I finally found it. I’ve been looking for it since last night. I don’t even know how it came up. I was talking with the kids after dinner. We had fish—a nice frozen white filet of some sort from Trader Joe’s that I’d defrosted in the fridge and refroze about three times before finally committing to the thing. I hate eating fish when it’s raining. It’s too much water element, you know? It depresses me. And I always think I’ve scored the deal of the century buying a frozen fish filet at Trader Joe’s, but the things are still like six dollars a pound which ain’t cheap.
In therapy last week—oh by the way, I quit my new daddy-figure therapist and returned to my former gal, a lovely petite Italian Jewess who’s never heard of Damages but knows who Charlize Theron is. We talk about dreams and my favorite TV shows, see. And even though it’s rule #3,257 in the earth’s handbook of what not to do, I tell you anyway: I had this dream that Charlize and I were BFF, shopping at Lancome together. Well, she was shopping, and I was watching. She spent $3,990. Shocker, right? The kicker was that I wasn’t jealous of her. AT ALL. We’re talking me and jealousy, and Charlize Theron! What a good dream that was. I was so overcome with my confidence and maturity that I ached to blog about it. Too bad she didn’t want me to. But then I woke up! Sometimes this is a good thing.
Both posts deal with my latest dietary development—the sad and slightly mortifying fact that my diet may not actually be the magic bullet I’d yearned for, the magic bullet it felt like for a few months there, the very one I’ve been blogging about for almost a year, when I started in July, 2011.
I am delirious (not kidding) to announce that one of my dreams has come true—I have been interviewed! By one of my fave peeps on the Main Line—yoga teacher, prolific spiritual tweeter, Hindu mythology expert and podcaster extraordinaire, Sitaram Das who I know as Daniel Shankin. We discuss weighty matters like Paleo, the hero’s journey, the creative spirit and heroically dealing with eleven rejections on my current novel. Listen to it here.
I used to blog about Daniel back in the yoga day. I love what Daniel brings to the mat, namely sardonic wit, a self-deprecating sense of his own humanity and humor, and an encyclopedic knowledge of myth. He mentions these blog posts during the podcast so here they are. How convenient! I’m not going to say anymore. Okay just one more thing. Daniel has a pretty cat named Little Sweetie.
There are times when this happens: I write a blog post and then hours later, usually in the middle of the night, I wake in a panicky sheen. Wide-eyed in the pitch black I think, what the fuck did I put out there? What the hell is my deal? Why did I insist on sharing THAT? I pad into the bathroom and pee, reminding myself that I am human. I give myself a hug. Then I crack open the laptop and delete the sentence, word or paragraph, creep back to bed and fall asleep praying nobody read it.
I have deleted entire posts in this taut, teeming state of mind. And then I regret deleting. I regret it because I always envision one hater. This hater assumes different forms but he/she always thinks the same about me: that I am an idiot. No one’s ever said as much. Sure I’ve had the odd few who ask me, “How can you share all that personal stuff?” But they don’t usually know me very well. If they did, they wouldn’t need to ask. It’s in my DNA.
It’s shameful how scarcely I blog these days. I want to do it more often, to stoke the anemic flame of my online existence, to practice my craft for a reader who is not Bryan, to cultivate a conversation with you.
The good news is that I’m spending my non-blogging time being a more or less decent housewife and mother. Or maybe that’s not even true. (*See previous post.) No, the weather is warm and I’ve been taking hour-long brisk walks, lip-syching with the cast of Glee. These walks help me keep in shape for my new fitness regime—my kettlebells class. I go once a week and it’s one hour of ass-kicking swinging fun. We do routines with names like Turkish Get-Up, and well, I can’t remember any others. If I were doing Crossfit, which I am not because I can’t afford it and it’s just far enough away from my house to be a pain in the ass, I might be doing routines with names like Nasty Girl. Doesn’t that sound like waist-whittling fun? I think it might kill me.
Here’s a little pattern I have sussed out over the weeks: I have a sublime time by myself, writing say, or taking an epic, hour-long walk through hilly little neighborhoods with winding streets, old growth trees and peeling tudors and Dutch colonials. Maybe I’m just sitting on a comfortable chair with the dog on my lap, reading a good book. And then a kid, one of mine, say, wakes up, or is picked up from school, or a playdate, by me of course, and that peace I’d just been cultivating, luxuriating in, gets trashed like a hotel room by Keith Richards circa 1972.
I thought I’d write while in a white foamy rage so you can see why I got so fucking rah-rah over the Primal diet. I still think it works, by the way. I have six months of good behavior and high self-esteem under my belt, and even though I was an arrogant prick to a handful of people regarding my newfound nutritional knowledge, it beat being an asshole to myself.
In which I tell you that this is my official dietary update. Hallelujah and praise be. It’s been exactly five months, from July 1 to today, December 1 that I have been eating Primally.