Reflections on a Damaged Life
Respecting legal and contractual bindings is a feeling very foreign to me and is perhaps the first real signal of adulthood. Knowing that I couldn’t bail on my lease, accepting that I need health insurance, not disclosing company information… Obligations! Entrapment!
So what follows is really all predicated upon the last three weeks of a sentiment comprised of 40% moral deliberation and 60% circumstantial procrastination. I think – and hope – that I’m not setting myself up for litigation.
I can situate my “raw food high” in mid-June to late-July 2009, and it follows a Christian model of death and resurrection. I sacrificed meat, beer, and steamed broccoli for what I now know is the delusion of raw veganism. That lasted a bit but was then put forever to rest on July 26th when I quit my achingly topical job at a certain raw vegan boutique via a diplomatic but unyielding e-mail. I hit the send button and biked over to Peter Luger’s for a transgressive and celebratory burger.
There was something deeply satisfying about landing a job purely through the dexterous use of a lexicon so new to me. I had always been intimidated by this particular storefront. Natural fibers, tranquil nature soundtracks, and overpriced beverages in glass bottles for which you must put down a deposit were factors both seductive and chilling.
The client list was illustrious, the per diem was generous, and my co-workers were well-intentioned. But yet I quit. I quit not only to make more money elsewhere, but also because the job came (luckily!) about a week too late in my “raw food high.” Post-apex, pre-total disenchantment, working there expedited and confirmed my suspicions, rather than putting them at bay. I’m fairly certain that I would have never become totally ensconced in the raw vegan world. I like to think that I’m too funny for a subculture with so little humor. I’m also too poor.
I’m dismayed by the many raw vegans who claim an almost supernatural boost in their energy levels after giving up cooked food. The “scientific” reasoning sounds convincing. By not heating food over 118-degrees, the enzymes are kept intact, which makes the food easier to digest. The body then transfers the energy usually delegated to digestion to whatever else you may do with your time. 
Matt Monarch, raw evangelist
From what I saw, in both the employees and the customers, this energy is not reassigned to mental power. I felt like I was working with kindly sloths on heroin. Daily tasks were completed at an alarmingly slow pace, the inventory lists were often incorrect, redundant and obvious instructions were de rigueur. Himalayan Rock Salt candles were lit each morning to lend the place some ambiance. At one point, a plastic bag literally caught fire and melted all over the desk. I doubt very much that anyone would have noticed if I didn’t smell it or say anything.
It was interesting to be witness to - and temporarily participate in - a raw vegan enterprise. It seems to be thriving, which strikes me as miraculous. Asking a person so malnourished (I really do believe that most raw vegans are malnourished), to run a business seems almost as impossible as asking an anorexic to run a marathon or a lactose-intolerant person to process a quart of milk.
There’s nothing more frustrating than being trained for a job by a person with no method, the tendency to stare off into space, and blood sugar levels so low that standing up takes a full 30 seconds. It was excruciating to observe these employees spout the benefits of $90 Maca powder while gripping onto the shelf for support.
I don’t understand how all these people were actually still alive. They weren’t even shockingly skinny. They all were very thin and their complexions did have the proverbial “raw glow,” so my only conclusion is that a raw vegan diet somehow supports physical life (barely) while atrophying the brain to the size of an [unroasted] walnut.
—Alice
