This could be the very minute I'm aware I'm alive

Everyone knows that the secondary reason for any travel is to bring back food that can only be had regionally. (The primary reason for travel is the usual — business, vacation, etc.) .

Before there were Krispy Kreme stores in our area, a trip to the SFO or LAS always resulted in a couple boxes of delicious donuts that were ingested (inhaled?) almost immediately. Once we had our own KKs, we started bringing them to Hawaii with us, and returning with the most delightful Kona coffee.

I've had an In-n-Out burger before I ever went to In-n-Out, and a Sumo Burger from the only Bob's Big Boy in Hawaii (conveniently located near the airport in Mapunapuna).

And I returned triumphantly on Friday night with a baker's dozen of Chik-Fil-A.

The conversation at the airport concession went like this:

Me (holding up my purse): How many Chik'n sandwiches do you think I could fit in here?
Her: Uh . . . 3?
Me: . . . hmmm . . .
Her: Maybe four or five?
Me: Give me a dozen.
Her: (pause, stare, stare, pause)
Her: Are you for real?

I got nine in the purse (it's really more of a satchel, I suppose, about the size of a surplus military map bag) and four kind of poking out of my laptop bag. I was packing an extra one from a little earlier, before I got my orders, in case you're counting.

Lucky for Guillermo, he had a closing shift at Giant Bookstore A that night, and scored the first handout shortly after I deplaned. (I expect some White Castle when you come through Newark on your way back, homeslice!) The fridge is still pretty well stocked and the Chik'n-y goodness continues.

. . .

Speaking of food and deliciousness, I have managed to avoid the most decadent of decadents and am now 6.25 to goal. What is really awesome about that is that by almost any metric, I am in the "normal weight" category now — though I do admit that I am still quite soft around the edges and to be a truly squarely healthy weight, I'd need to drop another 15. But I haven't been that since I was 15.

What's funny is that half of my sisters are like me: sort of soft with a sturdy bone structure. The other half are skinny as all hell. Luckily, both kinds are bootilicious.

Someone once told me that looking at my family was like a study in the diversity to be found just between two sets of genes. Some tall, some short; some freckled, some not; some thin, some chubby; some smart, some not; some with a crazy sense of humor, some humorless; some with much worse vision than others; some left-handed, some right-handed.

There are just two constants that I can think of:

1) We all have the same fucking eyebrows. It's kind of weird, when you consider the complete differences between us otherwise.

2) There is a wristbone we have (I'm guessing the lunate) that sticks up from the back of our hands. It's not gross or anything and usually not noticeable by the layperson upon casual inspection. It's usually only revealed if I flex my palm down towards my wrist or tell someone to feel for it specifically.

I went to the doctor once for an unrelated hand thing (a lump between the joints of my left ring-finger that was determined to be a cyst and went away on its own as predicted after I stopped using it so much) and as he was looking at my hands, he felt my wristbones and said, "Have you noticed these? We should check them out more closely. Are they bothering you?"

When I told him they were in fact bones that I had had my entire life and that everyone in my family had these bones (except my dad, we get them from my mom, I guess), he was more than a little sheepish.

Which is weird, right?

I remain convinced that other people have these sticking-out wristbones, but no one will admit to it. It doesn't help that every time I show someone what I mean, they always think I'm a freak of some kind from a family of wrist-freaks.

If you are reading this, there's a good chance that I've pointed out this bone to you and you freaked out about it or that you're saying to yourself, "What that F is she talking about? I never noticed anything like that," and that when you ask and I show you, you will freak out about me and my family of wrist-freaks.

. . .

Unrelated but awesome: There is a guy who lives across the street with a hook for a hand.

Let me repeat that: There is a guy who lives across the street (from me!) with a hook for a hand.

And he drives a mini-van.