What it boils down for me -- in this four-part expose of the caveman diet -- is that I'm sick of eating meat. Didn't think that could happen. It did.
All I wanted to stuff down my gullet was Ore-Ida crinkle cut French fries. Strap on the feedbag. Turns out that wasn't a problem, seeing as how Manfriend was so hungover (the "Once a Year Hangover" he dubbed it), all he wanted was pizza.
So we broke the caveman diet, went to the grocery store, snatched up a frozen pizza, the bag of fries, and some ice cream -- all verboten.
If I understand the basic premise here, (and I might not because three weeks in I staunchly refuse to read the cavebooks for fear I'm doing far worse than I'd ever imagined) you're supposed to only eat the foods a cavedude -- excuse me, caveperson -- could've eaten: meat, veggies, nuts, fruit, annnnnnd I think that might be it. Rice, bread and pulled pork sammiches soaked in barbecue sauce are all no-gos.
Eating veggies and proteins sounded doable, and sort of OK, most of the time, when I wasn't hungry. Or conscious. I like mushrooms and chicken and asparagus and Brussels sprouts and apples. But mostly as snacks in between fake American cheese-infused sub sandwiches.
It's becoming painfully obvious that my childhood may have involved too many McDonald's Happy Meals, my teens involved too many Fritos, my college years were soaked in Kool-Aid (spiked with Everclear -- a classic) and now here I am, in my thirties, and someone presents me with an adult meal and I'm not interested.
White wine and salmon steak? I would rather eat processed chili out of a can, cold, hobo-style.
I suspect down to the cellular level, my body is confused as shit. It's as if it knows it was born into nobility and then turned out to be Tyrion Lannister. (If you're not already caught up on "Game of Thrones" feel free to come over and watch it with me, but only if you come bearing jelly donuts.)
I think I have the sugar shakes. Apparently a few days into a totally carb-free diet, people get depressed, they get headaches and they catch a touch of the narco-sleepy. I have yet to wrassle with those more serious troubles, because every other day I sneak out to my dealer and have a beer, or a bit of cheese, or a plate of pancakes.
A couple of weeks ago, work ordered lunch in, I was good and asked for the salad with chicken and was delivered a chicken salad sandwich with cheese. They asked if I wanted to call to get my order straight, but that's when I lit a torch and waved it wildly in front of me, grunting because my mouth was full of bread.
Oh bread, come live with me and be my love.
When I eat nice, my belly may or may not get smaller, but it definitely feels better on the inside. The caveman diet is starting to make sense in my head, which is too bad, because that's where the late-night canned chili and Fritos go.