elvis, pineapples and pizza

In the book Pizza, Pigs and Poetry, Jack Prelutzky asks, “Have you ever written a poem about a pizza?” Well, no. But I can cook up some prose.

Here goes: It was January 8, 1999. While at work I ordered a pizza for lunch. A whole pizza. Just for me. It was Elvis‘ birthday so I thought I’d celebrate by eating pineapple on my pizza for the first time. A little Blue Hawaii flare.
Surprisingly, I ate the pizza by myself and didn’t blow up like hot air balloon. Before I ordered a luau for lunch that day, I tried to lose a few but something didn’t fit right. And it wasn’t just my jeans. Why didn’t I feel guilty for eating so much?
When I ate the juicy fibers of the pineapple with the cheesy saucy crust, I was happy. Little did I know I was pregnant with my first child. I didn’t find that out until seventeen days later. That day I ate my pizza in utter bliss though I didn’t know why I was so happy.
I was bingeing, after all. Ruining my figure. I took acting classes at the time and the camera already packed on pounds. My coach noticed and told me to drop a few. Maybe it was the rebel in me or the growing life inside of me that said, “Hey! What the heck is wrong with you? Since when do you let someone else’s ideals tell you what to do?”
Since then it’s hard for me to pack away a whole pizza in one sitting. I doubt that bliss will visit me again while eating. Instead it transferred into motherhood which I could never fit into a pie.
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