“The garden is the story of our lives,” says the Miracle-Gro ad that plays almost every time I want to watch a video on YouTube. After ignoring it for the first three million times by clicking SKIP AD on the bottom-right, Miracle-Gro got me. She got me.
I used to eat terribly, from the beginning of college and intermittently throughout my 20’s and early 30’s. It’s not a source of pride at all. Sometimes, I’d not consume a vegetable for weeks. Those were the times of eating processed meat and cheese because it was convenient and I was an idiot. Because going to the bathroom once every four days is normal, says no one. But when you’re younger, you just don’t care. You’re invisible. You don’t need nutrition like your body craves. You can pollute it.
Recently, the idea of regularly consuming healthier alternatives stopped entering my mind as white noise and that of which would usually make me ignore it and straight-up mind-vomit over the very idea, only to be lamented by the brain janitor that lives and works inside my head, for he is a busy son of a bitch but I keep him gainfully employed. I’ve cut his hours and pension as of lately, however.
Productivity and the power of love, that’s why. I want to be a great writer as a career. I want to be able to convey original ideas that smack me in the face on a regular basis and turn them into readable entertainment for my audience. I’ve worked the service industry for enough years to at least kind-of understand the audience principle, and boy let me tell you, that in itself is a fucking giant pickle to wrap your toasted deli sandwich around. Delicious little sandwich, you got some good creamy Aioli sauce on it, you got some grilled lean meat…and you’ve got some goddamn vegetables on it.
So now it’s every day. If I don’t consume some type of vegetable, my body that I’ve trained to desire such grounded consumables tells me that I should quit fucking around and go to the fridge and blast my face with some excellent tasty treats. A very special somebody in my life has influenced me to enjoy “food-prep” and to plan out snacks and meals when possible. This means that a nice little baggie of snow peas and carrots is only a flight of stairs away and a jump over my housemate’s cute doggies. And let me tell you, when snow peas are warm and you’ve got that hot/cold dichotomy with cool, crispy baby carrots that are already peeled, that’s a treat that really beats the shit out of a bowl of chips or a couple handfuls of Peanut Butter M&M’s. Now, those two salty and sugary treats are still insatiable and I love them and want to run away on another long road trip eating only those things, but I’m just not going to.
He gazed up at her loving face. Too many years it had taken him to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath the reddish-brown beard. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two fructose-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved vegetables.
NOTE: The last bit is a take on the last paragraph of George Orwell’s 1984. As if you needed me to point that out, you super-smart audience, you. MUAH.