I awakened this morning to a major food hangover. I tried to stretch and take a full, deep breath but my abdomen was distended to the point of restriction. My first conscious thought: “I can’t believe I did this to myself.”

The nice thing about a food hangover is that it’s not a real hangover and is more readily relieved. Last night was our monthly Friend Game Night, a recurring perfect storm in which I lose all sense of cerebral messages like, “Stop eating now. You’re full. Beyond full. Enough.” Happens every month.

This morning I decided to analyze the phenomenon rather than chide myself. I made a cup of green tea and took to the patio with my journal:

1. The longevity of these friendships, the level of comfort and familiarity allows me to drop my guard; all sense of self-regulation disappears.

2. The joy of story and laughter lifts my vibrational energy rendering me childlike, totally unable to check myself.

3. The food: an all-out-pitch-in. Colors-of-summer salad, fresh, garden-grown tomatoes stewed to perfection,  ham and real, Midwestern green beans slow-cooked with new potatoes.  And warm made-from-scratch cornbread with melty butter. And dessert. Always dessert.

It’s an environment that lends itself handily to second helpings–of everything–even dessert. And third and fourth helpings of buttery popcorn while the girls beat the boys at Sequence . . . again. Trash talking and giggling and staying out past midnight.

So today I sit on my patio in a spirit of gratitude for dear, old friends who love to cook and host and play Sequence and laugh over silly, silly stuff. I choose to focus on my full soul and ignore the food baby I bear.  I ponder that maybe I over-consume at this particular gathering every, single, time–not because I’m lacking, but because I’m blessed. Perhaps next month I might feast more on the love and laughter, passing on the second helpings at the buffet and consuming only a normal-human-sized serving of popcorn. Maybe. Just maybe.