I don’t like this. As an adult, I think I should be able to
have something better. I mean, it’s crunchy, and there’s meat, but other than
that, it’s just horrible. I’m sitting at my kitchen table eating something
called a kale salad. Kale is the worst.
As a 39-year-old—somebody who plans to turn 40 in October—I believe
I am the healthiest I have ever been in my life. This means that I go to the
gym regularly (I do both cardio and weight lifting), and eat sensibly. I’m not
that great at following a diet, in fact I eat a lot of sugar and truthfully I
love all forms of carbohydrates. It’s like they made this really kick-ass food
group that tastes great but makes you fat if you lay dormant. As my former me,
I drank all of my carbs and I rarely exercised, so I use that period of my
lifetime when I compare my current condition. I should probably elucidate that
my actual hale and hearty me existed
during and just after my time in prison boot camp where I was forced to run and
do aerobics almost every day. I don’t think I will ever have the energy to get
back into that condition, so I will just forget I was ever there. Problem
solved.
Anyhow, recently I have tried to include more salads into my
regime, and most often they are delicious. Tonight, I am alone with the girls,
and I had to make my own salad and I struggled. I reason I picked the incorrect
amalgamation of components and I ended up with something that could have served
well as compost. Imagine an oily, crunchy, lemony, bale of hay topped with foam
deli-meat that wasn’t going to make it until next Monday’s school lunch. Now open
your eyes. Surprised that there’s no salad in front of you? You shouldn’t be, I
already ate it.
This post has absolutely nothing to do with anything useful.
I haven’t written in nearly two weeks and I felt compelled to write about
something only I didn’t know what until I sat down and ate that dry lemon cactus.
I know that I stated a few times that I would keep this blog recovery orientated,
but sometimes I just have to write when something bothers me. Kale. This time
it was kale.
My girlfriend loves the stuff, and I think some of America
likes it, too. It can’t be because of the flavor or the texture, so it must be
the health benefits. I can tell you one thing, the day after I eat a kale
salad, something happens in the toilet that I would love to spend a few hundred
words recounting, but I have family that reads this, and I don’t have the time
right now. Maybe someday I will write about my post-kale poops. Until then, you’ll
just have to imagine.
Dinner is done and the day is old. I’m still sitting at the
table, this time with a three-year-old across from me. She’s chatting away,
sometimes to me, sometimes to the invisible table friends she must see. She’s
coloring, I’m typing; we are both creating what makes us happy.
The days grow darker and darker, but not in the way they
used to. Life is a series of challenges, how we react to them is what defines
us. What defines us is what we become. What we are is what we eat. I am a lemon
cactus. I am Kale-Man.
