Attack!

Ever since we adopted our feisty, little kitten, Frankie Pandora Pickles Henderson-Webber, the word “feral” is on my mind. Frankie is not entirely untamed: She snuggles when she wants to. She has a natural curiosity about the toilet bowl. She eats and drinks out of the dish. She poops in the poop box. And on rare occasions, she even leaves our older, lazy cat, Mr. Leo, alone.
But other than that... I think she is merely one level of refinement above an alley cat with ruffled fur and a lust for blood. I have scratches covering my ams. To avoid catching anything from my massage clients, I have taken to whitewashing my arms with New Skin. New Skin is awesome, but when a person washes her hands as often as I do in my line of work, New Skin starts to flake off, and then I really look like I have something wrong with me.
But in any case, I've been analyzing what it would mean to be a feral person. Wild. Ravenous.
On a quasi-related note, I saw this one YouTube video where a crack addict was tethered to a post (he complied completely at the time). His crack stash was placed just out of the man's reach. The video was edited to make the hours look like moments. I watched as this man came down. He did everything but chew his own leg off in attempts to get the drugs. He begged and pleaded and stretched himself as far as his limbs would allow until he was laying with his belly flat on the pavement. This video was suggested to me by a friend who thought I'd think it was funny since the tethered man was reminiscent of a more hyper-active Chris Tucker. And believe me, I love Chris Tucker. But this just wasn't an amusing video. I felt really sad afterward. I couldn't figure out if this person was feral or just ill. In any case, I hope what you young and impressionable readers take away from this anecdote is steal cars, get in bar fights, cheat on your significant other with his or her best friend if you have to, but please don't do any of the scary drugs. Nancy Reagan will step off her soap box now and continue with her fluff article about feral cats. But seriously, don't do crack.
If I was left to my own devices, without technology, companionship, civilization or domestication... No coffee, no TV, not a single luxury... How would I live my life? Certainly I would learn how to build a decent fire for the first time, despite the years of being a camp councilor and the youngest sibling to two Eagle scouts. But let's just assume that building an iPod out of coconuts is out of my realm of capabilities.
I suppose all the time I used to spend grooming myself, doing laundry, scooping cat poop, procrastinating exercise, microwaving my dinners and working would be freed up. Although, that same amount of time would more than likely be redistributed to killing stuff, finding berries and fashioning shoes out of tree bark and my own hair. Oh, yes, and continuously smearing myself with mud so that my hair-free hide wouldn't become sunburned. Evolution. Puh. I have too much hair to fit in with the human females, but not enough to do any sort of animalistic good. I'm in a fuzziness limbo.
Feral people would not get excited about the idea of owning a heated foot spa to replace Ol' Bessy (my former foot spa, who desperately wants to retire). Feral people chew off their toenails with their tartar-stained teeth. Grrr. Snort, snort.
However, feral people don't have to eat as many Tums as I do to ward off the indigestion caused by the anxiety caused by the awkward conversations at parties and restless people in line behind me at the grocery store. Feral people may have to worry about getting eaten by predators, but they don't have to worry about romantic rival bank tellers or inevitable future colonoscopies or getting cornered at a bar and aggressively badgered about politics. Feral people might have to worry about hoof and mouth, but we regular people have to worry about delicate matters such as foot in mouth.
But the long and short of it is, no matter how miserable or enjoyable being a wild woman would be, I can't run off to the wilderness to find my inner Nell. I have just adopted a kitten, who needs a lot of attention, discipline, cuddling so that she turns out well. So she will stop destroying everything in our apartment from my apple-slice window garland to Brian's decorative beer stein collection to Mr. Leo's fragile self-image. Who knows what manic mischief she could be up to right now?

Mmmm.... Post-It Notes...

Well, I made it a whole week without soda. Okay, that's a lie. I was eating a piece of bread a couple days ago. A piece got lodged in my throat all goofy. In my panic, I took a sip of the nearest beverage, which was a paper cup of old and flat Diet Coke that had been sitting on the kitchen counter for Zues knows how long. I can truthfully say that I didn't enjoy any soda this week.
Giving up an unhealthy diet is the opposite of giving up any other addiction. With smoking for example, the first week is the hardest. I once saw a new non-smoker who was trying desperately to “catch his nic-fit” apply multiple nicotine patches all at once. This guy was quite inebriated and had to be sent to the emergency room, but hey, I guess that's the college experience for some folks. In any case, I assume it's difficult to say the least.
Conversely, dieting is easiest in the first week for a lot of people. It's exciting imagining yourself all foxified. All eyes are on you. Nobody puts baby in a corner. The Baywatch theme is your background music and the world is your naturally-delicious and nutritious tomato! You're motivated to keep track of your caloric intake or points or whatever your strategy is. You buy hand weights and one of those cheesy sweat bands so that sweat doesn't drip in your eyes. Maybe I don't sweat enough, but I have never had the need to take precautions against scalp sweat getting in my eyes. That's what my Groucho Marx eyebrows are for. What can I say? Genetics were good to me.
But it's the second week. The third week. The forth week. Then it gets hard. In earlier attempts of mine to get healthy, the excitement tapered off so much, I eventually forgot that I was on a diet in the first place. That is, until the next time I had to go swimsuit shopping. Who knows how many times I vowed to starve myself until I looked like Kate Moss. I'm too young to have to wear a swimsuit with the ruffle skirt! Those who own ruffle-skirted swimsuits: please do not be offended. Unless you were around for the American Civil War, you're too young too.
I'm hoping that for me, this new attempt at giving up unhealthy foods is not a diet, but a change in my lifestyle. And maybe since I am consciously giving something up each week (whether it's as broad as red meat of as specific as Twinkies), I won't forget that I'm on a diet.
Also, I intend to be forgiving of myself. If I fall off the wagon and start eating sticks of butter like Snickers bars and begin keg standing corn syrup, I need to assess my situation, avoid guilt and simply amend the bad behavior.
Although I have never had a problem with adjusting the menus at any of my home events for guests who have special dietary needs, some people seem to seethe genuine hatred for those who “just need to be difficult.” That's just not very hospitable, is it Emily Post? Just kidding. I realize it's hard to be accommodating for Gluten-Free Susie, Nut Allergy Joe, Vegan Billy, No Artificial Coloring Carl and Diabetic Phyllis. It's difficult, true. But that's part of the fun and challenge in being a good host or hostess. Deal with it. *Snaps fingers with attitude*
I realize others probably don't share my enthusiasm to be all-accommodating. I also realize a good portion of my friends and family have seen me eat like a sumo wrestler with a death wish in the past. They've seen me pick my scabs, sit in smoke-filled bars, listen to my music too loud, drive my vehicles into snowbanks, chemically process my hair, chew on my germy fingernails, accidentally roller skate into traffic on several occasions, absentmindedly eat Post-It notes and a million other unhealthy things that range in scale of repulsion. These people might be upset if I suddenly want to make special requests because what they want to prepare at their house for dinner isn't healthy enough for my fancy-pants standards.
So, I intend to eat healthy, yes. But within the parameters of my lifestyle. I'm giving up things each week out of my regular diet, but if I'm at my parent's house and she's serving roast beef, well, I'm going to eat some damned roast beef... And like it! I'm not aiming to make changes to be a rebel. That's what the nose ring is for. I just want to feel better and invest in something. Since I don't have funds to invest in the stock market, I'll invest in my health.

The Phatness

Never have I denied that I. Love. Food. The streets of heaven are not paved in gold, folks, they are paved with bacon-wrapped cheese curds with Raisinette sprinkles and a shoulder made out of warm peach pie. The rivers in heaven rush with chocolate syrup-infused Coca-Cola. The skies precipitate fluffy popcorn with movie theater butter and mocha latte frappe rain drops. And the cherry Jell-O is so good in heaven, even the horses love it.
But back on Earth... There are consequences to living the lifestyle of the fried and the sugary. I am realizing the importance of not sending this body to my glucose-laden heaven too quickly. The whole sad truth of the situation is that people of my generation and younger will be the first group of people who will simply not live as long of a life as our parents. Like, uh... Considering my parents' environments in which they were raised, that is a pretty drastic statement. For my parents' generation, smoking really was cool. Like, super-cool. Like, I dare you to find a man today who looks as attractive in a pair of dirty pants as the Marlboro Man did. My parents' generation were raised pre-Nancy Reagan's “Just Say No” campaign, which most of us admittedly outwardly mock, but probably secretly are appreciative for. My parents' generation were not born into a culture that was seriously conscious about things like AIDS and other communicable diseases. They have lived through more wars. They thought mercury was a fun thing to play with, you know, with their bare hands. And as children, they gleefully ran behind the pesticide-spraying vehicles.
And they are expected to live longer lifespans than my generation. My generation: the supposed organic food-pushing, McDonald's bashing, gym class advocating, D.A.R.E. students are not projected to live as long as our parents. Because of what we do and don't do to our bodies. That is completely horrifying to me.
I'm not saying that it's completely our fault, although most of it probably is. The things they do to our food before the grocers even see it is quite simply one of the most terrifying subjects I have ever been made aware of. Padre is probably rolling his eyes right about here. He tends to write off most conspiracy theories as coming from either hippies or people who wear tin foil hats to keep the government out of their thoughts. But I subscribe wholeheartedly. Not to the tin foil hat part, but the part about our food being progressively less good for us. I believe it, because people are in a position to make money. The processes our food goes through is a problem that needs to find a solution. I use a passive sentence here, because I am not sure how to fix this problem. The politics of food processing is far beyond my intellect.
The only way I can conceive is to express my hope for healthier foods by means of boycott. It is my new goal that every week, I am going to eliminate one unhealthy thing out of my diet. Right about here I should reiterate my compassion for a world made out bacon. I have no desire to become that emaciated girl at the party who stinks like garlic and clove oil and hasn't eaten anything besides her personal garden's asparagus since 1994.
I don't want to be that person, no. But I don't want to be a statistic either. I don't want to develop some horrible ailment that will affect my whole life. Eating the wrong things and living what those pesky gym teachers refer to as a “sedentary lifestyle” has made me feel less than what I can. I am not just talking about adverse affects on my appearance and self-esteem either. Yes, my body type has kept me out of a sting bikini thus far, but there is no reason for me to be walking around with a burlap sack over my head. I have good physical attributes: a pretty symmetrical face, decent hygiene and let's just say that I've never had any trouble holding up a tube top. But I want to feel better. I want my body to work better. I want to be able to survive this zombie apocalypse my friends keep talking about.
So, I am sitting here typing. Drinking my very last chocolate syrup-infused Coca-Cola (until I get to heaven). This week I am forever giving up all soda except for club. Next week, red meat. :( I'm sure there will be times I fall off the wagon. Hopefully the wagon is something I can get back on with ease, knowing that the wagon drives on roads not yet made of bacon.