I know what you’re thinking: you’re proud I’ve been adding fruit and fibre to my diet. I’m good that way. Oprah notwithstanding, Weight Watchers has been working for me and apparently I still get all the fruits and veggies I want, except for corn (fascists).
Eating gluten-based fruit for snackies has been a strange experience. Not the least of which: .
All the colours taste the same. A ersatz citrus hitherto unknown in this post-Higgs-Boson time-space continuum. Sweet, ephemeral, a lil bit bitter but not enough to make you make that face.
Having said all this, I want to point out this blog not really about:
It’s about an article I read in New Scientist recently. Apparently, after one shakes hands, one sniffs one’s hands.
Don’t believe me? Watch this.
Ok, so it was a year ago, not recently. But hey, I’m not one with the aforementioned time-space continuum.
This article perturbed me on several levels.
One: I know I don’t do this.
Two: I don’t know anyone who would do this.
Three: I threw up a little in my mouth when I read the article, nevermind watched the video.
These reactions say more about me than I would care to imagine. My latest and favourite-ist strawman hubs was brought in for a consult.
He agreed on a few points: he doesn’t do this. He’s never seen anyone who’s done this. Point the Third was left hanging though. Strangely he wasn’t nauseous or revolted by the article or video.
It’s perhaps früitful to mention that one entire wing of my family calls me “Monk.” They’re the wing who knows me best. They’re the ones who, in the dark days, helped me get out of the house in less than two hours each day. The dark days when I carried a back pack the size of Alaska with every imaginable “necessity” tucked in. Because one never knows when one will need a change of clothes, umbrella, ziplock bags, Swiss Army knife (ok, everyone needs a Swiss Army knife but mine’s really BOSS), a week’s worth of medication, back-up shoes, a few books, a K-Way (not KY, you pervs), Purell, more Purell (for back-up), wet naps (screw you, septic systems!), a towel, granola bars, package of Fig Newtons… you get the idea.
And that was just to go to class. This was my back pack, not my school bag.
And the decencies had to be observed. The ritual. The order of operations. And every morning there was a very dear friend/family member (short version: I ran away from home, the neighbours took me in) waiting for me to do the rundown.
“Do I have the…”
“It’s there. I saw you pack it. You’re going to be late.”
“I need more food.”
“You’re only going to a two-hour Latin class.”
“I forgot my flashlight.” I run upstairs.
“It’s in your bag,” she calls up. “You never took it out.” She shoves me to the door. “Go,” she says. “There are only four people in your class. If you’re late, everyone will notice.”
You see? I am writing this blog and listing the items in my bag and even here I forgot the flashlight was in my bag!
Every morning this woman got me out of the house. Thankfully, psychiatry and medication took care of the rest.
All of this to say? The idea of:
a) touching someone else’s hand unless they were very well-known to me and
b) sniffing their rank effluence from my offended appendage
is more than I could handle. I’m no weirdo. Shaking hands is part of our society. I can shake hands. I just have to hold my hand at a distance afterwards and scour it later. That’s why we have hydrogen peroxide.
What’s this got to do with früit löps? You must be joking. The answer is clear: they’re touching.
Look at that jumble! Blues and pinks bumping uglies with oranges and greens? Chaos.
And yet, there is hope for me. I can eat these now without sorting. I can actually stick my hand into the bag and not even look at what colours I’ve pulled before I shove the sugar-laden goodness into my yap.
This, dear friends, is progress.
A bit about OCD, just a bit. It makes me insane when people talk about their clean and tidy houses and titteringly refer to their OCD. They have no clue what a prison OCD is and frankly Scarlett, keeping a tidy kitchen does not a OCD-sufferer make. Sorry to burst that bubble.
The checking, the double-checking. Getting interrupted while checking means a return to the top of the sequence to start again. The intrusive thoughts. The bizarre ritual/remedy for intrusive thoughts. Compulsions to deal with the distress. Oh, I wish my only concern was cleaning and tidying the kitchen. Some nights I would lay awake wishing that would be my only issue.
But I’m sharing this not to bum you out but to cheer you: because I ate 200gr of these motherscratching carbs the other day and it was brilliant to just shovel things into my mouth with no regard for order and ritual. Brute alimentary impulse control was my only issue and to be honest, it was worth the 14 “smart points.”
The new Weight Watchers points system, by the way, can French kiss my arse. Another blog for another day.
I think I’ll let Paula have the penultimate word:
And the hand-sniffing? Well, that’s just gross. But the video doesn’t lie, I suppose. Too bad the researchers just didn’t find the 1-2% who, like me (and Paula), were packing wet naps (or P12 sandpaper).