If we are what we eat, I should look like a twisted pile of spaghetti right about now. Fresh Romano latently clinging to my olive-oiled, garlic-scented self. You don’t want to sit next to someone like me on a plane.
What we intake affects us, period. Just by sipping a single gulp of air outside a Beijing airport, I fear losing minutes off my life–not to mention the cumulative time lost to Camels and other misbegotten butts I’ve bummed in years past.
Slow motion strangulation.
How many kale shakes does it take to erase a life of indulgence? How many backyard pools could I have filled with all the molten cheese I’ve consumed?
We are what we eat, but that doesn’t change who we are inside. We are still the bones down below we began with–a framework of calcified dust that we get to decorate, and hang our outfits, accomplishments, and mishaps on.
To breathe well, eat well, and to live well with the choices I have left, is the idea.