No Pulp, Please

It's so rare to hear someone make a positive proclamation in public these days. The sort of proclamations I generally hear are more of the invective variety. (First time usage of invective. Welcome to my blog. Stay a while, won't you?)  Such hostile sentiments usually come either from myself or hubby, any time one of us gets behind the wheel. "You mutha-eff'r!  Could you eff'n signal?"  "You wanna drive, sh*thead?  The light changed."

Pardon me while I take a slight detour.  I promise I'll get back to that rare positive proclamation in just a mo'.  Unless you have a bus, train or spaceship to catch, stay seated.  I will get to the point eventually.  The other day, I was talking to a close family friend, currently raising two adorably rambunctious daughters who can't sit still for more than a minute.  I refer you to a recent Bar Mitzvah we all attended.
He's unhappy because his eldest child, a darling seven year old, had conveniently forgotten to do six weeks of vocabulary homework. Apparently, she prefers play time over word time, and now, my friend feels he must do a Vocabulary Intervention.  If only someone had done one on me the moment I first started hurling invectives (I was probably about his daughter's age), God only knows where I'd be today.

And now, let's return to that positive proclamation, shall we?  Hubby and I were about to enter a disturbingly holistic zone of healthy living, otherwise known as Whole Foods. We only go to Whole Foods when we feel like spending $120 on four items. We have yet to log any Frequent Shopper points at this zen-like institute of higher eating. But they do make a fabulous grilled salmon, so sometimes, we get our chakras realigned and dive in.  As we approached the entrance, out came a nice young man clutching two recyclable bags full of fruit. This young man had the biggest smile on his face ever. I'd go so far as to say his smile would win a Biggest Smile competition, if there is such a thing. This young man was filled with an unlimited supply of enthusiasm. He was so amped up on positivity, so brimming with good karma, that I wondered what drug he was on, and was he willing to share it with me, immediately.  He was pumped, I tell ya.  Pumped.  He turned to his lovely companion, and with unbridled joy, said the following:  "I'm ready to juice!"

I have never made such a statement in my life.  Chances are, I will never approach this young man's level of enthusiasm about anything, until one of my sons gives me a grandchild, God willing.  "I'm ready to kvell!" "I'm ready to spoil!" "I'm ready to diaper!" But ready to juice?  Never. Even so, good for him. Good for his readiness, his juiciness, his overall enthusiasm. That nice young man. He should juice in the best of health. I'll be over here in the corner, drinking a different kind of juice. The fermented kind that comes in a pretty bottle.