I cheated…on my anti-candida diet.
I start to tear up as I mesh the lettuce around on my plate, admiring the shapes it’s making. This one looks like a merman and over here, this could be an octopus.
“I just can’t do this anymore. It’s not human,” I say as tears fall down my sunken eyes.
I can only eat leaves for so long before I start to see imaginary figures dancing in tutus around my salad. And so far it’s been two months of quinoa, lettuce and vegetables. Absolutely no cupcakes. Absolutely no alcohol. Absolutely no bread. Absolutely…mentally ill.
“OK. That’s it. Pack your bags. We’re going to Vegas,” my boyfriend instructs.
“Huh?” My mouth’s half full of lettuce as I peer up at the scruffy man smoking a cigarette. He leans casually against the balcony railing pretending he’s not showing off his cool jeans and cool boots and even cooler trucker hat. He turns to the side, knowing his profile gets me every time. Cause the man has a perfect profile. His nose lies somewhere in the middle between pointy and round. His diagonal cheek bones draw attention to his chiseled chin and beard. He squints his light brown eyes through the beaming sun to look at me.
“Sometimes a little cheating is a good thing,” he smirks.
This week, I’ve had a callback for a soap opera and a fifteen page audition for a Sam Raimi show, neither of which panned out to anything despite the laborious hours and hours memorizing, absorbing and preparing, all the while ingesting leaves and writing my feature. Needless to say I’m exhausted, and look it. This scruffy man is right. I could use some fun, some cheating.
The walls are softly striped in pastel lavender, yellow and baby blue wall paper. The crystal chandelier hangs intelligently above the Jacuzzi that sits smack in the middle of the room decorated in peach marble. I stare at the deep, circular tub-for-six in awe as I woof down a six ounce cheeseburger with French fries, mayonnaise and extra ketchup before changing into the blue mini dress I threw in my bag. I haven’t dressed up in months. This is invigorating.
We find ourselves in clubs with people crawling around on the ceiling, fire dancers shooting fire from their mouths like black dragons, and watch the occasional tourist walk by hiding behind Mardi Gras masks and heels. We danced until six o’clock in the morning and ended the evening at a diner downing chocolate chip pancakes with peanut butter and coffee with cream. (Not hemp milk!)
Do I feel bad? No. I cheated. Big deal. I’m back on track. Today I sit at Erewhon grocery store in West Hollywood waiting for the slender man covered in tattoos to mix up the deer antler/lizard tail tea for me. What they say is true: What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas (unless you have a column and tell on yourself).
Alice can be reached at AliceActress@yahoo.com.