Jill Murray
One of the dumber things about me is that I don’t really like that I still eat eggs and cheese, but I really really like the eggs and the cheese.
I did without eggs for two years once after watching one disturbing episode of Pioneer Quest. And who wouldn’t give up milk after season one of The Surreal Life?
But what to do when the influence of reality TV wears off? I mean, look at the facts, the genre itself is in a decline. What am I supposed to do? Read to gross myself out? No, no, no, I think that kind of thing really is the domain of television and is best left as such.
One of the things I do from time to time to make myself feel less dumb is to give up cheese for a limited amount of time. My hope is that during the controlled test week or month, I will discover handy new cheese-replacing survival tactics, and that I will become so attached to them as to prefer them to the cheese itself.
It hasn’t ever worked yet. It’s like worshipping a graven image in the place of one true god. That, and cheese contains opiates.
This week, Lyndee is doing a detox thingmy way off in Calgary. I’m not into the whole concept of detox, but I’m giving up the cheese for twelve days in solidarity. And I’m seeing the cheese and raising myself eggs.
It will be nice to feel smart for the next 10.5 days. Not that I’m counting down or anything.
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