I'll Take My Life with Pulp Please

After the first full night's sleep in many days I awakened to a blinding sun and bird calls riding on a breeze. I no longer have the need to set an alarm and fully appreciate the luxury of waking up when my body is ready. Usually a very early riser, this morning my body was telling me to catch up on much needed sleep.

I went down and puttered around the kitchen preparing breakfast. With the ritual of coffee making behind me, my eyes caught sight of three oranges on the counter which I bought the other day in order to make a fennel and orange salad. The fennel is long gone and as I stared at these oranges I noted that if not consumed soon would certainly wind up in the trash.

Orange juice. Of course. Why not? I mean, how country can you get?

I went in search of a hand juicer I knew I had, you know, one like your grandmother probably used and found it in the far depths of my small appliance drawer. I thus proceeded to 'make' orange juice. 'Making' orange juice is a misnomer because what you really do is extract the liquid from the fruit. The one I have is set on a strainer in order to capture the pulp. As I twisted my way through two oranges the volume of pulp increased. There, I had juice. Really sweet juice, but I also had these little bits of orange that are usually discarded.

It took me a second, but I realized that 'hey, I like the pulp.' I wasn't going to toss it. So back in went into my glass joining the crushed ice and liquid.

As a woman, I've probably been conditioned (maybe by images in society) to want a perfectly clean life. Nice home, nice car. Perfect guy who brings home flowers and takes me dancing. The model of what we all deep down inside are supposed to expect. Guys on the other hand, are bombarded with photos and ads of wreck less abandon. They get to have the pulp. Its OK for them to experience the bits and pieces that don't make it perfect.

We are supposed to strain it.

But I like pulp. It makes the juice sweeter. I didn't like what the clear liquid in the glass was telling me. Have I always taken the best parts out in order to leave behind the flavor but not experience the substance? That must the case because in the past few weeks I've been experiencing a lot of pulp. The controlled of part of me wants to make this perfect for my comfort zone. But in this case, I can't and I know it. Yet I'm unwilling to discard the bits that don't fit in with my image of perfect.

I have no desire to extract the undesirable pieces out of my life. They are the things that make it rich. Otherwise there would be no depth to anything I do. I do not want to experience just the pretty and unblemished, there is no point in that. The pulp is what makes my life interesting to me. The more I don't discard it, the more I realize that my life is meant to be lived in the multi dimensional world I actually exist in, instead of some cleaned up version that can only be a facade to how I want to live.