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November 17, 2005

This column brought to you by my ass, and the letters B, I, and G

mehmetoz.jpg


When I refer to my divorce as the "almost fatal yet intensely painful and horrible illness I weathered during 2004-2005," I am not kidding. It's been hell on the old bones.

For one thing there was the smoking. The incessant, ever-present smoking. At the end, I was up to a pack or more a day, and Peter Jennings may very well have saved my life. I quit smoking because of that man, and I love him more than ever. Which is kinda creepy in a necro-crush sort of way.

Then there was the drinking, which. Uh. I am still doing. So! Moving on.

And then there was the eating. I ate through sadness, and through rejection, and through sleepless nights and lonely holidays and anniversaries and birthdays and I ate like it was going out of style. I wanted... that feeling. The one you get from eating a whole pizza.

[If you do not know that feeling may I please ask that you now step away from the keyboard and immediately begin eating a whole pizza, you health food freak, you!]

Quitting smoking was a good catalyst, a way to see that I was in control of this Divorce Sickness instead of the other way around. After a few weeks, I stopped coughing and wheezing and clearing my throat, OH!

And ... by the way.

In the spirit of FULL DISCLOSURE, let me tell you I have not actually QUIT smoking. I have only paused. When I turn 70 years old, I will commence smoking at a rate hitherto unknown to man, woman or waterfowl. I will smoke like there is no tomorrow. Because, hello! I will be SEVENTY FREAKING YEARS OLD. And I will smoke and you cannot stop me. In fact, this may be my only driving force to reach the age of 70, so step aside! I am living for another g-ddamn 36 years so that I can wake up one day, 36 years from now, and smoke an entire pack of cigarettes.

We do what we can.

In order for me to make it to the "smoking age" (a.k.a. 70 years old), I need to treat my body better. I need to... eat a vegetable. Take a multivitamin. Eat something called "fiber."

To that end, I have taken my advice from the following sources:

1) The Oprah Winfrey show
2) Crazy hippie Dr. Andrew Weil
and
3) Drew, the Crochet Dude

Yes. That is right. I am putting the future smoking-me into the hands of a blogger, a TV talk show personality and a guy who probably uses a wet rock under his arms for odor protection. (That last bit will only make sense to you if you also fell prey to the great Crystal Deodarant Craze of the late 1990s like I did. I actually rubbed a WET FUCKING ROCK UNDER MY PITS. Proving once again there are worse things than eating an entire pizza.) (Oh, I meant Dr. Weil, not Drew. Drew would never stoop so low as the crystal deodorant. Drew just happens to be on the same anti-aging, anti-inflammatory diet road as me.)

Anyway.

I must repair the damage done to my body and my dress size. To that end, I have embarked upon a Healthy Eating Plan as outlined by Dr. Mehmet Oz, who I love and want to kiss, and Dr. Weil the wet-rock hippie. Mehmet Oz was on the Oprah show on a segment about stopping the aging clock and I Tivo'd it, and kept rewinding so I could write down every single thing. Just a few weeks later, Dr. Weil was featured in TIME magazine with his Anti-Aging diet, a virtual copy of Mehmet Oz's plan. Basically, this whole thing is called the "anti-inflammatory" plan, and it helps you decrease wrinkles and stuff plus you get healthier and live longer.

It was time -- time for me to make a change in my diet. I read as many books as I could possibly read in an hour (honesty, best policy) and wrote everything down. Then I put it all into a Word doc, so I could figure out what to buy at the store (listen, when you go from buying frozen Totino's Party Pizza to buying real food, you need a little help.) (Plus I am kind of OCD.)

I told Jennifer about this plan, and she told me to post it on my website. I debated. "Does anyone care about the size of my salmon filet?" I wondered. But she was right. If I have to live out loud and eat this way, SO DO YOU, DAMMIT.

So I present you with my Dr. Mehmet Oz and Dr. Weil shopping list. Word doc here. I figure you're smart enough to google the anti-inflammation diet, etc., and decide if it works for you.

Me? I just need to reach seventy years of age. I will eat whatever health food crap I have to eat to get to that day. I can see myself now, wearing rhinestone-studded Keds and a matching warm-up suit. My hair will be silver and about three strands thick. I will have great (anti-aging!) skin and a really fucking cranky disposition. I will turn to Enrique, the nursing home attendent and say, "WHERE ARE MY CIGARETTES, LITTLE BOY?" and he will say, "Right here, Miss Laurie. Let me light that for you ..." and all these years of salmon and vitamins will have been worth it. I will inhale deeply and my wrinkles will instantly pop out and my eyes will sink in. I will be complete.

Everyone needs a goal. THIS IS MINE. So ya'll back off my Enrique. I earned him after I survived the great Divorce Pandemic of 2005 ... you go eat your salmon!

Posted by laurie at November 17, 2005 12:42 AM