I Am A Fruitarian At Your Grocery Store Buying A Shit Ton of Fruit
I am not unassuming. On the contrary, I am very assuming. I am bearded, unkempt, and odorous like a tropical forest. But what truly sets me apart are the piles upon piles of guavas, nectarines, grapefruits, and papayas in my grocery cart, stacked high and hoarded as though God himself whispered “the end is coming, and only fruit can save you,” directly into my ear. You see, I am a Fruitarian. My diet consists of shitloads of fruit and nothing but fruit, just as nature intended.
You will spot me at your local Whole Foods, Sprouts Farmer’s Market, or Trader Joe’s. You will not catch me in a Safeway or Super Target, for only in the finest grocers do I feel at ease to spin my particular brand of lunacy.
You see that purple and green bulbous looking nugget nestled into the toddler seat of my cart? Behold, for that is a mangosteen. I shall slice it with one of my fruit knives, garnish it with persimmons and juniper berries, and serve it to no one but myself. And then I shall bathe in lime juice, nestle my weary and carbohydrate-ravaged body into banana fiber sheets, and declare my life a victory. Understand that I live by a stern code: if an apple a day keeps the doctor away, then fifteen a day is much better. My fructose-overloaded liver agrees.
If a person can be defined via negativa, then my essence is that you will never catch me buying a vegetable, a piece of meat or fish, a box of crackers, a bag of nuts, cereal or muffins of any type, a frozen pizza, any part of a cake, or anything that is not, utterly, in botanical terms, a vessel by which angiosperms disperse seeds. You may also wonder whether I ever use, let alone purchase, deodorant, Tylenol, detergent, napkins, lightbulbs… Let that be a mystery to you until your dying breath.
Yes, other people do not “get” a fruitarian like me. The children at the grocery store call me many things: Fruit God. The Pineapple Prince. The Honeydew Hombre. Banana Joe. Fuckin’ Weirdo. A mohawked adolescent with a skateboard called me that last one but once. My fellow shoppers find my food purchasing habits to be unusual in the extreme, perhaps even fanatical. They question why a seemingly-rational, adult man would focus so exclusively on a relatively small, non-foundational block of the food pyramid. I can only reply that they fear the fruity deliciousness that they do not understand.
Why do I live as I do? To ask this question is to betray your ignorance. Ask yourself instead: Why do you live as you do, with such excess? Why do you insist on pillaging the Earth of its precious animals, vegetables, grains, legumes, tubers, and herbs and spices, when a 34-pound bag of lychee fruit can sustain a family of four for a week? Also, did you know that the dietary requirements for fats and proteins are a myth propagated by the anti-fruit lobby? In truth, a human being needs only about eleven grams of dietary fat per day. This is equivalent to a paltry 27.5 bananas, which I hit each day, roughly, by 1:15pm.
As you fill your refrigerator, week after week, you may forget, for a time, that I exist.
You will walk through the aisles, month after month, like a zombie, constrained by the invisible chains of your gastronomic mediocrity. But make no mistake: the moment my shopping cart hits your peripheral vision, your brain will be overcome by a kaleidoscopic flux of colors and visions of what might be. In that holy moment, you will swim in the Technicolor riot of my king’s ransom of boysenberries, rambutans, loquats, and jujubes. And for that one moment, you will have a fleeting glimpse of heaven, of a life that could have been yours.
Fruitarian pic courtesy of Unsplash.