It’s something about being around my family. One minute I was typing away and the next I found myself standing in front of the open refrigerator door, staring vacantly at its contents. I KNOW this is an exercise in futility. The closest thing to nutritious food in the Midwest is lunchmeat, iceberg lettuce, and white bread. And yet I persist. I actually have no memory of getting here, where I find myself rooted to the floor, clutching the door handle, panic rising as I scan the available choices. I can’t believe I just ate two slices of processed cheese food.