I tend to do most of my musing in the shower & climbing to the top of the charts this week in terms of “most obsessed over psychotic theory” is definitely the idea that I might in fact, BE what I eat. If I were edible, what kind of food would I be? hmmmm…..
Or do those close to you get to decide?
I have for sometime now set about convincing fellow bloggers Soba & Gleam, that I am in fact an onion (like Shrek), and that this is because I have many layers which you might miss at first glance, but actually make my nature fairly multi-dimensional & keep me adapting all the time. But what else does this boring bulb say about my character I wonder? That I intimidate people to tears or that I can be likened to a bad taste or smell that lingers on your breath, clothes & hands long after I’m gone?? Apparently, insects don’t like onions either. When rubbed all over your body, onion can actually act as an insect repellent. This is interesting. NOT.
Even the most hated organisms in the universe are REPELLED by my food rep.
Ok…… So what about the concept that “You are what you eat?”
If there’s any truth to this idea, then I am in fact the new limited edition Cadburys Mint Flake.
Now like the chocolate itself, this notion tantalises you into believing this to be a great idea at first. I mean the stuff quite literally melts in your mouth, and it does so with just a hint of minty mystery, which only intensifies as you sink deeper into the hypnotic chocolatey-ness. Towards the end, if you're like me, you might even be shameless enough to throw your head back like a commoner, open your mouth, & tilt the mesmerising metallic packaging towards your lips to allow the final crumbs to tumble down your throat in order to bring your closer to God himself. Realistically speaking though, most of the stuff either ends up on the floor or stuck to your car seat and I would like to think that it would take a little more than somebody metaphorically gently puffing smoke in my face, before my entire existence is irreparably blown to pieces. Fragile much? I would certainly like to believe that I’m a touch tougher than that. What's flakier than a flake?
And what of my regard for friends & family?
I’ve always seen my mother as something of a Zoo Biscuit. Simple, understated, a timeless classic that ages 8 through to 80 still get a kick out of. This biscuit has also stood the test of time along with it’s Marie & Tennis buddies & therefore clearly possesses the kind of charisma that made the (all flash no fibre) Romany Cream frantically alternate between 42 billion flavours in order to try break back into the market. I mean, Classic Choc, Mint Choc, Vanilla Choc, Choc Fudge, Coffee???? Can you spell DES-PER-RATION?!
But if “You are what you eat” then my Mom simply cannot be a Zoo biscuit. I would wager a bet to volunteer for electric shock therapy before catching a squiz of a box in her shopping basket.
No, this theory leaves my mother more like a Lays plain salted crisp or a Manhattan Milk Bottle. No analysis required.
My two very best friends from as far back as Primary School, are like pink champagne & sweet melon wrapped in Parma ham. These of course, are at their most spectacular when served together preferably on the beach and in the sand, where, if I were to represent the purple sunset, we could encapsulate a small glimpse of heaven, whose synergy quite simply makes others swoon and can build you up to 10 feet taller than you actually are. With this kind of support you can conquer the world.
Mrs Parma-melon is unpredictable & yet obvious & classy & DEEP. She's like a stylish little bittersweet treat with a hint of sophistication wrapped around good old fashioned loyalty that you just don't come by anymore. But this girlfriend has the appetite of a sleek runway model & she gnaws on twigs and dried fruit and birdseed and stuff. How should I see her then? As a lentil or celery shoot? Not exactly the food of champions in my book.
Mrs Pink-champagne on the other hand is vibrant & trendy & courageous. She's like that contagious bubbly that seduces you into sipping on it for hours because its light & sweet & REAL. But as far as I know, her daily diet is more like a couple of rusks & a jungle oat bar while she's on the run after her 1 year old. Now whilst I'm sure this keeps the energy up & has the fibre under control, it's not exactly the kind of sultry snack I imagined representing her.
Personally I'm not enjoying this theory at all. I would like to believe that I can decide to be anything I want to be and so can the rest of you. “Master of my fate,” “Captain of my soul,” and so forth.
I’d opt for a cherry. Down to earth enough to kick it in an orchard amongst fellow cherry trees hanging in the simple life, but yet surprisingly romantic enough to bloom in Pablo Neruda poetry and still pretentious enough to splash around in a Cosmopolitan or sexy enough to be kissed with cream & passed from mouth to mouth by lovers in the moonlight.
Yet I feel like my cherry is sounding suspiciously like a dressed up Shrek onion? With its oh so very many layers….
Maybe we are what we are, even when we’re not or even when we glam it up.
Maybe the beauty is in the simplicity of working with what you’ve got.
I suppose I could learn to work with the onion. One could always clean the oniony smell from your hands with a dry salt & lemon juice exfoliating type scrub? Then your hands would look 10 years younger & smell like margarita instead:) The onion was also an ancient symbol of eternity because of the concentric circles that it contains. I'd like to think my integrity can aspire to being that consistent. Glass is half full & all of that.
Life is like an onion.
You peel it off one layer at a time;
And sometimes you weep.”
—Carl Sandburg, American poet
Woodwinked - over & out
xx
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