My second Gwyneth-induced hallucination: Kevin Spacey mailed me my head in a box. High in protein, rich in useless bits of trivia. I ate it.
Deep into Day Five and following to the letter Gwyneth Paltrow’s New Year’s detox, I’m fading, looking for any wriggle room. Yesterday Gwyneth prescribed that my afternoon snack be “a handful of blueberries.” I of course used my own hand for measure, but a colleague, looking at the sad little pile of antioxidants on the kitchen counter, said, “Why didn’t you ask Steve in the art department to measure it out? That would have been a scoop!” Today Gwyneth approved “raw crudités” for my lunch, but no details on just how much crudités. I ran that ball down the field and loaded up on enough carrots, cucumbers, and zucchini to sate at least half a dozen press club members at a social mixer.
With all due respect to the salmon and greens I ate last night (steamed on a bed of basil, ‘twas divine), I am having trouble controlling my food fantasies. Maybe I’m reaching a higher plane of detox nirvana—my complexion, while nowhere near Gwynnie’s, seems to have a rosier glow—but honestly, I am yearning for crunchy, salty, spicy, sugary goodness. I open up my cupboard at work and forget that it’s packed with peanuts and ginger snaps and Jelly Bellys and slam it closed. It doesn’t help that I work on Temptation Island, with Margot walking in offering chocolate-baked yum fresh from her oven (“Oh, sorry! I forgot!”) and former interns leaving platters of peanut butter cookies around and everyone stinking up the microwave with their chicken tikka and turkey bacon while I hold my breath and knock back another smoothie infused with powdered Macro Greens. The whole city is poised to drive my senses crazy—see if you can make it through Koreatown on an empty stomach and keep focus with hot dogs and onions sizzling on carts and barbecue clouds wafting out of restaurants.
Oh, and tacos. I can’t get them out of my head. I love making them, I love buying them, I love them fancy and fishy, I love them cheap and beefy. Would it be so wrong? Yes, it would. I’d be letting down G.P., and other than Duets, she seems to have made pretty good decisions in life. Getting through the weekend will be hellish—Detox Teriyaki Chicken, here I come!—but then again, it’s over Sunday night. Come back Monday to see if I survive.
And Madge, if you’re reading this, say a little prayer at Shabbat dinner tonight for me.