Happy Rosh Hashana. Shana Tova. Happy New Year.
My new year’s resolution—and I rarely make these, by the way. AND I’m a Hebrew school drop-out—is to be less of an asshole about my Primal views.
So far it’s not working. I still bristle when I see smart, lovable people suffering chronic issues while stuffing their faces with crap. And I butt in when I shouldn’t, thinking I know better. Out of love, right? It’s still annoying and undermining. I wish I would stop. So the resolution.
I’ve been reading a lot of Primal/Paleo blogs. Free the Animal is one of my favorites. Richard Nikoley has a sharp, unapologetic bullshit radar, and I love that. Nikoley told me in a comment to my comment on his post about fundamentalist Baptist relatives calling his father a cult member for his Paleo ways, (um, did you get all that?) that my smuggery will wear off after a while. Hooray! I had commented to say that as a self-proclaimed born-again eater I can see how easily the pot would call the kettle black.
Not that it’s a kind thing to tell someone they’re a cult member. And um, not that I myself am a cult member. Ahem. Paleo/Primal does not fit the definition. Phew. But it is a relevant topic for discussion among Paleo eaters.
Because I’ve become part of a community that believes and behaves a certain specific way that many others disagree with or dismiss. It’s a little fringey maybe. Though it seems to be gaining in popularity. I think that’s because it makes intuitive sense if you take a moment to think about it.
I watched a horrible Jennifer Aniston movie (is that redundant?) with Swamp Chicken, a film that has nothing to do with Primal eating, and I started chewing my cuticles, which is unusual for me these days. Cuticle chewing is one of the things I’ve noticed has gone by the wayside since changing my eating habits. The wayside is also home to my formerly cloudy complexion, despair, extra padding and mood swings.
As Jason Bateman and Jennifer Aniston ran around New York City in their expensive wardrobes avoiding falling in love for eighty minutes I realized that along with feeding myself pate, bacon, eggs, collards, berries and heavy cream, I’ve also been gorging on blog posts, podcasts and books to the exclusion of everything else. Perhaps I am shoring up my resolve to win arguments against Primally-opposed individuals, even though most people have been incredibly supportive. Or maybe I’m marveling, giving myself liberal doses of OH MY GAGA revelation goosebumps. Or maybe I’m giving myself ammo for those people I want to save. Or maybe I’m keeping myself saturated with reasons to shout about this stuff from the rooftops.
So I chewed my cuticles and hoped that venturing out of Primal media wouldn’t mean my love for the stuff wears off. Or weaken my stance. It’s like this tiny dose of fluff made me think, am I overreacting? Am I maybe too weird and rigid about this stuff?
I felt guilty. And anxious.
But again, the floor remained on the floor, and I remained standing.
Maybe growing older has something to do with it, but most entertainment media has become mind-numbingly irrelevant to me lately. Look at it this way. If corprations drive the mainstream media, and I’m eating a bona fide non-corporate diet and subscribing to a lot of anti-corporate views—learning about all sorts of things they don’t tell you in Newsweek, then maybe I’ve become as marginal as a minority when it comes to watching sappy rom-coms.
I mean what is the frigging point? Other than distraction from the things that really matter. And money.
Well look at that. I’m a snob and an asshole! But seriously. Swamp Chicken and I wonder to each other how so many millions of dollars are wasted making such utter crap, how jillionaires like Aniston say yes. And I look at her with her perfect golden coif sitting on a bench in Central Park as the camera zooms in, or in a fancy cafe reciting pithy lines and I think, she devoted how much time to this shitfest? To press junkets and talk shows? Is this glamourous?
The grass on the other side has turned brown.
I never saw it coming, that learning about nutrition could keep me on the edge of my seat. Reading about people whose lives have drastically changed for the better by adopting a pre-agricultural diet jazzes me. Learning about the devolution of our health and food supply plagues me. Finding out more about Weston Price’s journey and indigenous tribes is a genuine thrill.
Wherever it leads me, I’ll follow.
And I’ll collect tiny pebbles of humility along the way, wherever I find them. To keep the assholiness at bay.
Peace out, good people.