Some time ago, a women named Elizabeth Gilbert wrote a book called Eat, Pray, Love. Everyone except me read it, and then it was made into a movie starring Julia Roberts, and everyone except me saw it. A lot of people, though, associate India with the book/movie, as evidenced by the co-worker who keeps asking me when I’m leaving to go “eat, pray, love or whatever.”
Here’s what I knew about the story: a woman goes on a journey, and on that journey she goes to India. Thanks to Wikipedia, here’s what I now know about the story: the author finds herself devastated at the end of a relationship. She wants to travel. Conveniently, she is a writer and her publisher pays for a year-long trip in advance. (Shouldn’t we all be so lucky?)
She spends four months in Italy, eating and enjoying life (“Eat”). She spends three months in India, finding her spirituality (“Pray”). She ends the year in Bali, looking for “balance” of the two and found love (“Love”) in the form of a dashing Brazilian factory owner.
Flash forward to last night, when my sweet friends (they’re my neighbors, too), presented me with this hilarious and wonderful going away present:
Eat: Well, that’s an Eat, Pray, Love t-shirt. Naturally.
Pray: Hand sanitizing spray and wipes. Why? To pray that I don’t get Delhi Belly. (What’s a gift without a poop joke? Not a good gift, that’s what.)
Love: A tiny framed photo of Oklahoma City’s Tower Theater, a fixture of 23rd St., a major thoroughfare of our neighborhood. “Remember you’re loved by us,” they said. (Aww.)
It was all wrapped up in a copy of my biscuits and gravy story from The Oklahoman, complete with notes from each of them. Some of them are not suitable for print. I’m framing it anyway. Incredibly, they didn’t doodle a mustache on my face. Let’s all commend them for the restraint they showed.