BREVILLE, I MIGHT LOVE YOU

by Lisa

Oh, hell.  I watched that movie.

Though I am not fat, not sick and hopefully not nearly dead, I am dull, dim, and nearly asleep.  This isn’t a constant state; a nice walk or bike ride revs the engine and gets the neurons firing brightly again.   Winter hurts, spring helps, summer blasts the cobwebs, and fall carries melancholy on those last warm breezes.

Aside from changes in my exposure to glorious daylight, what changes from summer to winter?  My food.

Anything at the farmers’ market goes into my baskets and gets eaten promptly.  Supermarket veggies sit in the crisper and go limp.  They just don’t taste…right.  Winter brings beautiful citrus things, and challenging but tasty squashes (if I disguise their overwhelming squashiness), and avocados that I eat from their strange skins with a spoon and some salt.

So, what if my wintertime blues might be related to what I’m not putting in my face?  Salad doesn’t feel right in February.  Sleeping all day does.

Enter the juicer.  Hello, glasses of brownish liquid that used to be the stuff in my crisper.  Hello, herbs and greens and fresh things that I don’t have to cook to consume.  What does raw kale taste like, anyway?  Can I juice flowers? I eat clover blossoms already…

In that movie, people used juice fasting as a means of losing weight and getting rid of the need for prescription meds, lowering cholesterol, managing diabetes and migraines.  My weight could go up, and I’d be happy.  That’s not a goal.  My cholesterol and every other little thing are normal.  My blood glucose remains stable when I eat often, but I lose track and now and then–very rarely, compared to my twenties and before baby–I crash and have to eat something sweet before I actually slap the nice old guy in front of me in line at the milk store because he pays with too many pennies,and I just want to open this fucking snickers bar before I pass out.  My heart pumps like a champ, my blood pressure stays steadily low, sometimes too low for a nurse’s satisfaction, until she reads the chart that tells her I’m always like that.  Resting heart rate, easy peasy.  No sleep apnea, but not much sleep to begin with.

I want to feel better than okay.

Forty is bum-rushing me into concern.  I am aware of my good fortune and pretty good health, but it’s time to make a change that I can live with, to keep things running smoothly.

I predict lots of ginger in my future.

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