Kito, the BFF, and I have embarked on a monthlong raw vegan detox. This means that for four weeks we're supposed to consume only uncooked, all-natural, animal-product-free cuisine as well as various unappetizing potions made with invariably green powdered nutritional supplements. We're following the program set out by raw food guru Karyn Calabrese, whose chief qualification seems to be the fact that she has remained hot into her 60s. Karyn leads detox classes from her market/restaurant/wellness center in Lincoln Park, but they're expensive so the three of us are following along on the (rather poor quality) DVDs of the course, which the BFF borrowed from a friend.
The program is supposed to cleanse your body of toxins, mostly through pooping, with which Karyn is obsessed. In fact, for Karyn, pooping, in conjunction with raw vegan eating, constitutes a kind of grand unified theory of everything. She considers her program the answer to every conceivable health-related concern, from psoriasis to AIDS and, presumably, Dutch elm disease. She concedes that she hasn't a scrap of scientific evidence to prove it, but, on the other hand, she's hot despite being old. She's also fond of New Age mumbo jumbo and defaming Starbucks.
In spite of my reservations, I have resolved to stick with the detox because 1.) I like a challenge, 2.) I'm sure the ol' colon could use a flushing, and 3.) I feel remorseful about my half-assed detoxing attempt three years ago. So I will try my best to hold out the full 30 days (though I'll probably drop the raw part on Pride Day and while I'm at Disney World) and take what I can from Karyn's self-aggrandizing sermons while merely rolling my eyes at the rest. It'll be sort of like church.
Twenty-four days to go.
ELSEWHERE:
My review of Lookingglass Theatre Company's The Last Act of Lilka Kadison is in this week's Time Out Chicago.
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