A girl can dream

My issues with bicycles go way back. What’s the average age when children get their training wheels? Let’s start there. Our house had a large terrace in back with steps on either side leading down to the yard. The length of the terrace was lined with a cactus garden. Do you know where we’re going with this?
The day came when my father surprised me by removing my training wheels. He had such confidence in my ability to transition to a big girls’ bike that I did not want to disappoint him. I embarked onto the terrace and within seconds veered off the edge, straight into the cactus garden.
It gets worse. My parents had friends visiting. Witnesses not related to me watched as my mother laid me over her lap, pulled down my pants, and proceeded to pull out cactus needles one by one.
Oh, the shame.
It was downhill from there.
There was the time I discovered the difference between girl bikes and boy bikes by dismounting the wrong way. Even now, my girl parts wince at the memory.
There was the time I rode straight into a tree because I did not know until after the fact that sometimes there are no brakes on the handles and that the only way to stop is by pedaling backwards.
And let’s not neglect to mention the time I bicycled too close to the curb and when the wheel rubbed up against the sidewalk, I began to fall in slow motion, went over a fence and landed in some poor person’s tomato plant patch.
My ten year-old self had envied the skill of Jennifer Beals in the opening sequence of Flashdance as she cycled through steam and cobblestone streets with urban panache. I finally accepted I would never be Jennifer Beals.
And then I learned of in-line skates.
I watched an Olympic-related special on TV about an ice skater who trained during the summer months by skating up Colorado mountainsides. I can picture her now, Olympically-fit, cute as a button (as is the tendency of ice skaters), skating UP A MOUNTAIN on in-line skates.
Perhaps I couldn’t control bicycle wheels, and sure, awkward and unwieldy handlebars stymied my efforts. But wheels attached to my feet? This, I could manage!
I received a pair of Rollerblades for my birthday. It was as if the box alone would transform me into someone who could zip uphill without exertion. By now I was in college. I envisioned myself becoming one of those hip kids, weaving fearlessly in and out of traffic, zooming from school to job, the wind in my long, flowing hair. Of course in this fantasy, my tummy would be taut, as well.
That’s not quite how it turned out. You’re shocked, I know.
I wasn’t terrible. I could get from A to B. I wobbled but a little. I got the hang of it. I went rollerblading with a friend one night after we had been drinking. It seemed like a good idea at the time. The upside was that it made me less frightened of speeding downhill in the dark. The downside was that my inebriated confidence made me less cautious about the bump at the bottom of the hill. The upside was that it didn’t hurt so much.
The demise of my rollerblading dreams came when I was felled by a one-two combination of a loose ankle buckle and a bad-ass pothole. I still have the scars where the pebbles embedded themselves into my knee. I was miles from home. The pain of the fall, my inability to get home easily and my newborn fear that I would fall again sealed the deal for me. I was just not good at this whole wheel business.
I decided that I was an excellent pedestrian and I should stick with what I do well.
And anyway, I like walking.
Naturally, I married a man who treats his bicycle like an appendage. Completely uninterested in recreational biking, O. sees bicycles as the ultimate exercise in practicality. He regularly tries to convince me of this. Walking to a movie, “we’d be there by now!” Waiting for a bus, “we’d be there by now!” Explaining why he was late meeting me, “well, I couldn’t take my bike, so of course I’m late.”
On vacation in Berlin, we rented bikes for a day. It had been years since I was on one. I was trepidatious, to say the least. I pedaled behind O. cautiously, forcing him to stop and wait for me at regular intervals. And then we came to a large intersection where he headed into the far left lane without warning and turned left as the other light turned green. I had no choice but to follow as four lanes of traffic moved towards me while we cut across the length of the road to end up on the right hand side. O. nonchalantly continued on into a park and started to comment on the prettiness of our surroundings. In reply, I lit into him. I accused of him of trying to get me hit by a car. I had been terrified. I was shaking and crying. (Yes, yes, I was a total wimp, but in my defense, please refer to the aforementioned “not good at this whole wheel business.”) My dramatic tour de force petered out, and we ventured forth tamely.
I still want to be that woman who rollerblades down the Bowery and through Chinatown every morning to get to work. I want to whip through town with ease and a devil-may-care flair. Alas, such is not my fate. Not if I want to stay in one piece.
Nowadays, I get my dose of risk-taking by jaywalking. It’s no joke: those bike messengers come at you from every angle. They’re lunatics! (, I say with envy.)

Trusting the Hours

Wait, for now.

… trust the hours. Haven’t they

carried you everywhere, up to now?

- Galway Kinnell

Time.

It’s been eleven weeks since I posted a blog. Eleven weeks ago I met someone and time changed for me for a while; it became hazy, elastic, boundaryless, and filled with swimming and playing and lying beneath the stars talking story. Afternoons were lazy, evenings were candlelit. He was on island indefinitely. We had time.

Three weeks ago in New York City, my sister and O walked hand in hand under rain-heavy clouds, the sky ribbons of slate and silver. Bagpipers led the way as H and O, followed by friends and family, guided the way from their home to the venue where they would soon marry. Old men came out of barbershops to applaud the procession. People waved from restaurants, and H and O beamed happiness. I sidestepped friends blowing bubbles and ringing little bells to stand alone for a moment. I stood and watched H and O as they walked up the stairs and into their future.

The next day, my dear friend Katie’s mother had a stroke.

In the muted predawn hours that followed on that Manhattan Monday morning, I flew back to Maui. I flew across the continent and hours across the Pacific. I flew until I was home in my little house far far away. I flew until I was home with Petey my dog and the man I had met. That night, he told me it was time for him to leave the island; it was time for him to go back.

On Tuesday, Katie’s mother died.

When my mother died, Katie drove to Rhode Island and spent days with me and H in that shocked silence that follows death, in that time when comfort is found in the busyness of choosing music for the service and hors d’oeuvres for the reception. On my first birthday after her death, Katie showed up at my doorstep in the morning with lattes and croissants, much earlier than was her usual waking hour, so that I wouldn’t have to be alone.

The most I could do for Katie from 10,000 miles away was listen to song options for her mother’s funeral on iTunes and rate them with her over the phone. I savored every moment.

Fall has come to Maui. To visitors, it may be imperceptible. The sun still shines, the sky is blue, the sand is warm. But to those of us who live here, there is a clear shift. The air has a chill to its edge and the water is cooler. Ubiquitous guava stew along jungle paths, the air sweetened by the warm earth and the fruits' steeping juices. Were there no calendars, no iPhones, no newspapers, this is how I’d know that time was passing.

These days, I am drinking tea and eating chocolate covered marshmallows. I am spending time with friends. I am finding comfort and wisdom and magic in favorite poems by Billy Collins, Kahlil Gibran, Mary Oliver and Galway Kinnell. I am regrounding in downward dog. I am writing. And I am holding onto the possibilities of the future. And I am loving. And I am trusting.

The other week, my Kindergarten students walked into the classroom. The lights were off, and as the children came around the corner into the rug area, they froze, eyes wide, mouths open. On the far wall hung one short string of orange lights, a nod to the month of October. In the unlit corner, the orange lights cast a warm, amber glow. One child whispered, “That’s beautiful!” And then together, like a little Greek chorus, the others joined in, “Yes. That’s beautiful!”

They reminded me of all the tiny Beautifuls. Even when the Beautiful is not within reach. Even when it is a memory.

I spent this morning with Petey at a waterfall. For a while, we had the falls to ourselves. I sat and breathed in air infused with eucalyptus and ginger… until others found their way through the thick greenery and I let them take my place.

Aftermath

I spent 450 days, give or take, thinking about my wedding. The celebration surrounding the act of getting married lasted about ten hours. The part where we actually said “I do” took approximately three minutes.

The process of getting married is like being in a play: There’s a production that takes months to develop. It involves a collaboration of players all of whom are focused on the opening night. An audience is present.

One of the ways it differs: opening night is closing night.

Even a showcase has a longer run.

I have now been married for 22 days and I’m still trying to get out of the mindset that there must be something else that needs to get done.

In fact, the show’s over. I can’t help but think, “Well... now what?”

I recently read of a writer who said every time he finished writing a novel, it felt as if a grand piano had been removed from the center of the living room. The room in my head that I had set aside for all things wedding-related is now sitting vacant.

I should stress that I am not unhappy about this. I’m simply adjusting.

Now I can put my attention to … cleaning up that wedding stuff piled up on the chair in the bedroom. My new husband is very curious as to why this has not yet happened. I don’t have an answer for him. I, too, thought I’d have gotten around to it by now.

I may be suffering from a case of Re-Entry Reluctance. When I was in the throes of the countdown and all of those never-ending To-Do lists, I couldn’t wait to get back to my “normal routine,” but from this vantage point, that routine includes laundry and filing. These tasks have never been my forte, admittedly. When I envisioned my newlywed status, I thought of all the reading I’d have time for again. Did I honestly forget that I have always struggled to set aside adequate time for reading? My good old days have never been chock full of quiet evenings and hot bubble baths.

It’s time to tackle all the boring chores I have never enjoyed. And while I'm busy sorting my cold wash from my warm, I'll think about the next project I have in mind. The one that takes up all my time and will fill my head with dreams for the day when I have time to do laundry again. That’s how I’ll know I’m back to my routine.

The Vortex, A Play in One Scene

Cue: De Grieg’s “Morning”
Lights fade in slowly to reveal silhouette of woman standing on a bare stage.

Woman: Oh…

Lights continue to brighten until the audience is illuminated.

Woman: Oh! Hello. Was I…have you been here a while? I feel like I’ve been away for a very long time. Let’s see, I remember the Fourth of July, and then… it’s all a bit fuzzy. And now, it’s – I’m sorry, what’s the date?

The audience remains silent.

Woman: Oh, dear. It’s been ages since I was last here, isn’t that right? You must be quite annoyed with me. After all, I asked all of you here, and then – whoop! I vanish. But it seems I’m back. If that’s any consolation to you. Thank you for being here still! No, really, I do truly appreciate your patience.

It seems I entered the wedding vortex. Have you heard about it? I hadn’t. Well, not really. There are rumors, you know. There are always rumors. But there I was one day, preparing for my wedding, things moving along as they do – and then, Poof! I could feel a flurry of wedding preparation pick up speed, and I tried to shift into a higher gear to better tackle the approaching tasks, but there was a gravitational pull that was stronger than I was. And then, yes, it’s all coming back to me now, I woke up one morning to a whooshing sound and then suddenly I was getting sucked into the vortex. It’s all a blur when I speak of it now, but I am certain that’s where I was. Quite certain…

And – oh, yes! This I remember quite clearly! There was an earthquake! Isn’t that the most ridiculous thing? An earthquake in New York City! It seems so implausible, doesn’t it? But there I was in my office on the 31st floor when the walls started wobbling. My brain didn’t know what to make of it, so it suggested perhaps I was underwater. I’m embarrassed to say, I didn’t rule out that option nearly as quickly as one might expect. When the vase began to teeter on its pedestal, I swear, it was something right out of a movie!

I know it was nothing at all compared to what others have experienced. But I was an earthquake novice, you see. I’m not accustomed to my ceiling buckling. When the announcement came over the P.A. system to evacuate, I did not hesitate, not even long enough to grab my purse and phone. That was very silly of me. I would like to think I’d be much more clear-headed in an emergency situation, but to walk away from my money and means of contact? I’d have to give myself a failing grade on that one, don’t you agree?

An with each floor I descended, one of the thousands of employees working our way down the stairwell, I thought of more things to concern me. I didn’t know how bad the earthquake was on a city-wide scale, so my fear got the worst of me. O was scheduled to be on the subway; had his train derailed? Was he all right? My sister would learn of the earthquake and try to reach me; I envisioned my phone ringing incessantly on my desk.

And before I realized it, I was having some odd, pseudo-flashback experience to September 11, 2001.

I say ‘pseudo’ because I wasn’t downtown on September 11. Yes, it’s true that I work across the street from where the towers fell, and when I say that aloud, I realize it brings a level of sustained awareness of vulnerability to my everyday. But I didn’t think it affected me. Go ahead and laugh, I don’t mind, I know it sounds absurd. But I mean it! I don’t have a personal connection with the geography of my office building. And the crowds of tourists lend themselves to the feeling of being in the middle of a giant attraction, and that’s how I feel in Times Square, too.

Mind you, the looming ten year anniversary has brought with it a renewed level of attention to That Day. And yes, the articles recollecting personal experiences from back then have revived some of the emotions. But I digress. The point I’m trying to make is that my own response to a little itty-bitty earthquake surprised me.

Once they let us back in the building, I tried to go back to work, but my boss told me he’d never seen me so pale and to go home and have a drink. I walked home for fear of being on a subway should an aftershock come. I canceled plans to see a play lest an aftershock bring the roof down of the old theatre building.

… and now here I am. When you think about it, there’s nothing quite like a natural disaster (or fear of one) to shake off a wedding vortex, that’s for sure!

A stage assistant runs on stage.

Oh - pardon me -

Whispers in Woman’s ear and runs off.

Well, if this doesn’t take the cake!

Woman begins to laugh.

A hurricane! A real, live, honest to goodness hurricane! (Laughs) I mean, now, really! An earthquake AND a hurricane in one week? Who on earth has ever heard of such a thing?! (Continues to laugh) What’s next? Locusts? No, flying pigs! (Collects herself) Whew. I needed that laugh. Oh, dear. You must all be quite ready to go home.

The audience begins to leave.

Stock up on candles and batteries! See you again soon, I hope! Thank you for coming!

Woman exits stage, muttering “A hurricane! Of all things...It’s practically farcical... Where’s my umbrella?”

The Stand Beside

As of tonight, there are forty-five days left until H and O wed. As maid of honor (or best woman, or – as a colleague called me today – The Stand Beside), I’ve been working on my toast. Most of my brainstorming takes place as I drive up and down the slopes of Haleakala on my way to and from home. I envision myself standing before a crowd of family and friends, H and O beside me, and as I imagine what I'll say first, I inevitably begin to cry. That’s as far as I’ve come. Clearly, I have my work cut out for me.

There is not one particular reason for my tears. I suppose the most obvious explanation is that I feel I’ll be standing in, so to speak, for both of my parents. There’s no getting around that one. But also, it is a rite of passage, and rites of passage by definition mark milestones and reveal what is valued in a culture and to a people. As I envision H's and O’s celebration, I can almost see the silhouettes of those people, our people, who have come before them to this particular rite; they gather around H & O, smiling, nodding encouraging, welcoming them. And in 0 to 60...my tears.

Three years ago on the Ides of March, H and I, on our separate islands, each went out with friends. That evening, I met my young, sweet man as I ordered a Cosmo in my little surf town by the sea. H. ventured out into the chilly night to a bar on the Lower East Side of Manhattan for a friend’s birthday; O was there with his own friends. When H and I called each other the next morning for weekend updates, we shared our news.

H and I had lived together for three years as single women in our early and mid-thirties, respectively. Life was good back then. Many a night, we'd meet after work at one of our neighborhood haunts, order the endive salad and pumpkin ravioli..and a couple of dirty martinis, to boot... and revel in the comfort of it all. We also understood that at some point we'd have to break out of that comfort zone. We joked that if we weren’t careful, we'd find ourselves in our eighties, shorter, wrinkled and still clambering up on the same old bar stools.

Some new moon evenings, we’d wander down West End Avenue to a beautiful church on the Upper West Side. As people strolled their dogs past us, and as the food delivery guys squealed by on their bikes, we'd stand by the curb, sheltered by trees or scaffolding depending on the season, and whisper our dreams for work, creativity and love just loud enough for the other to hear and support. And then we'd walk home arm in arm envisioning those futures, the city's apartment lights and lives surrounding us.

This past July 27^th marked the one-year anniversary of the first Heffalump post. At that time, I was living on the volcano’s slopes with that same young man. Though we lived together and loved each other, our lives were slowly but steadily growing ever more separate. Back in New York, O. had just proposed to H.

One year later, I am living on my own with Petey the dog, a stone’s throw from a stunning, wild, rugged beach. I have just begun to dip my toe back into the world of dating. One year later, H is about be married. One year later, or many years later - depending on when you start counting- life is good. It’s different, but it’s good.

There isn't anything I'd rather be doing in forty-five days than be standing beside H and welcoming in O.

Officers and Gentlemen and Questions

This past week, while on Oahu for a class, I happened upon a strip mall that backs up to Hickam Air Force Base. I was looking for lunch when I realized I was actually looking at men and women in uniform. Everywhere. I was awestruck and feeling as though I’d stepped onto a movie set; any minute now Richard Gere would pass me, heroically carrying Debra Winger in his arms. A woman in my class is married to an officer. Her husband is currently on a submarine. She won’t see him again for a year. She tells me that in the fourteen years they’ve been married, she has probably spent a total of three to four years with him. I try to wrap my mind around this. Maybe I’m fascinated by their lives because they

seem so different from my own.

And yet, I remind myself, it’s not completely unknown to me. My grandfather was a general in the Army. Growing up, our summer trips always took us to Falls Church, Virginia, to visit our grandparents. By then, my grandfather was retired. I don’t remember ever seeing him in uniform. Still, every Sunday, we went for supper at the Army Navy Country Club. But the name of the club had little meaning to me. While the grown ups lingered in the bar, ice clinking in their bourbons, I focused on my Shirley Temple and eating as many ruffled potato chips and creamy onion dip as my mother would allow before we were shooed away to play before dinner. H and I would explore the outdoor lawns and indoor corridors, always ending up in the ladies' restroom. The front room was a lounge with couches and floral pattern covered chairs where ladies sat before mirrors reapplying make-up; the room smelled of grandmotherly powders.

For dinner, there was a long buffet and I remember little of what we ate; I do, however, remember the dessert buffet. A creature of habit, I always had vanilla ice cream with butterscotch sauce. But my favorite part was after dinner when the buffet tables would be cleared, and a big band would strike up Chattanooga Choo Choo. I would dance with my grandfather, my feet on his shoes as he sashayed me around, the scent of his sweet, smoky cigar dancing with us. This is what my memory digs up for me when I hear the words Army and Navy.

And then this. My father attended Staunton Military Academy and had a stint in the Korean War. But when I think of my father, this never comes to mind. He rarely, if at all, spoke of his early days in the military.

This June, H and I spent twenty-four hours in Washington D.C. and visited our parents in their little corner of Arlington National Cemetery. Per usual, we had trouble finding our way along D.C. roads. H. had inadvertently chosen “walking directions” on her GPS even though we were in a CAR. We knew we were thoroughly lost when we turned down a deserted road toward the Pentagon past signs that read - something along the lines of - You Are Not Supposed To Be Anywhere Near Here – Stay Away! When I saw stern looking officers put their hands up in the universal Halt sign, I stopped instantly and refused to budge. I’m not good with authority figures. This meant H. had to get out of the car and walk to them for directions. One U-turn and just a few minutes later, we passed through the cemetery’s main gate.

The down side of having parents die is, well, the dead parents. The upside is that if they’re lucky enough to be buried in Arlington National Cemetery, you get a special pass to drive right on in. I know it pleases my mother to know her daughters are gestured in with a guard’s respectful nod of the head.

Every time I visit the Columbarium, where those who were cremated are kept, I have trouble finding them. I know they’re in a corner somewhere in the middle of the wall, but there are many walls with many corners and many middles, and I can never quite remember if it’s a corner with a tree or not. The irony is not lost on me that I can never easily find my parents, who - even when I do find them - aren’t really there. Just like a dream; it all makes sense, and yet you know that none of it does.

H and I eventually do find them, and we sit and lie on the cool ground staring up at their marble tile. It is peaceful in the open-air corridor. Silent. I read and reread the engraving. Morris Robert Nelson, Jr., 1930-1992 and Margreth Nelson, 1943 - 2002. Below my father’s name, or maybe beside it, is his ranking of 2^nd Lieutenant. I can never remember if he was in the Army or the Air Force, and I feel like a lousy daughter for not knowing. His ranking explains to anyone perusing these walls how he came to be buried in the nation’s cemetery. But it is not the whole truth. It is not even his true ranking. It is, if you will, the cover story. I wonder how many people have a cover story on their tombstones.

A writer, a mentor of mine, once said to me of her parents, “I am the daughter of a writer and a lawyer. It has helped form who I am.” And then she posed this question to me, “If you don’t know who your parents were, who your father was, then how do you know who you are?”

That is a question I ponder.

The Cleanse

The Monday before the long holiday weekend, O decides he’s going to do one of those lemon-maple syrup-cayenne pepper cleanses. He hasn’t been feeling up to par and has decided that a detox is in order. It takes me about 3 seconds before I graciously offer to lend support and join him in solidarity. I, too, will cleanse. See what a great fiance I am?

Not quite. In truth, I have been curious about cleansing for years. I’ve come close to considering it, but I wimped out each time. Recently, I read an article lauding a certain juice cleanse in NYC. I bookmarked the web site. O’s initiative was the push I needed to jump into this purportedly Über Healthy terrain.

The next day, I pored over the site’s information on cleansing, the benefits, the deliciousness of their product, etc. Yeah, yeah, yeah, that was all great and fine, but - what’s this? They deliver? To my door?? Sold. I signed up for three days of juice as well as - oh, why not - the Day-Before and Day-After recommended “transition” menus, comprised of a combination of juices and raw, vegan food to help me ease into and out of my food-less foray.

The night before I was to begin, I drank wine until midnight. I felt like Cinderella right before her carriage turned into a pumpkin. Eat! Drink! Be Merry!

Day One: Pre-Cleanse
7:00am - My alarm goes off. I await the delivery of my raw, vegan Pre-Cleanse Prep. Normally, this is when I make my coffee and toast and read the paper. Today I just read the paper and drink water. My doorbell rings. Game on.

9:05am - My stomach growls. It’s way too soon for this. It must be anticipatory hunger.

9:30am - Time for my first juice: Pineapple and Ginger. Yum! Must remember to sip slowly. This puppy’s got to last two hours.

5:20pm - My tongue feels funky. I suspect all that raw ginger and pineapple played a role.

9:30pm - I have wolfed down my surprisingly delicious raw, vegan collard-green “enchiladas” and am moving on to the raw, vegan chocolate-coconut pudding. At first spoonful, I surmise that vegans may have forgotten what chocolate-coconut pudding is supposed to taste like. Then I realize this probably IS what it’s supposed to taste like. It’s just that my sugar-addled taste buds don’t recognize that. I appreciate my pudding anew.

Day Two: Juice
7:30am - my 3 days’ worth of juices arrive. I’m relieved to see nary a pineapple juice in the lot. I don’t think my tongue could handle another one. I am a little peeved to see that two of my six daily juices are the same. I’m spending 72 hours not chewing. At least don’t give me repeats.

4:00pm - I have a workout session with my personal trainer. He is not happy to hear of my cleanse and warns me I won’t replenish the nutrients I am about to expend in the next hour. I rebut that the website approves moderate exercise. He gives me a look and tells me my workouts with him don’t fall in the “moderate” category. I think I just insulted him. He warns me I’ll be wiped out tomorrow.

5:00pm - I survived my very-not-moderate workout and chug down my coconut water. Only two more hours before “dinner.” Walking home from the gym, I see people eating everywhere I look. In cafes, on the street, in the park, in their cars. I feel like I have a new appreciation for how this city looks to hungry people. I note the irony of being privileged enough to opt for self-deprivation.

8:00pm - O and I are eager to fill the time that would normally be spent eating dinner and drinking wine. We grab our beach chairs and beeline for the Tompkins Square Park’s Films on the Green Festival. Watching Jacques Tati in “Mr. Hulot’s Holiday” distracts me from the beet juice I nurse for the duration of the film. We go to bed early. It seems easier to sleep than not eat.

Day Three: Juice. Again.

The morning gets off to an unexpectedly good start. I’m in a great mood. The sun is shining. I’m feeling clean and pure. I recall my trainer’s words of caution. I don’t feel wiped out at all! I must be in better shape than I thought.

2:00pm - I am so tired I can’t keep my eyes open. I take a two hour nap.

7:00pm - O and I practically run to the movie theatre to keep ourselves preoccupied. We talk about food all the way there. When our movie lets out, we decide to sneak into the next feature one theatre over. We have successfully filled another dinner-less night.

Day Four: Juice. Juice. More Juice.

11:00am - I hear O yell from the other room, “God, I want breakfast!”

The act of eating takes up a lot of time. Without it, our day stretches out before us like a wide horizon. I countdown how many hours before I get solid food. 26, is the answer. I spruce up my beet juice by pouring it over ice and spritzing it with lemon. It’s marginally more exciting that way.

Day Five: Post-Cleanse

2:00pm: I’m chewing! My raw, vegan “couscous” is real food! It’s also... not so great. But I’m chewing!

4:00pm: O and I take a walk on the Highline. We stop at the beer garden below the 30th Street entrance, just to “check it out.” We survey the menus of the taco trucks. We pore over the wine and beer choices on tap. I think we are reminding ourselves that good food and drink are within reach. It’s just that we are choosing otherwise. We take comfort in knowing that it’s there. We have crossed over into pathetic.

6:00pm: O has roasted vegetables for his dinner. He offers me a beet. I tell him in no uncertain terms that I am not eating another beet for the foreseeable future. He insists that this is worth tasting. I relent. I regret. Seriously, no more beets.

Day Six: Return to Food

7:00am: The coffee grinder won’t grind. I have no coffee. A week ago, this would have fallen into the Catastrophe category, but today, I calmly reach for my decaf green tea.

9:00am: I order scrambled eggs, a coffee (small) and a banana from my corner deli. The scrambled eggs are completely tasteless. The coffee is bitter. The banana saves the day.

My cleanse has made an elitist of my mouth.

What have I taken away from all this? Well, for starters, I’m shocked by how little I suffered from lack of caffeine. I’m surprised (and relieved) by how little I missed wine. I am more committed to eating less meat. But mostly, I confirmed what I already knew: how much I enjoy the flavors, textures and varieties of food. I like eating.

And without question, I am definitely more resolved to select quality over convenience. You can rest assured that from now on, I’ll take the long way to work so I can get my morning joe from the good coffee place. That is, if I decide to drink coffee that day. It seems I don’t really need it, after all.