I stop taking Topamax on Sunday night. I keep this transition a secret; in fact, I’m ashamed of it. I feel as though I have, yet again, started and abandoned a weight loss scheme … most likely because I lack the strength of character to stick with such a plan.
Monday morning, we get up early. For the first time in days, I don’t feel foggy. I catch myself humming in the shower and dancing a bit in front of the mirror. Later, I goose Clyde two or three times as he tries to comb his hair.
As we check out of the hotel, I have a bit of fun with the woman behind the counter. She responds with a shy giggle; we have a nice chat.
Once in our car, we drive out into the gray, overcast day. “Where do you want to go for breakfast?” I ask.
“You didn’t take Topamax last night,” Clyde says.
I freeze, busted. “You can tell?”
He nods. “I can tell.”
I drive several blocks in silence. “Did you like me better when I was on Topamax?” I hold my breath.
Clyde doesn’t hesitate. “No.“
Atlanta traffice whizzes past us. The smell of Clyde’s coffee fills the car. I imagine how my Einstein’s sun-dried tomato bagel will taste, smeared with just the right amount of lite cream cheese. I look forward to getting home, to posting these entries, to contacting clients, to resuming work on my novel.
Slowly, slowly, the world comes back to life … and so do I.