Hyper-chondriac (19 page)

I didn't question the mashing command. I just assumed that since I wasn't big on chewing things, this was to aid my digestion. But he knew nothing of my chewing issues.

“What about bananas? Can I have bananas?”

“No bananas.”

“Ever?”

“They're bad for people like you. So is anything spicy. Nothing spicy. Ever. If they have mild, you ask for ‘mild, mild.'”

“What about sushi?”

“Once a week. At the most. And try to stick to the freshwater fish.”

I liked spicy stuff and sushi and bananas. This Ayurveda guy was a culinary tyrant.

Then more problems flared up.

“Have you ever had ghee before?” (Note: the “h” is silent, the “g” is hard—like “Guy” if you're French.)

Before I could answer, he continued, “Ghee is a milk product.”

He knew nothing of my milk issues, either.

“I get freaked out about milk. I haven't had any since I was six months old. I can't even put it in my cereal. I can't have milk.” I began to sweat.

“It's not milk. It's more of a clarified butter.”

That explanation didn't help any. I hated butter. I never put it on anything. And for taste reasons, not health reasons. Even as a child I ate my corn on the cob dry, my toast dry, my mashed potatoes dry. I was starting to turn as white as a glass of milk just thinking about this shit.

“All right,” Todd continued. “I want you to take one tablespoon of ghee every morning on an empty stomach. Then wait a half hour before eating.”

“You want me to eat clarified butter every morning?”

Now that I knew what it was, I couldn't even hear the word “ghee” without freaking out. I'd never be able to actually interact with it, especially on a daily basis. I was getting more and more nauseated. Despite 150 mg of Zoloft, I was helpless against milk product talk.

“It's good for you,” he assured me. “A lot of the oils and bad stuff have already been removed.”

I passed out.

 

When I awoke about ten minutes later, Todd was towering above me, relieved that he hadn't killed me with his talk of ghee.

“Are you all right?”

It was the first time he'd used those words at the end of a sentence.

“Not really.”

It took me another fifteen minutes of heavy breathing and water drinking to get back to normal.

“All right, just stick a little in a shot glass in a microwave for twenty or thirty seconds and pretend it's medicine.”

“Are you talking about the ghee again?”

“Yes.”

“Please don't. I'll need to make a decision about the ghee on my own. I'll keep you posted about the ghee.”

My Pitta-Vata was probably both fives now.

Soon after, Todd began mixing a bunch of herbs into a large jar, which he then handed to me.

“Put a teaspoon of this into hot water and drink two cups a day.”

“Is there any ghee in that?”

“No.”

I took the jar, which looked as if it were filled with dirt.

“Drink one cup after breakfast and one after lunch.”

Todd then took my credit card and added everything up: $235 for the pulse reading and the dietary guide, $53 for the herbs.

“Fifty-three dollars?” I asked.

“It would cost you over a hundred twenty in a store.”

Then charge even more, idiot.

“Can I ask you a question…”

“Sure.”

“Where would I get some ghee…y'know…if I
were
interested?”

“We sell it here. In fact the raw organic stuff is hard to find in stores and it tastes way better than the nonorganic.”

I sighed overdramatically and agreed to some ghee. If I was going to try this Ayurveda, I didn't want to skip a key ingredient.

The ghee came in a clear Mason jar, had a rich yellow custardy color and was $25. However, on the way home it would not be riding up front with me.

“All right, you'll come back next month and we'll see how you're doing.”

“All right.”

 

The first thing I noticed as I walked down the aisles of the health food store with my empty cart was that blackberries and raspberries are really expensive. And I don't even mean the organic kind. I'm talking about the cheap stuff filled with pesticides and chemicals and perhaps a stubborn bug or two. The blackberries were $4.99 and the raspberries $5.99—and for tiny baskets. And mangos weren't cheap either: $2.49 each. The aloe vera juice was almost $10 for a small bottle that would probably last a week if I was lucky. But according to the label it would “support my immune and gastrointestinal systems, aid digestion, give muscle and joint support, and help maintain healthy gums.” Okay, maybe the aloe vera juice was a bargain—but it still wouldn't offset the mango/berry expenditure. Even the almond oil was $12.99 for a toothpaste-sized container. Oh, I didn't even mention the almond oil. I was supposed to have Nancy massage some into my scalp for fifteen to twenty minutes every morning as soon as I woke up. This apparently would serve the dual role of helping me to relax and making Nancy resent me. Asking someone to take up twenty valuable minutes of her morning time before work (not to mention another five minutes to wash all the oil off her hands) seemed insane. But once I passed the almond oil aisle, I couldn't resist. I would strive for completeness, even if it meant doing my own massaging.

I'm not really big on putting things in my hair, either. My brother started losing his when he was nineteen. I'm forty-two and I still have it all, which I attribute to three things. (a) I never blow-dry my hair. I did it on the very first day of eighth grade and not only did it make my hair look really poofy—even by late-'70s standards—but it felt like I was napalming every strand. Blasts of heat an inch away from your follicles can't possibly be good for your hair. (b) No caffeine. Since I'm a bundle of nerves, my body doesn't need it anyway, and as a teenager I remember reading a study that linked caffeine to hair loss. I'm not sure if it's true, but I'm not taking any chances. (c) Sweat. Every time I miss a week or two of exercising, I notice that my hair doesn't grow as fast, if at all. On the other hand, when I work out every day, it sprouts out of my skull like a fern. This theory I'm adamant about. Exercise + sweating = good head circulation and more nutrients to your hair. (And yes, my mother's father died with a full head of hair; however, how would that explain my brother's deficiency?) Also, I never wear hats. They restrict circulation. The point is, the almond oil purchase showed just how much I meant business.

The next morning, I began my new way of life.

 

I stood over the kitchen counter, slowly unscrewed the Mason jar and stared at the ghee for about a minute. Then I frantically screwed the top of the jar back on and took a break. The ghee had a popcorn-buttery smell and the consistency of a lemon Italian ice. I went upstairs, popped a Zoloft (which I usually take at lunchtime but I needed a little immediate help) and went back downstairs to give it another try.

I recalled seeing the title “Ghee Artisan” among Todd's many Ayurvedian accomplishments on his business card and it suddenly struck me how odd that was. I didn't think getting ghee into a Mason jar was exactly worthy of the moniker “Artisan.” I think an ice sculptor is worthy of being called a “Water Artisan,” but I'm not sure every digestible item warrants such hyperbole.

I lined up several glasses of water, held my breath as if trying to cure hiccups and reopened the ghee jar. I scooped out a tablespoonful, stuffed it into my mouth and drank my designated water. I considered following that with a few shots of scotch but I didn't want to get in the habit of drinking hard liquor at seven-thirty in the morning. Instead, I spit into my sink about fifteen times. No wonder ghee isn't more popular—it tastes horrible. Although I didn't eat red meat, I vowed that if I were to go to a wedding and the dinner options were baby antelope or the ghee platter, I'd opt for the former.

Since I had twenty-eight more minutes to kill before I was permitted to eat my breakfast, I decided to start preparing it. I was not a kitchen person. We order takeout pretty much every day and the only thing Nancy can cook is brisket, which, Ayurveda or no Ayurveda, I can't eat. The only time I'm ever in the kitchen is to get a real fork if a prong on the plastic one cracks or to cork up red wine.

I immediately had a cantankerous relationship with the mango. This was turning out to be a pain in the ass. No wonder people go out for breakfast. There's no easy way to separate the mango-y edible part from the unruly pit and the series of random abrupt curves lead to a lot of jarring knife maneuvers. Damn, was this messy! And dangerous.

Then the blackberries and raspberries had to be washed and thrown together with the mango and smushed into a paste, as per Todd. I would not be smushing my food into a paste. Let my stomach do that; that's its job. I poured myself a glass of aloe vera juice, which looked like tinted water, and stared at it as I continued fasting until my half hour was up.

Breakfast was delicious. But time-consuming. And money-consuming. About $9.50 a day, way more expensive than my customary banana and muffin. And that didn't even include the prorated price of the herbs for my post-meal tea. Or the ghee. I was getting stressed just figuring out how I could afford to eat this way. I would have to suck it up for a month and see how I felt.

 

The next morning I woke up and the changes were unbelievable: I was calm, composed and a host of other words I could thesaurus but was way too relaxed to bother with. The transformation was instant, profound and startling. I assumed it was just my body getting used to something new, like when I hadn't worked out in a month because of walking pneumonia but then did a set of bench presses and my chest was sore for the next eleven days.

But it wasn't. I remained relaxed, levelheaded, balanced. It was a miracle. What was responsible for these resounding results? Was it the ghee? The herbs in the tea? The pricey new foods that were better suited to my body? The old foods I had eliminated from my diet that weren't good for my body? Sure, a banana, carrot juice and broiled salmon were healthy on paper, but apparently had adverse effects on my body-type/personality-type/energy-type. And, because I was a creature of habit, I'd been ingesting the same group of foods day after day, year after year, so the mistakes I had been making were like compounding interest, growing exponentially and building up in my body.

I remembered reading a study several years ago that found a correlation between a higher intake of omega-3 fatty acids and lower murder rates. Not that my violent tendencies approach the killing level, but I bet very few murderers are mellow while on the clock. The infamous “Twinkie Defense” was starting to make sense. Maybe my diet was ultimately responsible for my erratic behavior. After all, the flood of fast food I consumed growing up was the healthy part of my eating regimen compared with my daily candy intake—Pixy Sticks, SweeTarts, Chuckles, Razzles, Jaw Breakers, Atomic Fireballs, Sugar Daddies and those candy buttons that you yank off wax paper. Because of my mother's illness and a lack of eating supervision, I had lived my teenage years as if every day were Halloween. True, I hadn't had candy in my twenties and thirties, but that adolescent decade of sugar gorging definitely could've impeded my path to calm.

Regardless, I was ecstatic. This Ayurveda stuff could put the Zoloft people out of business. Okay, probably not, because frankly, most Westerners are cynical and skeptical of any treatment by anyone not dressed in white with a stethoscope around his neck. Besides, just swallowing a pill is much easier than going shopping—which, whenever I was in a supermarket chain, consisted of me walking up and down the aisles like a zombie in search of something that wouldn't mess up my Pitta-Vata…. Can't eat that…can't eat that…not on list…damn it!…I'm starving…mango-pineapple juice…
must be only mango
…must purchase pineapple filter or invent one if it doesn't exist…help!!! The only other downside was that the herbs in the tea stained my teeth. But I rationalized that this would only make Orange Juice Carton Face more intimidating—if I ever even used it again.

Anyway, the results for me were indisputable.

Nancy noticed a huge transformation, too. And I in her. The mellower I became, the more stressed she got as her work hours started including weekends. She wanted to go to Ayurveda, too, but didn't have the time to drive two hours each way. I did some research and found an Indian guy who sporadically visits the Valley for consultations.

At her Ayurvedic session Nancy was told she had kidney stress, bladder trouble, potential colon ills, sensitive mucous membranes and the number of days until her next period. “The guy was amazing!” Nancy said in astonishment. “I mean, I didn't even tell him a thing about myself or fill out one sheet of paper. And he knew I peed a lot!”

But since Nancy went to a different place and her body type was different (Vata, with a little Pitta, whatever that means), her solutions were different. She told me the following as I was kneeling in our driveway, smashing my prescribed weekly coconut with a hammer.