By Joel C. Daniel
(Joel is one of my very best friends. What I value most about him is, including but not limited to, his dedication to his friends, his opinions and advice, his humor and his well written stories. The two of us can often be found at gatherings making up ridiculously tall tales for unsuspecting party goers. Normally Joel will start it off with something like, "Hey Heather, remember back in 1998 when we went to my Aunt Rhonda's retirement party?" Then I come back with, "Oh yeah, wasn't that the day we had to deliver those goats back to that apricot farm?" And it goes on from there. I know, I know, it is not polite to lie. But I promise you, the story you are about to read is true...every last word of it. -Heather)
Four weeks ago I consumed an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie. Actually, I consumed two. They were the first two cookies to move past my gums and soda-stained ivories in four years, and they were delicious. But for all the emotional turmoil getting them into my mouth caused, a suspecting individual would have thought I was eating a steaming cow pie on a cold morning.
Four years ago I nearly failed out of law school. I enrolled because I could not think of anything better to do. Smart? No. A good delay tactic? I thought so, until I realized I was not as intelligent as I had once hoped. Until the second semester of law school, I had probably studied less than 20 hours in my entire life. My desire to watch reruns of Seinfeld outweighed my desire to get "A's" in "Cultural Anthropology" and "Econometrics." Consequently, at the age of 23 I could tell you what led to the epic feud between Newman and Jerry, but if asked to describe the socioeconomic perils of New Zealand's native Maori people, or teach someone how to study for their impending statistics exam, I'd be lost.
Unfortunately, my law school property professor never asked me about the Jerry-Newman feud. He wanted to know about the law as it applied to-- surprise--property. I assumed my memory and ability to bullshit would get me through law school, like it had every other school I attended. It didn't. The Christmas break following my first semester brought greasy latkes, chocolate dreidels, grandparents doting over their law student grandson, and a report card accompanied by a letter describing my newly acquired academic probation. I don't remember what the letter said, thus I will paraphrase: "Mr. Rapaport, if you don't pull your grades up, we're kicking your ass out. The end."
Now, it should be noted that getting kicked out of law school might have been the best thing for me, considering my motivation for being there was less than noble. However, once I start something, it is unbelievably hard for me to quit. So I changed my approach, and wound up with a law degree. Whoop-dee-do.
First, I signed up for a gym membership; I went every day. I cut out fast food, and then I stopped eating refined sugar. Seriously. This is the thing I get the most flak for. People want to know why -- always. I did it to get into shape. The first two months were horrible. I craved it. I craved it the way I crave caffeine, which is to say I needed it the way someone who has been constipated for three weeks needs a toilet after a heavy night of beer drinking, when they feel a movement coming on, after their first shot of espresso in the morning. It hurt. Bad.
But after I got through the first couple months, I wanted it less and less, until I did not want it at all, and, finally, could not remember what it was like to have it in the first place. Once I got back into shape, people asked why I didn't want to have just a little bit. "Moderation is the key," they would say. The answer was: I did not want to remember what I was missing. Out of sight, out of...
This all changed a few weeks ago. At the time, I had been seeing an attractive girl for a couple weeks. For the most part we had avoided meals together, which is great for me, since I never want to tell people about my no-refined-sugar diet -- especially women, because if there is one thing they all have in common, it is a love of sugar. Regardless, I knew the day was coming when this news, along with the fact that I still sleep with a teddy bear named "Charlie," would have to be broken to her.
Before I had the opportunity to mention my granola lifestyle, I got a text message from said attractive lady saying something to this effect: she hoped I had a sweet tooth, because she was bringing me a treat, within the hour, as a "thank you" for helping her with a project. This blows, is the first thing that crossed my mind, then I thought, maybe she is bringing strawberries, then I thought, man, you are an idiot for even considering that. I am not sure how I responded to the text, probably with a "Sounds delicious! I can't wait!" The reason for this should be obvious: this girl, I liked, and we had yet to become intimately acquainted. I may not know much about women, but I do know the best way to see someone you are into naked is not to deny them the satisfaction of at least trying a cookie they made for you. And, this, my friends, is the reason I was faced with the largest refined sugar conundrum I had had in four years.
I already told you the outcome. If you knew her, the choice would be obvious, but that is not to say eating the cookies didn’t hurt a little bit. It did. And so did I, after I left the gym the next day. However, in the end, the two cookies were more than worth it. Further, they were oatmeal-based, which meant they were a little easier on the other side, and I did not have to eat as much oatmeal the next morning. Maybe she already knew me a little better than I thought.
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And this also goes for my contracts, torts, and civil procedure professors.
It certainly did not help matters that instead of focusing on my finals that first semester I spent most of my time working on a hand soap mold and a "Superman" belt buckle bigger than both of my fists.
Keep this sentence in mind as you near the bottom of the second paragraph following this one.
Also, I studied.
And still do.
Or the fact that I haven’t eaten red meat in six years. I am not that picky. Seriously.
Kidding about the bear.
When I say, "opportunity," I mean "balls."
In this case, I am pretty sure they were not made for me. They were a byproduct of a potluck-style party she attended earlier in the day. She thought my stomach would be a more appropriate receptacle than hers for the leftovers. Or maybe she wanted to get into my pants...There I go thinking like an idiot again.
A week later I had a piece of brownie -- complete with a chocolate chunk. You can guess who was responsible. She would have you think: good influence. I am undecided.
Which could be because I wear a name tag that says "Freak" where my left eye should be.
