Saturday, February 4, 2012
No Salt, No Service
It's dreadful, truly.
It's not that I believe that food is medicine (medicine is medicine). Or that I need to rid myself of toxins (the liver is mighty handy in this regard). Nor do I subscribe to some general philosophy of cleansing, as if I were virtuously turning the power hose of my will upon the dirty porch of my soul.
But I do believe in calories. And I can't believe that all my clothes, even the dry-clean-only specimens, have shrunk in the wash. So: a month of no goodies. Or at least a week. For Pete's sake, just let me make it through the week.
I am most of a week in, and truth be told, considerably svelter. Alas, you cannot gobble svelte. Svelte is not delicious and chocolately. You can't swirl svelte in a glass.
Still, I'm forging ahead. Why in God's name, you ask, am I doing this to myself?
Stubbornness. Because the one thing that's become apparent, during this dull, dun, joyless, time of denial, is just how much of my emotional life takes place in the refrigerator. Need to complete a task? Reward with food! Sad? Console with food! Bored? Hello, stove! Happy? Celebrate with food!
There's that old saw about eating your feelings, but I don't think that's quite right. It's not so much that if I were to work out my myriad and not-particularly-fascinating emotional issues, I'd stop over-eating. It's that I'm not sure, away from food, I can conjure emotion at all. I'm still eating, of course, but without salt, food tastes beige. Life tastes beige. Like a drug addict coming down off a high, I'm experiencing a world leached of color.
I'm determined to stick around until the colors come back. Because -surely- there's more to my life than sugar. And salt. And tasty cocktails. And capers in an espresso glass with a tiny spoon.
But I'll be damned if I'm giving up caffeine.