A Satirical “Health” “Blog” at the End of The World
In difficult times, we consult the internet. There I was, perusing the health blogs. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all—the mom with 8 kids who is also a triathlete, the meathead who just discovered vegetables, the woman who once was a barge and is now a gamine, an ingenue—55 going on 23.
This is not your typical health blog. It is not health-focused. It is less of a blog and more of a rant, or sermon—all the same to me. Like many of us, I’ve struggled with depression, anxiety, weight gain, ennui, and persistent feelings of meaninglessness, like nothing I will ever do or have ever done will matter, as an aging, graying, sad sack of beans on the side of the road. Gaining weight and losing time. Binging my way to the grave. You know how it is.
I’ve looked high and low for how to fill the void. Religion, meth, sexual partners, self-harm, competitive hot dog eating, and sure, I’ve dabbled in rock climbing, also golf. I’m a retiree with a lot of time and little structure, too much money, two ex-husbands, grown children—they will always be children to me, dear reader!, and three, formerly four, parrots—I miss you, Uncle Charles!—and yet, no source of happiness. But let me tell you. I found protein—or did protein find me?—and structure emerged, fulFILLment…in just one week.
DAY 1 – Low life, high protein?
I kept hearing this word, another fad; surely. But what IS it? This protein? Something about me—I’m not afraid to drill down—drill baby drill, that’s what I say. So, I did some googling.
What is protein
Proteins are made up of chemical ‘building blocks’ called amino acids.
Listen, I’ve never been one for the arts or sciences. Bill Nye, who is he, and who cares? But as a driller, I took it to the next level—
Protein etymology
mid 19th century: from Greek prōteios ‘primary’, from prōtos ‘first’.
And deeper, still—
can you fall in love with protein
Can someone please explain the love of protein? : r/CICO
Reddit,·70+ comments · 4 months ago
Protein is more satiating. You’ll feel full longer when you eat a bunch of high protein foods. You lose muscle as part of weight loss….
Between these three Google searches, a structure began to emerge—a calling, a journey—something of an Eat Pray Love except I’m more of a fat Judy Judy than a peak Julia Roberts—the acting skills and cheekbones of an angel. Me? I call it like it is, lacking skills and perhaps, bones. Anyway, here we are, Eat Pray Love, protein-style: Obsess, Profess, Confess. Wham bam thank you ma’am.
DAY 2? WHO AM I?
As wise people say, journeys are not linear. Anyone who gives me a personal story with a nice little arc—a beginning, middle, and end—a lesson, some takeaways; this person is a liar. Your life is not a Ted Talk, it’s okay to regress—as I did on DAY 2? WHO AM I?
On DAY 2? WHO AM I? I did what I always do when feeling uneasy—I paced around the home, starting with the basement and ascending. I began in the cellar and then found the light, drilling down to drill up. Over and over. Opening windows and closing them. Turning on and off the water. Chanting WHO AM I and I AM WHO and GOODBYE EARL. It’s taxing, drilling down. At the end of DAY 2? WHO AM I? it was time to go to sleep.
DAY 3: HUNGRY WITH A CAUSE
On the Third Day, He rose again—this is second time He rose? When was the first?…Anyway, here begins the Meat and Potatoes of the trip. I decided to be a more literal and consume protein. I bought meat, quinoa, smoked salmon, eggs. I ate 2 of these things raw—I’m an artist—and I would not recommend it. Lesson 1: cook your protein. Why didn’t anyone say that?
DAY 4: REFLECT, DEFECT, WHAT’S NEXT?
Although I’m a skeptical person and will not just go with the flow and do things because they are “good” “for” “you,” e.g., sleep, meditate, vote. But after eating the cooked and uncooked protein, I awoke feeling…more full. My diet had previously been a grab-bag lifestyle—a Cheeto here, Frito there—and suddenly I was not starving, or hating my life. I thought to myself, let’s keep “cooking” these “foods” that I had “purchased.”
DAY 5: DIS TRUST THE PROCESSED
A lifelong Googler, I continued to investigate my needs, my wants, my self. I read about the things I was eating, and the things I once ate. Here are some takeaways: Protein makes you feel fuller, more satisfied. Lay’s potato chips–even Pringles!—lack protein. In fact, they are made of artificially made stuff to trick you into eating more while feeling worse. This is an idea I’d encountered before, but when spun as a conspiracy against me? Well, that’s another story. I threw my grab bags out of the window, chucked chips off the roof, and made it rain with sodium like it was snowing in an acid trip.
DAY 6: AM I THE PROBLEMS
On Day 6, I felt burdened by my new knowledge, my searches, my quest for fulFILLment. To make matters worse, my little palm friend iPhone 10 started bombarding me with my search history, manifesting as products to buy. Starving Seed meal delivery, Pink Utensil food prep, protein powders and shakes; milks; waters; pastas; wishes; rabbit holes; holes. Some of this must be fake, I thought. Again: a scheme. Not for me, I said. I erased my data and threw my phone off the roof in the middle of the night—one to avoid hitting anyone—two because the night is a time for drama and growth—catharsis only happens in the dark—and three so it wouldn’t be visible…I prefer things that way, keep it mysterious as I emerge anew.
DAY 7: BACK WHERE IT ALL STARTED
What a journey. Unpacking and repacking, reflecting and deflecting. Have I lost any weight? “It’s too early!” you say, delicate blog reader. And maybe it is. But psychologically, I am 10 pounds heavier with the weight of this knowledge, as I profess and confess in this thriving moment, a Spring for me, as I put quill to parchment. Something I love about being alive—there is a lot to learn. And although there is no God and nothing matters, sooner or later we will all be engulfed in flames, or drowning; there are many things to distract ourselves with, be it fitness or baby formula, France, or my personal favorite—starting over.
