Smoothie Guy

Why Hello, New Life Motto

My alarm goes off today at about 5:45 a.m. About. Somehow 5:47 a.m. makes me feel as though I am getting a whole new world of sleep. I won’t pretend to understand sleep psychology, but it must be a fascinating field.

Getting up at this time allows me to get my writing in before teaching. My brain told me a long time ago that his evenings were reserved for being entertained by books and shows and beer and that he shifted into second gear anyway, so there was no use trying to get work done. So early morning it is.

Today, I make my way out to the kitchen to start my morning routine: feed cat, stretch with a moan, implore the heavens, drink a huge glass of water with lemon, clean errant lemon zest out of my eye, begin coffee. Today, however, there’s more. I take out the blueberries, frozen raspberries, and the yogurt. It’s time to make a smoothie.

I have become a smoothie guy. Yes, I know. About a month ago, in a combination birthday and belated Christmas gift, Burke gave me a food processor. And not just any food processor, but a great heaving hulking white god that has taken over the position of honor once held by my French press. I could make soup for the Philadelphia Eagles at the snap of a finger with this thing. It’s got more attachments than a Lego set. And my favorite attachment thus far is the blender.

When I told my dad this, he was beside himself with excitement. He spent a great deal of time outlining the methods, tricks, components, and ratios that make up the perfect milkshake. He is a connoisseur, and had it not been for dentistry, we all know he’d have somehow made this his living. When I finally slip it into the conversation that I am more into smoothies he reacts as if I had just told him I’d decided to quit writing for good and focus on stamp collecting. “Oh, well…OK…good. I mean if you’re happy, great. That’s nice. Nice…good.”

I understood. I am now a smoothie guy and I am doing smoothie guy things. I have bookmarked a number of websites on which I research smoothies for any aim and occasion. I have bought stuff called flax seed and most of my peanut butter is now added to fruit and yogurt as opposed to bread and jelly. Also, I am treating my smoothie machine (aka: blender) as though it’s a car. I clean it at night, but also tenderly wipe down her smooth siding. I actually said to Collin last week: “Sure, we can meet up. Want to come over for a smoothie?”

I used to drink alcohol, now it’s smoothies with flax seed, honey, peach, and blueberries. What. Has. Happened. To. Me?

If you are younger than thirty you probably don’t get the issue. Well this is because you are all smoothie people. Many of my generation rolled our eyes at places in the mall called The Smoothie Station. But at some point about a dozen years ago, being a smoothie person became the norm. About a dozen years before that being a juicer (one who makes juice, not a person who uses steroids) became run of the mill and so did places in the mall called The Juice Hut or Jen’s Juice Emporium. In a few years champions of deconstructed coffee and cold pressed juices will be people we don’t despise. And most of us will enjoy these momentary travesties without so much as a shudder on our way to buy cauliflower for our pizza crusts.

But those days are not upon us yet. However, I just looked up how to make an orange Julius. It’s too late for me. Save yourselves.

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