for you.”

“A box of Band-Aids? Mighty generous of you, Doctor.”

“I like giving things that are useful. Your bloody fingers tell me you could use them.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think this might be the most thoughtful gift anybody’s ever given me.”

“The gift comes with a wish, Henry.”

“Really? What sort of wish?”

“Anything you want. My suggestion? You should wish yourself to stop biting before you run out of Band-Aids.