I wish I could justify the decisions I make. I’d like to think of myself as a spontaneous, carefree vagrant, but at this point in my life I think it’s safe to assume the truth is that I’m simply an impressionable ne’er-do-well who lacks impulse control. It’s becoming harder and harder to convince myself otherwise. One look at my bank account and you’d think, This dude clearly has no foresight. That and Did he really eat at Taco Bell four times this week?
One day I was talking to my friend Jeanie on the phone and she started telling me about this all-juice diet she was on. Jeanie is the kind of hippie-dippy gal who makes her own clothes, keeps her own kombucha cultures, and can spend an entire afternoon Dumpster diving. I maintain a sort of polite bewilderment toward Jeanie’s lifestyle, and usually don’t put much stock in her whims, but on this particular day I indulged her.
“That sounds like it would make you shit constantly,” I said.
“Oh yeah,” she replied. “I’m shitting right now.”
She explained to me how juicing would clear out all my toxins. It was clear that neither of us actually knew what toxins were, but that was beside the point. If asked, I’d probably describe toxins thusly: angry cartoon blobs who go around munching on your white blood cells.
Of course, the moment Jeanie mentioned toxins, I could practically feel my body swarming with tiny parasites making me lethargic and cranky. I have so many toxins, I thought. I gotta get rid of all these toxins!
At first, juicing sounded like a lot of work—more work than I was willing to do. There are certain microwave dinners I won’t buy simply because they involve too many steps (“I have to stir it halfway through the cook time? Are they serious?”). The more I thought about it, however, the more appealing it sounded to drink nothing but fresh juice for a whole week. Besides, I thought, taking responsibility for my own health and well-being would be a very mature thing to do. In the closet I had a big hulking juicer I’d received for Christmas and hadn’t put to use yet, so I figured this might be an interesting little experiment.
The next morning I woke bright and early and hoofed it down to the farmer’s market in search of fresh fruit and vegetables. Ladies in sundresses and floppy hats milled about as bearded men struggled to load up their bicycle baskets with produce. I felt entirely accomplished just being there.
It didn’t take me long to locate and purchase the items on my list, which I’d constructed in my head haphazardly (apples, green stuff, maybe a tomato just for show, et cetera), but as I wandered around the vendors’ tables, it dawned on me what odd places farmer’s markets can be. Apparently anyone can rent a table and sell whatever they want.