Thursday, October 31, 2013

Steam-cleaning Pomeranian urine from the carpet for an hour or two on a weekday night? I only wish I could tell you this was unfamiliar territory. Fixing the steam cleaner itself using knowledge gleaned from YouTube? Now, that one felt a lot more noteworthy, until I realized I basically had to watch a video clip to accomplish a wholly suburban task. Such were the pursuits that eclipsed this site on Tuesday, but we’re back now–at least for a night, because I’m abandoning you yet again when I fly to Chicago next week.

With the exception of breakfast, a routine through which I’ve markedly improved my egg-flipping ability, I’ve largely forsaken the path of paleo. Now, this isn’t to say I’ve retained nothing at all from this exercise. I’ve upped my intake of fruits and veggies, buy a lot more organic, and find smaller portions satisfying. But the prospect of observing a largely flourless existence? I can’t. I won’t.

I remember the breaking point, clear as day. It happened while I was preparing some pasta made solely from brown rice. The first alarm bell went off when my nose detected what can only be described as boiled band-aids. That’s right–adhesive bandages. It made no sense whatsoever, frankly, because brown rice itself doesn’t even smell like this. I discounted my nose, however, finished cooking the “pasta,” and then shoved a forkful in my mouth, at which point two additional senses were promptly violated. It tasted, well, exactly like it smelled, and it was soggy and completely free of texture. Smell, taste, feel–“oh for three,” as they say. There I sat, trying to send the rest of the plate down the alimentary canal, and I suddenly saw the paradox of paleo with utter clarity: its aim is ostensibly to extend your lifespan, and yet you wish for death at every mealtime.