IN WHICH I MAKE MY PEACE WITH THE FACT THAT IF I AM TO HAVE MY JUST DESSERTS, I CAN NEVER, EVER LIVE AGAIN ON JUST DESSERTS.
Now that I’d made the jump to joy that is my vocation as a writer, I’d have to attend to the bad habits which had enlarged my presence while shrinking my prospects. And instead of doing what I’d done for a lifetime — a sudden extreme embrace of all things healthy, only to revert back to the toxic — I decided to have the wisdom to make LIFESTYLE changes to be followed for the rest of my existence.
You see, dear reader, like many of you ladies of a certain age, I weathered the indignities of menopause, and as I’m sure you’ll agree, hot flashes are anything but hot. Nighttime drenching of my Pratesi sheets is only acceptable when it’s an ecstatic sweat induced by nocturnal wrestling matches with a Yang with a wang. But the reward of low estrogen, dry skin (and a new interest in lubrication everywhere), chin fur and other changes in Yin has been the gift of enlightenment. Because as long as we embrace a few more cosmetic duties, and keep that fabled old crone at bay (just say “No!” to Margaret Hamilton!), we are indeed sources of a welcome and profound wisdom.
Now that I was no longer tampering with tampons — yet another gift — I was able to make the truly mature choice of committing to eating right, and not just for now, but forever. Yes, when I die and get cremated I’ll have a smokin’ hot, smokin’ hot body! (Further to that, I simply MUST have a Viking funeral on Central Park’s lake; please make sure to play my favorite, “Crystal Blue Persuasion” by Tommy James and the Shondells.) But I digress.
Besides emphasizing protein, limiting carbohydrates, and restricting fat, my essential dietary change was to become unapologetically racist, unabashedly prejudiced towards white foods — potatoes, pasta, flour, sugar and rice — while harboring a virulent bias for foods of color — in other words, foods with life force in them. Our goddess Mother Earth has given us everything we need to flourish naturally and in sync with her intrinsic balance; to live hot means to live healthy and real.
Our body celebrates when we eat broccoli, rewarding us with vitality and positivity, while processed food sets us to depressive, suspended-in-gel mode, our psyches as heavy as our expanding cellulite. This means maintaining vigilant discrimination against the dreaded Frankenfood that’s passing for nourishment in our culture. Beware of psychedelically flashy supermarket aisles cum diabetic amusement parks: trust me, Hot Pockets are NOT hot.
In the last post I spoke of the importance of healing, of becoming a whole person. Well, happy, whole people eat whole foods, plain and simple. Miserable, fractured, de-natured people living a fake existence untrue to themselves eat exactly that same food; it’s a matter of vibration. When I, in my misery, mainlined Cheetos as my drug of choice, a binge on that fluorescent orange powder not only tattooed my fingers with a manifestly uncool henna, but augmented and perpetuated my depression, as well as my thighs.
This is not to say I don’t allow myself an occasional dose of Cheetos or other go-to treat from childhood. After all, my food addiction means Rice Krispie Treats run a very close second to sex itself. However, I’ve found I don’t want those foods as much, and while ingesting them, I’ve become increasingly aware of their resolutely dead vibration.
Still, since we are flesh and blood humans, I can’t stress enough how essential it is to allow the occasional gustatory detour, though with my new wisdom I employ some helpful tricks. For example, notice when you eat something you crave, say, a gooey delectable brownie, the first bite is heavenly, the second bite great and the third bite, well, good? And so the diminishing returns continue until at satiety, it’s not even remotely delicious, but downright repugnant. I use this understanding to have, yes, three bites of something, which before I would have binged on till my 501s unbuttoned, unbidden.
It goes without saying the rest has to be thrown away irrevocably, lest you find yourself like Ray Milland in The Lost Weekend desperate for the remains. I’m not too proud to admit that I, Mrs. Hot, have picked crumbs from garbage bags and since I used to smoke, there were cigarette butts in there! But like an alcoholic or any other addict, I will always be in recovery, so for now the leftovers must be flushed down the toilet. Some day, hopefully, I can keep what’s left for a later time, liberated from those pesky carb Sirens which call from the kitchen cupboards.
Another trick I use is to keep high protein snacks with me at all times: almonds, part-skim mozzarella cheese sticks, and protein bars, which prevent me from the 3:00 PM blood sugar slump and a Big Mac or Snickers attack. Also, eating a little bit at regular intervals tricks your metabolism into letting go of the fat: because you’re not starving it, your body no longer sees itself as a member of the Donner Party, and can let go of a bit of fat every time you stoke the furnace the right way. You’re not in survive, but thrive mode.
In this way, before you know it you’ll be on your way to the best repast of all, a truly delicious, hot meal of male.
Yours truly,
