Are You What You Eat?

I am into day seventeen of my twenty-four day cleanse. Well, that's not entirely true. It's been seventeen days since the cleanse package arrived, but I'm not exactly "into" day seventeen. For seventeen days, I have woken up to a stack of boxes containing mysteriously named supplements that, when taken in some scientifically determined amount, sequence, and combination, promise to greatly enhance my sense of well-being. I admit I have been a bit haphazard about sticking to the protocol.

Not surprisingly, the improvements have been slow to reveal themselves. Okay, well that's not entirely true either. Unless you consider only gaining three pounds and feeling like crap only some of the time to be an improvement, there has been little in the way of noticeable enhancement. For the first few days, I was religious about the not as vile as I thought it would be fruity energy drink and the much more hideous than I could have imagined fiber concoction and the pills that are so big they must contain lots of good stuff although for the life of me I couldn't tell you what. By day five, though, I was slipping off the wagon. (The energy drink also claims to help with mental focus, but by day seven, when I completely forgot I was even attempting the cleanse, I was dubious.)

Today, as I have for most of the past seventeen, I woke up with every intention of doing it right. Again, not entirely true. I had every intention of starting my day off with a heavy dose of coffee and nonprescription pain killers. The cleanse will wait; there's no way I can even consider all that good living and quasi-deprivation until my head stops pounding and my joints loosen up.

I actually thought a twenty-four day challenge would be fun. I had forgotten that January in Chicago is challenging enough, and I suppose I had forgotten that there's a good reason I avoid diets and all sorts of self-improvement regimens like the plague. I am capable of obeying basic rules but woefully incompetent when it comes to following long lists of instructions. It's why I don't cook. Well, that's not entirely true. I just prefer food as a finished product.

There are indeed positives buried within this somewhat misguided cleanse episode, other than capping the weight gain at three pounds. I have learned a lot about myself, and I thrive on self discovery. For starters, the only thing I find more tedious than hearing about somebody else's cleanse is trying to do one myself. When I am hungry I want to sink my teeth into something delicious, not choke down a tasteless capsule that somehow manages to have an aftertaste. Or a drink that bears an uncanny resemblance to things you don't really want to think about when you're eating. At least I have given up diet soda. Having blown my wad on the cleanse, I am quenching my thirst with tap water and attempting to offset the cost of the cleanse by eliminating my daily trip through the McDonald's drive-thru for the perfect diet coke. I am not totally incapable of sacrifice.

And, at the end of the day, I still think a good day is one of accomplishment or good effort or pleasant conversation or a random good deed, and tends to involve little or no thought of dietary supplements. The Advil and coffee are taking effect, and day seventeen is off to a good start.

Je Suis Charlie. Je Suis juif. Je Suis Libre.

Les laisser continuer à manger du gâteau.

Whether it was Marie Antoinette or some other fabled princess who actually said it, she was on to something. Let them eat cake. And drink wine.  And fill their croissants with chocolate. And enjoy satire, or not. And be Jewish, or Christian, or Muslim, or not. Let the French, and the rest of us, continue to be free.

I have been reading about the end of the American Civil War, of the jubilant and irrepressible crowds pouring into the streets and cheering Lincoln outside the White House. My mom used to tell us about people dancing in the streets when World War II ended. I always thought the part about her father throwing open the windows and letting the freedom in to be a bit of embellishment, if only because I have never seen a Brooklyn window capable of being thrown open. Inched upward with great difficulty, maybe, but never thrown open. I will never know, but it’s a good story.

What I do know is that, back in the day, as with any good story, war had a beginning, a middle, and an end, not to mention pretty detailed character development. The battle lines were drawn. Literally. North and south. Blue and Gray. Allies and Axis. Good and Evil. To the victor went whatever spoils were left and to the loser eventually went some reparations and reconstruction and to everyone went some real hope for peace.  Sure, John Wilkes Booth was practicing his marksmanship only miles from the victory celebration and there will always be people who hate, but white flags and handshakes and treaties at least signified the beginning of a different chapter.

Not so much these days. Three murderers are dead, but I am anything but irrepressibly jubilant. My heart breaks for the moments of terror suffered by so many over the years, and in Paris this week. I grieve for the families of those who were slaughtered because of their drawings or their religion or simply because they were in the way. I grieve for the French and for all of us who value not only freedom but life itself. And I know full well that there are countless other murderers out there taking target practice with renewed fervor, and there is no imminent end to the madness. They will not give up, but neither will we.

Sure. Freedom is an ideal, and our methods and goals are always in need of tweaks. The road to freedom is littered with blood and immeasurable destruction. Sometimes we don't go far enough and sometimes the cost is too great, but the road remains open. In theory I would die for freedom, though I certainly prefer not to.

Mohammad or any prophet worth his or her salt would, I imagine, feel cheapened by the idea that executing folks wielding nothing more than a pencil could avenge some great wrongs, real or imagined. I am glad that three terrorists in France are dead and can no longer kill. And I wish with all my heart I could see the looks on their faces when they realize that if there are indeed 72 virgins waiting they are most assuredly waiting for somebody else, certainly in a different location. And you can't take it – i.e. your AK47 – with you, so blasting through the pearly gates is as unlikely as the falsely promised gang bang.

My greatest hope is that each of us continues to uphold our freedom and do the best we can with our lives, even though we will all inevitably fall short. It's what makes us human. We must continue to eat cake and croissants and drink wine and think our own thoughts without fear of those who just don’t get it.

Nous sommes Charlie. Nous continuerons d'être libre.